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Jack’s Snare;
THE KEN'ILBLOYS’ PLOT.

BY MRS. ANN E. PORTER.

CHAPTER I.
THE EVENT.

WE were seated at breakfast. The carrier
was late with the paper that morning—so lute
that father failed to enjoy his meal. The morn-
ingnews had become a kind of necessary condi-
ment with him to make his breakfast relish.
“Something wrong, I dare say," he rather
moodily muttered. “ for the carrier is not likely
to miss my door.”

“Paper I” 'ust then was echoed in the street,

‘ i and my brot er Willie, leaping from his place,
' quickly brou ht the daily Journal, and, leaning

back in his c air, father soon became obliVious
to his rolls and coffee.

“ Great God !” he cried, suddenly springing
up his face showing the wildest agitation,
“ judge Webb is dead—murdered l”

36 all became as persons paralyzed. Father
re :

“We delay our paper this morning to give our
readersa brief account of the terrible tragedy eu-
acted in our usually uiet village. This morninw
our esteemed fellow-cit 2 an, Judge Webb, was found
dead in his bed. Not appearin at his usual early
hour, the housekeeper proceeds to his room. The
door was found close I. No answer coming to her
knock and call, she entered to behold the lifeless
form of the judge upon the bed, bathed in blood—”

I remember no more—only that the room be-

an to reel—and awoke to ﬁnd my parents bend-
ng over me. I had fainted, but soon recovered
from the shock. Father and Willie both quick-
1y left the room, and we were left alone—mother
Not a Word was said regarding the
tragedy, though it was not, for a. moment, ab-

_ sent from our thoughts.

“Iwish Lottie was here,”1at length said.
Lottie Cheever was a waiting—girl, whom my
mother had taken out of compassion for the
child’sunhappy condition. A little family of
four children were left orphans. An old aunt
strove to keep them together, but it was a des-
perate struggle with want, and Lottie and her
sister Minnie found places—Lottie in our own
home. The eldest of the four children was a
boy—Jack Clieever—old enough to have been a
stay and support, having well learned his
father’s "trade of shoeinaking; but he was a bad

(boy, working but little at the bench, and lend

ing a wild life‘—an eye-sore to the community
and adisgrace toﬁhis family. Yet, with what ten-

- derness the sisters clung to him. Jack was dear

to them, despite his faults; and the aunt, with
singular devotion, loved Jack, too, never deny—
in himashare in her hard-earned store, nor
ut rin sword of reproach when others con-
demn him. He couldnot have been utterly
bad to command such love. ,.

“I do wish Lottie would come ” I repeated,
impatiently. Though a waitingﬁrﬂshe was very
dearto me. Two years my er, beautiful in

/

Jack’s Snare;

 
‘

form and features gentle and loving in disposi-
tion, and pOSSessed of rare intelligence for one
so sadly circumstanced in life, she had become
to me more of a conﬁdant and companion than
a servant.

Once each month Lottie and Minnie spent a
day and night at their own family circle, where
their good Aunt Lucy received them with a
motherly fondness. Jack usually was at home
on these occasions, and though Visits were a sad
pleasure, the children all welcomed them as
precious seasons of reunion. They all loved one
another too dearly to let poverty cast a shadow
over their trust. .

“ When will Lottie come?” I murmured, as
the day waned—the second day of her absence,
and et brought no return of her bright face.

“ he will be here, doubtless, before tea,” my
mother replied; but tea-time came, and still the
truant did not come. Father and Willie
drop in then. How I felt relieved that some
one ad come to dissipate the nameless gloom
that oppressed mel And yet I dreaded their
coming, for would they not revive the story of
the murder? They did revive it, for, to my
mother’s inquiring glance, father answered:

“I am sorry to say that all is true as re rt-
ed, concerningr the murder of poor Judge ebb;
and am deeply pained to state that to Jack
Cneever all the evidence so far adduced points,
at least as an accomplice in the terrible crime.’

And he proceeded to state what the facts were
in J ack’s case—that he was out the previous
night. and one of his boots was found under the
very window of the judge’s chamber b which
an entrance was ained to the room. pen the
evidence Jack h been arrested, and at that
moment was in ‘ail.

Poor Lottiel ere was a reason for her delay
to return. In the hour of her afﬂiction she pre-
ierred to be within her own now doubly-desolate

ome.

“Jack Cheever did not do it,” said Willie. “ I
know Jack. He is wild, and up to all sorts of
mischief, but he had no hand in a murder—that
1 'know.” He spoke with decision, and I thanked
him from the depths of my heart for his conﬁ-
dence.

“ Even suSpicion is terrible,” said my mother.

“ The more need, then, has he for friends,”
added Willie.

.I shall never forget the wretchedness of that
night—how the long hours dragged their slow
length along until midnight; and then, how, al—
most driven to madness by my indeﬁnable dread,
I crept out through the hall up to Willie‘s room
in the attic tower, where- he had a chamber
which few were permitted to enter. It was a
queer place, ﬁlled with all kinds of odd things—
with a hammock and bearsliin for a bed, boxes
for chairs, a cocoanut—shell for a drinking-cup
and many other contrivanoes which he had
learned of in “ Robinson Crusoe ” and the “ Swiss
Family Robinson.” Upon the door I rapped.
He, evidently, was as sleepless as I, for he heard
my timid knock, and came and opened the door
at once. _

“ Willie, dear, may I sleep here?” I asked, in
scarcely audible tones.

“Of course, sissyz” and to his hammock he
conducted me. With what a delicious sense of

I

 
_ Jack’s

I

3

Snare.

 
security I straightened out in it, while he wrap—
ped me up in the soft Indian blanket!

” A dear, good boy you are, Will, to give me
your own bed. Where will you sleep?”

“ Right here by the door, on my bearskin; so
now sleep;” and forthwith I launched oif in the
land of repose forgetting the wretched sense of
sorrow and fear which made waking so un-

happy.

1th the morrow came Aunt Lucy and Lot-
tie. I awoke late, to ﬁnd Willie, his room all
in order, awaiting my movements. His ﬁrst
words were: “ Lottie has come: but, mind you,
sis, not a word must you say about Jack. Make
her forget her sorrow if you can. I’m going to
stand by Jack—just mark that—and Jack’ll
come out all right—just mark that.” With this
he left the attic, and I saw him no more, until,
passing out of the yard on my way- to school, he

'oined me as it to pilot me safely by the Webb
house. IIow compassionate he was, and so wise,
I then thought, to act so considerately.

I hurried down to ﬁnd breakfast all over, but
the kind, provident Lottie had kept mine warm,
and she was awaiting my appearance.

“ Ah, Lottie, you shall never go away again
to stay,” I said, asl clasped my arms around
her neck. “ This house is lonel when you are
gone, and I am unha py, and ill is uneasy.”

‘ Her face lit up wit a sweet smile, and a faint
blush overspread it. “ I will not go again,
Anna, to stay so lon :” and then. her trouble
coming back to her With the thou ht of home,
the tears gathered in her eyes, an slowly trick-
led down over her cheeks.

I kissed them away, and, forgetting my prom-
ise to Will, to say nothing of the murder, added:
“ Willie says Jack is not guilty, and that he'll
stand by him; and he’ll do it, I know, Lottie,
for our sake.”

“ oes he say Jack is not guilty?" she said,
hlgii-nfgce lighting up hopefully. “ Dear, dear
The words came with thrilling force from her
lips. She clas me in her arms, pressed a kiss
to my li . , an hurried oil? to her own room.

Aunt ﬁucy, at father’s request, stated all par-
ticulars regarding Jack’s supposed share in or
knowledge of the tragedy. The afﬂicted old
lad ’s narration was repeated to me by Will, as
we slowly took our way to my school-room. It
was as follows:

Jack had been ve circumspect in his con-
duct for some days. 8 knew that his sisters,
Lottie and Minnie, were coming home on Wed-
nesday, his birthday. They were to have a lit
tle feast at six o‘clock, after his day’s work was
done. Auntie had knit him a nice warm scarf,
and the little girls stockings and mittens; the
turkey and plum-pudding were cooked, and my
mother sent mince pies and cake. Jack also
had been liberal in furnishing oranges and
candy. They had eaten their dinner, and Aunt
Lucy said she was just thinking she had not been
so, happy for ears, as they sat round the ﬁre
telling stories, ack sober, and with ﬁve dollars
in his pocket, which he had earned by his work
in the shop. “ I thought,” said the poor woman,
“that perhaps bri hterdays were in stem for
us. The clock ha struck nine, and Lottie and
Minnie were sleepy, and I was proposing they

 
should 0 to bed, when some one knocked at the
door; ack went, and I did not see the person
thou h I heard a voice which I should know if
hear again. As he passed out, he said:

“ ‘ You will be sure to be there?’ ‘ Yes,’ said
Jack, and in a moment more he was seated at
the ﬁre again, playing with the children. I
said: ‘ What is it, J ackii and he answered: ‘ Only
an errand to me,’ and went on with his 
The children did not get to bed till ten o‘c 0c .
Jack and I sat up till nearly twelve. I was ﬂn~
ishing some shirts, which were to be read by
the next day. As I was covering the e,
noticed Jack puttin on his boots. I hope you
are not going out,’ said, ‘ again to—night.’

“ ‘ Yes,’ said he, ‘ I must go to Federal street
but I sba n’t stay there more than ﬁve minutes.l

“ ‘ But it is a long walk there—two miles, you
know.”

“ ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘ but I’ll be back in time to
(have some sleep, and breakfast with the chil-

ren.

“ I felt troubled, but it is of no use to remon-
strate with J ack—he’s set in his way—+50 I cov-
ered the ﬁre and went to bed, but my last prayer
was for Jack, that he might be kept from sin.‘
I heard him come in between three and four in
the morning, and when I Went to call him at
seven o’clock, he said, pleasantly: ‘ I’ll be down
in a moment,’ and he came, perfectly sober and
bright, as he alwa sis, when he hadn’t drank
liquor at night. noticeda pair of new shoes
on the hearth, and Jack said, as he put them on:
‘I lost my boot last night, and had to stop at f
the shop on m ' way home and get these shoes.’
He was very c atty and pleasant with the girls,
and told Lottie he would walk home with her
when the day's work was over. Our breakfast
was late, and he was just saying that he should
be behind time at his work, when Mrs. L025,
our next neighbor came in, greatly excit ,
saying that Judge Webb was found murdered
in his bed.

“ I never saw such a look of surprise and hor-
ror on any any one’s face as I saw on Jack’s at
that moment' then it came upon me like a ﬂash
of lightning that he had said the night before,
'I am going to Federal street!’ I was deathly
sick and taint, but I tried to keep up till Mrs.
Long went away, but I think she must have
noticed Jack’s looks. When she left he rose
and went out into the back kitchen; I followed.
Great beads of sweat were standing on his face,
and he was much agitated. ‘Jack,’ said I, lay-
ing my hand on his shoulder and speaking, but
in such a hoarse voice, that the sound of it
frightened me, ‘ Jack, are you guilty? He
turned and looked me full in the face—‘ So help
me God, I am innocent, but it will be hard to
prove it P He would say no more, but went up»
stairs to his room, and threw himself on the bed.
The girls couldn’t he] seeing that somethin
was wrong, but I to] them to help me abou
my work, and kept them so bu that I hoped
they would not miss Jack. at before ten
o'clock the sheriff came to the house, and de- '
manded to see him.

“ He was still in his room when the sheriﬂ.’
came. Hedid not resist when they took him, -
but said, ‘ I am not guilty} ‘Pretty strong,r evi-‘
deuce, my boy,’ said the ofﬁcer. ‘ I called at the

 
4 ‘ Jack’s Snare.

shop and found the mate of the boot which on
left under the old man’s window.’ Jack saidy no
more, but submitted to he hancuffed and led
awe . .
“ Ibo poor girls were crying, and would not be
comforted. I read a cha ter in the Bible and
grayed with him, and to] them What I ﬁrmly
lieved, that he is innocent.” She then asked
my mother toexcuse her for keeping Lottie, and
Went back to her poor, sad home.

“ Willie, ain’t you afraid that it will turn out
that Jack is guilty?”

“ I don’t believe he is guilty of the murder at
all. I wish I was a great man and a lawyer; I
wouldn’t rest till I had ferretod out the real
' murderer—there, now, run on——I can’t go any
, further.” I cast one glance at the great, gloomy

house, a little distance on my right, and ran to
the school—room.

CHAPTER II.
THREE PORTRAITS.
MY teacher’s name was Helen Ross. I loved
, her very much and thought her beautiful. I
was not tardy that mornin , as I feared, but the
clock struck nine just as entered the school—
room.

She smiled and said “I am glad, Anna; for
i on have had no tardy mark this year, and I

ope you will not come so near it again.” I
told her I would try, and we were immediately
requested to take our Bibles for the morning 3

, lesson.

It was the 139th psalm, and when we read of
the 0mm resence of God—if I say—-“Peradven-
ture the arkness shall cover me; then shall my
ni ht be turned to day.”

here was a pause, and even our teacher’s
voicetrembled, as she answered: “ Yea, the
darkness is no darkness with thee, but the night
is as clear as the day; the darkness and the light
 to thee are both alike. ”

Helen Ross was at this time about twenty
years of age, rather above than under mediu u

, size, fair complexion, soft brown hair that rip-
r’pled on her forehead (which was not low, ac-

, cording to the Grecian standard), without any
artiﬁcial means. Her eyes were hazel, rather
large and very gentle in expression. Her hands
were beautifully shaped; but, what I most ad-
mired in m teacher, was the graceful curve of
the neck. sat on one side of her, and used to

. trysometimes tosketch her head and bust. The
morning to which I refer she was dressed in a
claretecolored merino with narrow rufﬂes around
the throat and wrists; that upon the neck was
fastened by a cameo breach, the device, an ex-
quisitely cut head of Sappho. The hair, which
was very abundant and wavy was neithe '
frizzled nor curled. but parted smoothly in
front, and twined in heavy braids upon the
bucket her head, the only fastening an ivory
arrow.

This was her usual school costume in winter.

She was the only child of a Widowed mother,
and they lived together in a neat little house on
Federal street, giving up the largest room to
the school, which was composed of about twentv
girls from the ages of ten to ﬁfteen. daughters;
of gentleman wrho had c rn'idenr‘e in Miss Helen,
and who inu-ulxl to .1;er their chillren with

 
ﬂ

her until they sent them to a ﬁnishing-school in
the city. They therefore paid well, and made
it remunerative to the teacher, who performed
her duty faithfully.

Living, as we all did; in the vicinity of Judge
Webb’s house, it was not strange that the ex‘
citement was great in the school this week, and
the recess occupied in discussing the murder and
all its details.

“ They’ve caught the murderer, and he’s safe
in jail,” said one.

“ Yes, and never will come out again till he
rides to the gallows,” said another.

“What does your father say about it?” said
one of the girls to Mary Cashing, the daughter
of a most prominent lawyer.

“ I haven’t heard him express an opinion,"
said the cautious daughter of a wise father.

“ I wonder who Jack Cheever will get to de-
fend him,” said Alice Cutts, our eldest pu il,
and who was considered the best in Eng ish
studies. “He is poor and can’t pay, and your
father,” turning to Miss Cushing, “ has great
prices when he undertakes a case. I heard he
charged Judge Webb ﬁve thousand dollars in
the last law-suit he managed for him.”

The hot blood mounted to the face of Mary,
and for once she was thrown off her guard.

“ I heard him tell my mother this morning,
when he was readin the paper, that he would
like to defend Jack heever,” and then, as soon
as she had said it, walked away in great con-
fusion, ashamed of her indiscretion. But what
she had said emboldened me, and I ventured to

sav:

“ I don‘t believe Jack is guilty.”

At these words they all laughed, and Isabella
Hall said:

“ You i norant little pussy. That’s because
you don’t ear anything about it.”

But little Mary Bird drew up to my side and
whispered:

“ I thmk so too. I know Jack and his sisters,
and I think he was trying to be good lately. My
mother says she hopes it will come out on the
trial that he is innocent.”

“ Aren’t you sorry,” said Martha Green,
“ that you took Lottie Cheeverinto your family?
Sha’n’t you send her awe. now?”

I was too surprised an indignant to answer
for a; 1moment, but little Mary Bird spoke up
quic y:

“ Why should she send poor Lottie away!
Where would she go?”

“ Oh, I don’t know,” was the careless reply,
“only one doesn’t like to have anythin to do
with a murderer-’5 family,” and she wal ed to
the gate. The irls followed her. Judge
Webb s house coul be seen from there. It was
a large, gloomy brick house, isolated from the
rest of t e street, which was somewhat densely
built, by a large yard. The house stood in the
center of this space; the windows of the lower
ﬂoor were guarded by heavy wooden shutters,
so common in Philadelphia, but rare in the New
England States. An iron fence ran the whole
length of the yard in front, and this, added to
the evergreens, of which there was an undue
proportion in the lawn, gave a. gloomy air to
the whole pl ice. .

Judge Webb had been, in ms younger days, I "

 
Jack’s Snare.

  
5

 
sea—captain, engaged in the India trade, and
thus laid the foundation of his immense fortune.
He was a great economist, and considered by
most who knew him to be very penurious; but
thou h never giving to the needy at home, or in
ma ' sums, he now and then “came down
handsomely,” as the business men expressed it,
on t cecasions.

is ﬁrst wife was a sister of Helen Ross’s
mother, a poor sewing-girl, remarkable for her
beauty and modesty. She died young, at the
birth of her ﬁrst child' the infant lived buta
few hours, and was lai by his mother’s side in
the with. His second wife was a minister’s
widow—a Mrs. March, with one son—Robert
March.

Robert was, at the time my stor commenced,
astudent in Squire Cushing’s o ce. He was
not a. brilliant young man, but a thorough, pa-
tient scholar, retiring in his manners, and high-
ly esteemed by all who knewrhim well. He
was a mere schoolboy when his mother married
Judge Webb. The old gentleman gave her to
understand at the time of the marriage that
Robert must have no expectations from him on
account of their connection. Robert under-
stood well that his connection with the judge
would be of no pecuniary advantage, and he
was satisﬁed that it should be so.

The day that he was twenty-one years of age,
be commenced boarding with Mrs. Ross, who
added to her little income by taking two or three
boarders. He slept in the ofﬁce, Squire Cnshing
willingly giving him the use of a small room for
the sake of having some one there at night.
When the young man concluded this arrange-
ment, he said to the judge one day after dinner,
as the old gentleman sat in his easy-chair by
the ﬁre: “I have made my arrangements to
leave our house, sir according to your wishes.

I sh board with rs. Ross, very near here,
and if on or my mother need me at any time,
I shall on hand. I sleep at the oﬁice.”

“ What? What's that you are saying, Rely
art?” said the old man, roused suddenly from
lﬁis reverie over the coals of the wood-ﬁre before

im.
Robert repeated his remark.

“Well well, I believe I did say that at the
time of the marriage, years ago; but, I had for—

otten it, and was not aware that you ever knew
1;. You have been a good boy, Robert, and
have not given me any trouble. Let me see,
Robert—have you ever asked me for mone ?"

A blush was on the face of Robert as e re—

lied quickly: “Never, sir." But there wasa
ittle bitterness in his heart as he remembered
how often he had needed money in that rich
man’s house—the nights he had spent in copying
for his em loyer, or correcting proof for the
publisher, t at he might have decent clothes to
wear. He thought, too, of the winter when he
attended law-lectures in Cambridge; how much
he suffered from cold for want of an overcoat,
till, ﬁnally, his mother made one for him out of
an old roquelaur which the judge had cast
away, but so poor that she had difﬁculty in
piecmg it out.

Mrs. Webb would gladly have turned her
camel’s-hair shawl which her husband brought
home to her one day, or the nice sables wind:

 
he ordered from De Ford’s, into a suit of clothes
or a nice overcoat for Robert; but that was not
in her power. When he was younger, she one
day found him sweeping the stables of their
neighbor, Mr. Porter, who paid him ﬁft cents
for the job-a most liberal reward, obert
thought.

“ You see, mother, the boys have treated me
so often that I am ashamed to let them do it any ‘
more; and, as to-morrow will be the Fourth of
July, I am gcing to spend this money in lemon-
ade for Jim Kent and Cullen Parker.”

The mother went into her kitchen. She had
been making butter with her own hands, for
there were two ﬁne cows in the judge’s stable.
There were three rolls of butter, sweet and
golden, more than they could use, but which
must not be given away. She packed them
nieel i, and calling Robert to the pantry, said;

“ ere, my son, can you sell this butter? If
so, you may have the avails.”

Robert carried it, in the evening, two miles, to
the lower part of Water street where he then ht
he would not be known, an obtained a 01-

r.

He was a rich boy that night, and discharged
all his debts of honor on the Fourth. -.

Robert remembered these things, when the
judge said: “ Did you ever ask me for money?"

Yes, and he recalled, too, that, on the morn-
ing of that very Fourth, Mrs. Kent, the judge’s
sister, called, and was in a room with her broth-r
er more than an hour. At school, the same day, '
Jim Kent showed Robert a ﬁve-dollar gold coin,
which he said “as his spending-money for the
next day. “ I say, Bob, ain’t I lucky? Mother

0t this out of ‘ Old Hunks‘ for me, and ﬁve for

it for our Fourth. Bob,” he said, drawing
near, and speaking in a conﬁdential tone, “ don’t
you wish you had some of the money in that .
iron box?"

“ Yes,” said Robert.

“ Did you ever see the inside of it?” said Jim, ~
coming closer. ,

“ Yes,” said Robert, “ once when he sent me
with some papers to the bank.”

Jim opened his eyes wide. “ What was in it?” '
he said, in a very low voice. ‘ z

“ Papers and money," said Robert; “ papers
on the right side and gold and silver on the eft.
I didn’t take much notice, however, only I saw
one paper sealed and tied, and ‘ WILL’ written«
in large hand on the outside. That is what -
all gentlemen do who have safes, don’t they-
keep their wills and money in them?" i 3

“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Jim, walking away.

The old gentleman mused a moment after
Robert had told him of his decision to leave, and .
the latter, thinking there was no more to be
said, rose to go.

“Stop a moment,” said the jud e.
in Cushing’s oﬁice, studying law?‘

“ Yes, sir.”

“HOW long do you expect to study before you ,
are admitted to practice?” >

“One year, sir. I am following the squire’s '
advice, not to hurry into practice, until my pre-
paration is thorough.” ‘

“ That’s right—()nshing is at the head of the
bar in this region—hard worker, but he does
charge as it he ought every word of his mouth

   
“ You an.

    
s

3 V Jack’s Snare.

 
or stroke of his pen were worth a pound. Robert
March, you have no means of your own; how
do you expect to support yourself the next
year?”

Robert mentioned various little ways by which
he intended to gain money, and added:

“ I have no fear, sir; I am healthy and
strong."

“Robert March,” said the judge, “you have
lived with me ten years. I do not remember
that I have ever given you a dollar.”

“ I thank you for my board, sir.”

“ Bring me pen and paper, and place that ink-
stand on the table."

The young man obeyed.

“ Robert March, I have noticed that for the
ten years you have been with me, you have
swept the paths in winter, run our errands,
brought my shavin -water, and made yourself
generally useful. our board is paid for.”

In the mean while the 01d gentleman wrote.

“Here is a check for one thousand dollars—
one hundred dollars for each year you have
dwelt here, Robert March. Not from me; I am
a stingy ‘Old Hunks,’ as I heard my nephew,
James Kent say the other day; but I‘ll do him
the justice to add that he didn’t know that I
heard him' not from me, I say, but from your
mother. It is her privilege and ri ht to aid her
son at this time, Robert March. our mother
is a good woman: I respect and esteem her high-
ly, and believe she has taught you to be indus-
trlous and frugal. You may continue to board
With us if you wish; but, perhaps, your plan is
best. Board with Mrs. Ross and sleep at the
- ofﬁce, you say?”

v _Yes, sir.”
“ Very well, come and see us often.”
Robert was so surprised that he could only
r stammer out his thanks. That the present
should be made at all surprised him: that it
should be given in his mother’s name, over-
whelmed him.

“You needn’t thank me, Robert March;
thank your mother. I must take my nap now.
Good day, Robert,” and he shook hands with
him and they parted—Robert to go to his
mother, whom he found in his own room, kneel-
ing down by his trunk, which she had acked
with her own hands, and over which 5 e was
shedding tears. But she shed tears from an-
other motive when Robert told her what had
taken place in the diuing~room.

Their ears of sacriﬁce were forgotten in the
recognition of the old man’s real kindness.

CHAPTER III.
* THE WILL. ,.

ROBERT MARCH had been a member of Mrs.
Boss‘s family near] a year when the dreadful
tragedy occurred. uring that time his mother
had died, leaving two. at least, who mourned
her loss and cherished her memory with a tender
re at which would cease only with life. It
in ght be that the grief of the judge was min—
ﬁlled with much selﬁshness, for he missed the

oughtfulness that anticipated all his wants.
the gentleness that bore with his hardness of
temper. and sweet plot that almost made him
feel that his wife’s goodness might gain him ad—
mission into heaven, for he was one of these

 
men who looked upon his wife as he did upon
his house or his bank-stock, as a part of his pro-
perty. Not a day had passed since Robert left

udge Webb’s that he had not spent at least an
hour in his old home. He went from his own din-
ner to the room where the judge usually smoked
his after-dinner cigar, and the old man, who
went out but little, always expected to hear all
the news of State street through Robert. His
mother never claimed a moment of this time
but, when her husband, who always retired at
nine o’clock, was comfortable in bed, then
Robert would run in from the ofﬁce, and chat a
half-hour with her. It was precious time to the
fond mother, and a pleasant memory in after
years to the son.

Two other gentlemen were also daily callers
at the Webb Mansion—James and Kitto Kent,
sons of Judge Webb’s sister. She was the only
surviving member, save the old gentleman, of a
very large family, and considered b the whole
town the heir to his estate shoul she survive
him. The two sons were, of course, looked u n
as young men with great expectations. he
father, J abez Kent was one of those ineﬁieient,
incapable men, with no marked traits of charac-
ter, always destined to meet with bad
luck—always trying, but never successful—
just the sort of man that Judge Webb could
have no patience with. He furnished Jabez
capital, at the time he married his sister, to
open a shiprt’urnishing store on the Stevens
wharf; but he soon failed in that business.
Then he tried the sale of West India goods.
The war of 1812 ruined that. Disheurtened at
last, he found himself landed in' a bank as assis-
tant cashier, which place he held, and would
Embany continue to hold as long as he could

ave breath and patience to go his dail round
in that treadmill. at a salary of ei ht undred
dollars a year. He was not an am itious man,
and for himself cared little for wealth; but his
wife was restless and aspiring, and had so often
reminded him of his deﬁciencies that he really
believed he was unworthy to be called her hus-
band; and gradually acquired that patient,
meek face and manner which distinguish the
husbands of energetic business women, who
take the management of affairs into their own
hands

When James and Kitto were nearly through
the grammar-school, their mother consulted the
judge as to a choice of employment for them.
“ Jim, of course, will go to college and—”

“ Why, 0 course,” growled the brother.

“ I thong t that would be your choice," said
the sister.

“My choiceis that the should learn some
useful trade.
lege too, very well.”

“ But, brother, here is your wife’s son just an-
tering college.”

“ What is that to me? I don’t send him there,
nor does a dollar of m money go toward it.
One thing, Sarah, I wis you fu lyto under-
stand, your boys must not be_brought up vnth
the idea that they will inherit my property.
They will have none of it, unless t ey learn
some useful trade by which they can earn an
honest living.”

The poor mother ,was rather taken aback by _

. .v

If they can 0 that and go to col~ ’

M...~..W. ~...‘ n ’,.

\ .

 
Jack’s Snare.

'7

 
this blunt talk from her brother. There was
onlv one drop of comfort in it. She was jealous
of Robert March, and his position in the family;
he had learned no trade, and could, therefore,
not come into possession of any of her brother’s
pro rty; such was her reasoning.

hen she communicated the result of her
visit the boys were angry, and declared they
woufd not learn a trade. “ Old Hunks ” might
take his money with him when he died, for all
they cared. The father approved the plan of
the judge, and advised them to select a trade at
once; it would please the old gentleman, and
might secure them an independence. This ad-
vice had little inﬂuence over them; but, their
mother used such arguments when their father
was not present, that they both entered upon
their labors the next week, Jim in a printing—
oﬂice, and Kitto as a bookbinder, the mother
suggesting these as most nearly allied to liter-
ary pursuits. James learned his trade in an in-
credibl short time, and entered college a year
after bert. But, as the latter was out a
year, earningothe means to proceed with his
studies, they tb graduated at the same time,
though at different colleges.

James Kent was handsome and popular, with
a ﬁne ﬁgure, a gaceful address, and the gift of
conversation. e was much admired. He had
black hair, a piercing black eye; was lithe, and
quick in his movements. His teeth were white
and regular, and when he smiled, they were
seen so prominently, that the ﬁrst thought of a
stranger, on conversing with him, was—what
ﬁne teeth the fellow has!

James Kent and Helen Ross were near neigh—
bors. They had been playmates in childhood
and classmates in schoo .

Helen’s beauty and sweet temper made many
friends, but she had no more zealous admirer
than James Kent; her fair Saxon type of
beauty, the o posite of his own, was only more
ﬁtted to win is love, or, rather, excite his pas—
sion, and he vowed to himself, on his return
from college, when he saw her maturing into a
welldeveloped, graceful woman, that he would
marry Helen, or, if not, that she should never
be the bride of another. The way seemed made
easy for him, for, though Helen was retiring
and easy, yet she evidently desired no other at-
tention than that which she received from
James, and as she was one of those earnest,
loving hearts that know no ﬁckleness, it was
supposed, by all her friends, that when James
came into possession of his property, they would

ma .
B1;le Mrs. Ross was a thou htful, cautious
mother. “No.James," she sai ,when he was
one day tpleading earnestly with her, “ no en-
g'a emen ring, no binding promise, till Helen is
0] er and on have seen more of life.” A few
thought rs. Ross was fearful that James
might, in some way, fail of his uncle’s property;
but not those who knew her best. She was
more afraid of James with it than without it.
She, who loved so tenderly the few connected
with her b ties of blood, believed ﬁrmly that
James and Kittie would be the rincipal heirs to
the Webb estate, and she w 0 had watched
James with 'all almother’s deep anxiety for her
daughter’s happiness, was afraid of the test.

 
Mrs. Ross was poor; she had no expectations;
but, she would far rather see her married to a
poor man who would cherish her tenderly, than
toone who felt that he conferred a favor by
giving her wealth and position. I think the
mother Was conscious—though by no word or
look did she betray that suspicion to any one—
that there was another who loved her daughter
with all the strength of a warm, manly heart.

Robert March was struggling to obtain his
profession. Years of hard labor were before
him; middle age would probably come before
he could gain a competence; there was no one to
aid him in the hard battle of life. He must
ﬁght it single—handed, and fall or win alone. He
did not shrink from the contest; but, how often
he thought: “If I could have her bym side.”

The 1mpre~sion was not weakened y the
familiar intercourse of daily life, but, neither
by words, looks, or tones, did Robert March
reveal his love. He knew James Kent well——
his utter selﬁshness and want of principle; but,
so deep and true was his attachment, that he
would gladly have given his own 1i.fe,rather-'
than have seen Helen married to him. James,
on the other hand, was not disturbed by any
feeling of jealousy. So conﬁdent was 9 of
his own power of leasing, so sure of his posi~
tion and of Robert s inferiority, that the thou ht
that Helen might feel any interest in him, ot er
1tlhantmere neighborly regard, never entered his

ear . -

He was right. Daily they sat at the same
table, read the same hooks, took the gage of
each other‘s mental caliber; and a calm, sisterly
regard, gradually took root in Helen’s heart.
But, Robert came and Went, and no other feel-
ing was awakened; her pulse beat no quicker
at the sound of his footstep, nor did her thoughts
travel toward him in his absence. Hers was a ,
calm, quiet, even life; she loved study, and
Robert brought her books, selecting them him-
self, guiding, all unconsciously to the reader, her
literary pro ress.

James cal ed daily, and was her constant at-
tendant at lectures, evening visits, or places of
amusement, till he came to feel that such was
his right: and, to tell the truth, Helen was not
averse to his assumption of  Her quick- -
sighted mother understood this, but, with a rare
discretion, kept silence, fearing the future, but ,
be ing and praying also.

e cannot trace this love from its germ to
the full blossom, but Helen Ross loved James
Kent with the devoted, unselﬁsh love of a true
woman’s heart. Her heart thrilled at the sound
of his voice, and the quick blood mantled hex:
cheek at his approach: and yet, James was not
sure of his conquest. He had promised not to
speak of love or an engagement, and Helen’s
calm, quiet manner, so opposite to his own im-
pulsive, passionate nature, deceived him. He
wished her more demonstrative, and was im-
patient for the two years of probation to end.

We have spoken of James Kent’s brother,
Kitto. He was a peculiar boy—reserved, sul-
len, unmanageable by his parents and teachers,
but wholly subservient to his brother James
who exercised on him an inﬂuence equal to that
claimed b a mesmerist. «
"“I’llasz Jim,” was such a common phrase . >

 
. schoolboy phrase.

Q Jack’s

with him that it became a byword among the

b0 9.

{Vhile James was in college, Kitto was plod-
ding at the book-bindery, perfectly satisﬁed
with his position, and apparently without am-
bition to rise. The one prominent trait in his
character understood by all the school-boys,'and
by which onl they could inﬂuence him, was
avarice. “ tingy as Old Hunks," was the
In his trade he manifested

_ this, trying all the methods in his power to {slot
9

money, and, once obtained, of secreting it.

bindery was connected with a bookstore, where
he often acted as salesman. He found quite a
sale among the boys for books of adventure,
voyages, etc. so he furnished himself with a sup-
ply, and m e enormous proﬁts upon his small

capital.
ames was the only person who could procure
money from Kitto; it was given reluctantly to
him, and with a kind of abject fear that made a
terrible struggle with his avarice. James was
seldom in funds—Kitto never out. James al-
ways was neatly and fashionably dressed—Kitto
in the plainest and cheapest clothes. The latter
was most like his uncle, and yet not so much of
a favorite as the more extravagant James.

“ Now, Kitto, go and see our uncle. It is
strange that you will not 0 so, without my

urging it.”
The young man went reluctantly, and was
confused an awkward when there—invariably

injuring some piece of furniture, or bearin the
mud on his boots into the parlor, or knoc ing
down with his un ainly arms some choice orna-
ment, till the ju go wished he would never on-
ter the house. ‘

James Kent was in the law-ofﬁce of Hubbard
and Jones, a. new ﬁrm that had come in with uite
aﬂourish of trumpets, occu yingasuite of o ces,
elegantly turnished, and w ich proved quite a.
contrast to the dingy apartments of Lawyer
Cashing. They were quite a dashing firm and
many prophesied that they would get all the
business of the county into their hands soon;
which prophecy did not seem to trouble Lawyer
Cushing, nor inspire him pith jealousy, for he
was even known to send clients there when
crowded himself, and he never spoke disparaging-
ly of them.

Mrs. Webb’s death made a sad change in the
old brick mansion. She died suddenly to the
communit at least, but for herself, s 9 had
been wait as; the change; for she had seen a
hand the did not see, beckoning her to_ come,
and a. v01ce they did not hear calling her from
beyond the river. One night. when the judge
was sleeping, she sat with Robert by the ﬁre in
the old-fashioned drawin -room. There was a,
wood ﬁre on the hearth, w ich had burned to a
bed of glowing coals, givin , with the one wax
candle which burned on the igh mantle, a dim
light, but leaving much of the heavy. anti-
guated furniture in deep shadow. Opposite the

re-place, rather hi h up on the wall. hung the
portrait of the ju ge’s ﬁrst wife. Mrs. Boss’s
sister. It re resented a youn and beautiful
woman, with or hair in uatura curls, conﬁned
only by a hand of pearls around the head. The
dim ﬁre-light was thrown upon this icture,
bringing it out in relief from its Iom nur-

Snare.

roundings. Mrs. Webb sat on one side of the
ﬁre,look1ng at the coals; her knitting-work had
dro pod into her lap, and her thin hands lay
fol ed over it. She wore a black, heavy satin
dress, not of glossy texture, but hea and soft.
A plain lace cap shaded and softeng the face
which was pale and thin from a slow disease,
patiently borne in silence; but in the soft, blue
eye, and wellrshaped month, there was neither
discontent with the present nor fear of the fu«
ture. Robert sat on the other side of the ﬁre,
but in such a position that when he raised his
eyes they fell upon the picture, which he seemed
to take much pleasure in contemplating. He
held in his hand a roll of papers, and rose to go,
still looking at the Picture as if he could not
Withdraw his gaze. ‘How like to Helen?” he
said, aloud.

The words roused his mother fwom her reverie:
over the coals.

“ Sit down, my son, amoment. I have some-
thing to say to you.”

There was something im rative in her man-
ner. Robert obeyed. an the mother’s eyes
rested upon him so lovingly that there was a
blessing in the very look, ut with a yearning-
tenderness, as if she would ward 011‘, if possible,
some impending sorrow.

“ Robert, you love Helen Ross?”

Robert started, and, had the light been
stronger, the mother would have seen the quick
color rush to the face of her son. and as quickly
disa pear, leaving it almost pallid.

“ other! no human being has ever heard me
confess it.”

“ I am glad, my son; but I speak truth: and:

strong as death itself. M son, I tremble for
you; the feeling has none tie less strength be-
cause you have not given it voice. The river is
deep and broad, but the shallow brook dances
merrily and noiselessly on. Can you conquer
this feeling. subdue this love—tear it out, root
and branch?”

“Mother!”

“ Can you leave Norbury, and never return
till Helen is the wife of James Kent, or till
death. if need be for your peace?"

“ Mother, James Kent will not make Helen

“ ghe thinks otherwise,” replied the mother.

An expression of pain passed over Robert’s
face. The mother did not rceive it with the
eye, but she felt it in her eart; yet she was
strong, for true love can probe deeply if neces-
sary. “Better pain now than great sorrow in
the future,” she said within herself.

“Robert, the best of our sex do not always
love worthily.' I know James Kent, and yet,
strange as it may appear, I would not tear the
Vail away even from Helen’s eyes. I love her,

call her daughter, but it cannot be. Once, in a
dream, I saw you and Helen, ﬂoating, as it
were, in a radiant cloud, with such an ex res~
sion of perfect happiness as made my mot er’s
heart leap for jov; but the next instant my
eyes fell upon a. broad, deep river of blood, in
which a human being was just_sinkinl€a and
with outstretched hands implonng help; but
you turned away from him, as if you scorned

 
-./~'-\~ .... _..

when one of your race loves, the passion is:

and would gladly gather her in my arms and -

I _~

 
. .Ao.

   
‘ is.

‘ ' we»;

  
    .

. L‘
x 2

the prayer of the dying wretch. I awoke, pray—
ing that such happiness might not be yours, if
it must be obtained through the suffering of a
lost soul. or the hardening of your heart.”

“Mother, no eyes but yours have read m
heart, nor shall they. I do love Helen Ross as
never can love another womanl There is some-
thing in my heart which bids me not despair.
God ,helping me, I will win; but I can hide my
time.

“ God help you, my son, I say, but help you
to bear disappointment. There lies between
you and the object of your ambition that im-
passable gulf—a woman’s love. Why should

on wish to win? She may love unworthily,
but if it prove so, there still is no hope for you."

The coals on the hearth were growing dim,
and darker became the shadows in the dusky
room; the features of the rtrait were scarcely
visible, and a deathly chi l for an instant made
Robert feel as if his heart had ceased its beat-
ing. A dim, undeﬁnable dread of some impend-
ing evil seized upon him; but the next moment
his strong will had hidden the phantom down,
and he rose. Standing erect, he said:

“Mother, it is not James Kent that Helen
loves; it is an ideal—no more the real man than
any other creature of the fancy.”

“That may be; but you forget what James
‘Kent is. Sooner than see you the husband of
Helen Ross he would take your heart’s blood.
As you va ue your own happiness come not be-
tween them; cease to think of Helen; time will
brin forgetfulness or resignation.”

“ other, let us speak of something else.”

Mrs. Webb came and laid her hand on her
son’s shoulder. “ Robert, I have no legacy but
a. mother’s love to leave you. I woul it were
otherwise, for you have years of struggle before
you; but such is God’s will, and you may be
stronger for your battle with life. I had hoped
before this to pay the on] debt which our
father left—two hundred do rs to Squire ush-
ing. It has lain heavily on my mind, and I
must die,[ fear, without discharging it. But,
if 7on ever are able to do so, let me entreat you

. to onor our father’s memory by paying it."

“ ai it, mother, on the ve day that I re-
ceiv the check from the ju ge, and here is
{she Iir‘eceipt," producing a paper from his pocket—

00 .

“ God bless you, my soul" said the mother-
“ now I am at rest,” and a smile so sweet rested
upon her countenance that the beauty of her

outh returned for a moment. Robert drew

er arm within his own, and walked to the door
of the hall. “You may go upstairs with me,
Robert if you please, and let me lean‘ upon you.
I have 3 strange ﬂuttering at the heart at times,
and it troubles me now.”

Gentl as a nurse lifts an infant Robert
raised is mother and bore her up the broad
staircase, to the door of her sleeping—room.

“ Good-night, mother,” and the strong, manly
form bent to receive the kiss with which they
usually parted.

“ Good-night, my boy. God bless you! You
have never given me one moment of heart-pain,
and He who blesses those who honor their
parents will bless you.” _

With a rapid step Robert walked to his ofﬁce.

Jack’s Snare. ‘ I H O

 
Even his mother’s love and blessin did not
soothe the restlessness of his heart. ‘ She bade
me think no more of Helen! Tell the ﬂowers
not to bloom when the soft air and sweet sun-
shine of spring is on them! Tell the river not
to seek the ocean—the moon to give no light
when the glorious sun shines upon her—tell me
to live and not love Helen Ross! ’

Robert walked to the ofﬁce with rapid step
and a heart full of bitterness. Why was James
Kent to be so highly favored? Was it not
enough that he was to inherit the wealth of his
uncle, and must he—Robert—struggle with pov-
erty, and be doomed to disappointment and 8.
Ion solitary life?

9 felt that his fate was hard, with no sym-
path y but his fond mother’s, who was powerless
to aid him, and who bade him not to hope.

As he aced back and forth, his eyes fell on
the sm 1 law library, only a few standard
works, which he had urchased for himself.

A thought occurr to him: “ Let my profes-
sion be my consoler. Henceforth I devote my-
self to that,” and he immediately took his pen
and bOOks, and worked vigorously till the clock
struck two. As he rose to seek his bed, a sweet
memory stole into his heart: he was a boy again,
kneelin at his mother’s knee, with her hand upon
his hem , as he repeated his evening prayer. 80
strong was the impression that he knelt, and,
thou h he heard no voice, and saw no form, he
felt istinctly the pressure of that soft hand,
and when he fell asleep he dreamed of seein
her in all her youthful beaut , and she sai ,
“ Come to me, my son, for you ave never given
me one moment of heart—pain.”

The next morning, as he was dressin , a mes-
senger came to the ofﬁce, biddin h in come
guickly, for his mother was de . She had

ied of heart disease, the doctor said. She
could not have struggled with the rent de-
stroyer, for she seems to be only sleeping, with
her hands folded on her breast, and a sweet
smile upon her face; but the “ fluttering heart ”
had ceased to beat. '

And then Robert knew, in his own heart, the
hour of her departure, for was it not her hand
that tested upon his head at two o’clock that
morning?

“ Alone! Alene!" were the words that seem-
ed to ring in Robert’s ears, and sink into his
heart, w en the earth rattled on the coﬂln, and
the words, “Dust to dust!” were repeated by
the clergyman. “ Alone! Alone l" as he powed
the gloomy old brick house that had ceased to
have any attraction for him. “ Alone! Alonel”
as he saw James Kent and Ellen Ross, strolling
arm-in-arm through the Park at twilight. ‘

It was only wi his books that he found com~k
panionship. He emembered these days in after
years, when the knowledge, accumulated in this
time of sorrow, was like a mine oilﬁeld to him,

Mrs. Ross and Helen were at rs. Webb’s
funeral, and?“ the particular request of Mrs.
Kent, remained for a day or two. The jud e
was old and feeble; the shock of his wife’s nu -

den death for a time unmanned him, and he ap-
peared like a helpless child. He said little and ,
sat all day in his easy-chair by the ﬁre, which, .
though i was warm weather, was made for
him, and served in the evening to make the

 
.he has an aversion to any change.

Jack’-

Sure.

is».

 
Mrs. Kent was, therefore, surprised to learn
from Mrs. Loud that the lawyer come soon after
breakfast, and was closeted with the judge, and
they were domgr a. deal of business.

‘ We are to have dinner at two o’clock, and
the lawyer will remain,” the housvkeepcr said.

There was a little gossip before dinner at Mrs.
Kent’s house whither the housekeeper had gone
on some triﬂing errand. The information
brought Mrs. Kent overto reside at the table—
and to make various errnn s into the room after
dinner.

The lawyer was shrewd; he knew Mrs. Kent,
and he read her motives; he knew very well, for
his car was keen, that the sic lingered at the
door, and that an car was at t e key-hole; so he
managed affairs accordingly, and Mrs. Kent
went away as wise as she came, save that she
was sure, very sure, that her brother had made
some change in his will. She came in latein the
evening, when Mrs. Loud informed her that the
judge went up to his bedroom an hour earlier
than usual—that he sat a. long time by his safe,
looking over papers, and when he rung for her
again, he was very tired, and she feared he
would have a bad night.

“ It is not safe for him to sleep alone, with
his door locked,” said Mrs. Kent. “ It really
must not be; I will speak tohim about itto—
morrow.”

“ It troubles me very much," said the house-
keeper: “no one could get to him if he were
taken suddenly ill.”

“ I‘ think one of my boys should come and
sleep here,” Mrs. Kent replied; “ but I suppose
he will be very obstinate about the matter, for
Having al—
ways locked the door, he will think he must do
So now."

To her surprise, the next day. he agreed with
her that, at his age, it was unsafe to be alone.
Perhaps the death of his wife had alarmed him;
but, as to having one of the boys come, it was
all nonsense. In case of sickness they Would be

and for nothing, and he feared no robbery, for

is money and plate were in the bank. His
sleeping-room was opposite the housekeepers,
and there were no other rooms communicating
with these, which both opened into a hall.
There was a window at one end of the hall, and
a door opposite; both door and window were
securely fastened b key, lock, bolt, bar and
shutter. A bell at t 6 head of the judge’s bed
comrrunicated with the housekeeper’s room.

After this day the jlilidge left his door unlocked,
and Mrs. Kent said 5 e felt much easier in her
mind. But this ease was not destined to last.
The housekeeper was called away by the death
of a new connection, and Mrs. Kent assumed her
duties for a day and a night.

That night t e judge coughed for a. while after
retiring, and his sister brought him a mixture
to drink. He was revived and fell into a sound
sleep. Mrs. Kent sat a while, listening to the
regular breathing of the sleeper; a stray beam
of moonlight lay upon the carpet and touched
the corner of the iron safe. The Watcher’s eyes
rested upon it. and the thought “ ifl could look
within.” entered her heart; the ” if ” became
“can; do it?” The key was in the pocket of
the coat which hung over the chair onwhich

 
her hand then rested. She took it out slowly,
and held it some minutes in her hand; the
temptation became stronger, the way easier.
The old man slept well; he was always a heav
sleeper; the heav crimson curtains whlc
draped the bedstea had been drawn aside. She
dropped them carefully, and then sat still a mo-
ment longer.

“For my children’s sake I will risk it," she
said. “If they are to be disappointed, better
know it in time.” . 1

Very quietly she crossed the ﬂoor: the thick
carpet gave no echo to her tread. The key was
in the lock, and she paused, not because of an
difﬁculty in opening it, for the safe was 01 -
.tashioned and opened easily. It was considered
merely a safe-guard in case of ﬁre. She paused,
not from fear of the sleeper, for his heavy
breathing told her of his oblivion to all that was
going on around him, but a sudden ualm of
conscience seized her, and for an instan she was
half—won over by her good angel to go no
further. But the key turned almost noiselessly.

“ I am no thief,” she said; “ there can be no
harm in my knowing how my children are to
far: the disposal of what should be theirs by
n .

he task was easy, for on the right hand side
lay a package of apera, among which she soon
found, “ Last wil and testament of—” etc

She opened and read, sitting down on the car-
pet, with the dim night-lamp in one hand. Once
she laid them beside her to puton her spectacles.

Slowly and noiselessly she read; the words
made a great tumult in her heart, but she was
forcedtobeoutwnrdly quiet. She found that
J nines and Kitto Kent, Robert March and Helen
Wadsworth Ross shared equally her brother’s
fortune; to herself was left a life arnuity.

There were so many restrictions and fetters
threwn about her own sons that it seemed doubt—
ful, almost, whether they could come into pos-
session ut all. It was evident that their uncle
had little conﬁdence in them. Her heart was
full of bitterness, and she lonng to touch'the .
light to the document and see it consumed to
ashes. But that would not be safe. She there:
fore replaced it and went back to her seat by
the bed, after having drawn aside the curtains
to their former place. ‘

She looked at the sleeper and shook her list
over him. “ You unnatural old curmudgeon
to have so little feeling for me and mine! i
wish—”

But the wish was not expressed in words, for
the sleeper turned and spoke: “ Robert March,
don’t forget to tell Mr. Cushing to comato-
morrow." Ah, be was only dreaming, but Mrs.
Kent was terribly frightened. and, as soon as
she could, escaped to her room, there to spend a.
sleepless night, full of vexation.

A day or two after this occurrence the old
gentleman sat by his open safe. He looked
troubled, took off his spectacles and wiped them,
rubbed his forehead and looked perplexed. Then
be counted the little piles of gold and silver. It
was no great amount—not enough to tempt a
robber to the difﬁcult tnsk of breaking into the
old mansion. which was supposed to be locked,
double-locked and bolted, from all rip‘bt-intru-
ders. He counted and compared \vitha little

 
 :2 'r.‘ a: a,

'10  I   > Jack'- Saar.-

 
hrge gloomy room more cheerful. He received
a call from Squire Cashing every day after
breakfast. This latter gentleman had charge
of his business, and the conﬁdence which t e
old ntleman repossd in his lawyer, was a
pie ng contrast to his intercourse with all
other business men of the town. Robert con-
tinued his calls after dinner as usual. It was
the garticular request of the judge, and he was
grime annoyed if anything occurred to prevent
1 .
One day, before the dinner-hour, Mrs. Ross
requested Helen to take her sewing and sit in
the room with him. He apparently took no
notice of her for a long time, but sat, looking
at the ﬁre. She was at work upon some piece
of embroidery and was a little startled by the
question abruptly asked: “What is your
name?"

A little confused, she answered, “ Helen, sir.”

“ Your whole name I mean.”

“ Helen Wadsworth Ross, sir.”

“ Helen Wadsworth? I thought so. Will you
stand up and let me see your hight?”

Helen obeyed, though somewhat surprised.
“ Very like, very like,” be repeated two or
three times; “ a striking resemblancel Helen,
can you wheel my chair round a little, so that I
can see the portrait on the wall over the sofa?
Are you strong enough?”

“Oh, yes, sir. It turns very easily.”

He looked from the picture to Helen, and
from Helen to the picture, till he had satisﬁed
himself that the resemblance was very marked.

“ Your father was Captain Ross, of the 5111])
Eagle, bound for Calcutta, lost on the voyage;
second mate, J uck Carter, afterward in my em-
ploy—the only one saved.”

“ Yes, sir,” said Helen.

“ You are not old enough to remember it?”

“ I was an infant, sir.”

“Yes, yes, you must have been. Your father
left no property?”

“Very little, sir.”

. “ How have you and your mother supported
yourselves?”

The questions were blunt] but not unkindly
asked, and every one who new Judge Webb
understood his peculiarity. Therefore Helen
was more amused than indignant. She was
also glad to see the old gentleman rousing a lit-
tle from the gloomy mood of the last few days.

“ We have taken a few boarders, sir, and I
teach school.”

“ Very well, very well,” said the old gentle-
man; “ there is always work to be done for
those who are willing to do it. Do you like
teaching?”

“ Yes, sir, though it wears on me. lyﬂnd.”

The judge again relapsed ‘ ito revﬂie and this
time his eyes were ﬁxed, no on the coals, but on
the fair ouug girl who was busy with her
work, litto dreaming that her face had been
like an angel guide, leading the old man hack
to the days of is youth, and that sweet. sunny
spring-time, when he too gathered a few ﬂowers
'—ﬂowers that had long since withered and
turned todust. For a few minutes ships and
stocks and bonds were banished from his mind,
and a girlish ﬁgure, lovely to look upon, stood
at his side, and the man of God spoke the solemn

 
words which bound him to her for life—he lived
over, in his reverie, the happy hours of her short
wedded life, and then his face darkened and his
brow contracted, as he recalled the day when
she lay still beautiful in death, with her babe
by her side. .

It was rare for the miserly, hard old man to
recall such memories, and it came like a summer
rain upon the dry, dusty heart.

He said no more to Helen, but he watched her,
and took pleasure in having her near him.

The next day Mrs. Kent came to tell him that
she had found a housekeeper who was all he
could desire, Mrs. Loud, a capable, energetic
woman, who was perfectly trustworthy.

“ I had been thinking,” said her brother, “ of
making a proposition to Mrs. Ross and her
daughter to remain with mel”

Mrs. Kent was taken by surprise; but she was
wary and shrewd; she did not mean that Mrs.
Ross and Helen should remain, but opposition,
she Well knew, would only make her brother
more decided in his plan.

“ Indeed! I had not thought of that," she re-
plied. ‘-‘ Have you talked with them upon the
subject?”

“ No: but you may do so today.”

She reported in the evening that the patrons
of the school were unwilling that Helen should.
resign her charge; they had purchased the house
and given the rent to Mrs. Ross; it would be
wrong to disturb a business arrangement so set
isfactory on both sides.

Now, all this, be it understood, was represent-
ed as Mrs. Boss‘s view of the matter, while Mrs.
Kent alone had assumed the part—Mrs. Ross re-
maining in ignorance of the transaction.

Thus it came to pass that Mrs. Loud was in-
stalled housekeeper at the Webb mansion. She
was a tall, spare woman, with sharp, black eyes,
that looked keen and bright behind the specta-
cles, a shrill voice, and a quick step. She was
precise and orderly, and the judge found his
meals served at the moment, the bed well aired,
his house in perfect order, his orders faithfully
obeyed, and no cause of complaint on his part:
yet he missed, oh! so much. the gentle step, and
voice, and uiet ways of Robert’s mother. He
asked sometimes for Helen Ross, but Mrs. Kent,
who came in daily. told him that Helen’s time
was wholly occupied by her school.

Once, however, be commissioned Robert
March to bring her. It was on Saturday, and
be detained her till Monday—the young girl
very willing to add a little sunshine, if she could,
to the somber old house.

“ Come again—come often," said the judge to
Helen, as she came in on Monday morning with
her straw bonnet tied with a broad, blue ribbon
under her chin, and her nicely-ﬁtting sack, with
its rows of pearl buttons.

b_“ Yes, sir, I will,” and she shook hands with
im.

He drew her down and kissed her cheek.

“ So like! solike!” he murmured, and after she
left, he sat long in thought.

After the death of his wife, he had said to Mr.
Cushiug:

“ My own business is all settled; if I die sud-
denly. also, you will have little to do. 
my affairs,”

\

 
« s W
.70--..1‘...“ 1. ﬂuaipﬁ: y y?“ 1'“

 
'M ‘ V V J ack’s Snare.

memorandum in his pocket; it was all right.
Still he was puzzled, rubbed his forehead again
and muttere to himsslf: “ I must be losing my
memory.” He then arranged his papers again
for he was a very exact man, and so methodica
that it was a common saying in State street:
“As precise as old Webb.”

That day he sent for his lawyer, and. as the
latter left the house, he walked through Federal
street with his heud down, as if in a brown
study. When he came to the ofﬁce, he found
Robert March at the table, writing.

“ Well, Robert. and what do you think trou-
bles the udge to—day?”

“ The high insurance on the bark Argo? It is
of no use. I have tried, and the underwriters
will take no less."

“ No, no, not that; he has got it into his head
that some one has been to his safe. A pile of
papers, marked No. 1, was found in Compart-
ment No. 2, and one important paper loose upon
the ﬂoor of the safe.”

“ That is a terrible affair to the old gentle-
man.” said Robert; “it will weigh upon his
mind for a. week. Can it be his memory is fail-
ing? Of course he must expect it at his age.”

‘ Yes,” said the lawyer, “ but we are the last
to be conscious of our own inﬁrmities.” The
la er said this, but the next moment he smiled,
asvirfya pleasant thou ht had struck him. “ Yes,
yes. I'll ﬁx it. 1’11 1: it—the judge is failing;
ghgljmows what may happen? Fast bind, fast

n

“Did you speak, sir?" said Robert.

“ No—did I? Perhaps I was thinking aloud.”

The next morning he was closeted with the
judge, and the result of that call has some con-
nection with the conclusion of my story.

 
CHAPTER IV.
TEE SQUIRE’S DEVIL.

01m ﬁne morning in April. Willie and myself
were playing in the front yard. Lottie was
sitting upon the front steps, sad enough now
looking on at our game. All at once she jum
up and disappeared within the door, while a
voice from the streetcried out:

“ Helloa, there-Awa’n't that Jack Cheever’s
sister?"

“ Well, suppose it was?" sharply responded
my brother. _ _

‘ 0h, nothing. Only I thought what a pity it
was such a chap should have so trim a sister.”

“ What do you mean by ‘ such a chup?’ ” and
Willie‘s eyes fairly blazed with his anger.

Dick Loud was slow in answering, and stood
rolling the tobacco in his mouth. eying Willie,
as if he Wished to read his thoughts.

“If half I hear is true, there‘s proof enough
tohang, him; but, ye see, I’ve been gone, and
don’t know much about it. - I’ve been oif«and—on
for the last year, and was awfully taken aback,
when I came in with my ﬁshing—smack t’other
day, to ﬁnd my old friend Jack in the stone jug.
It will go pretty hard with him—that old boot
and his previous character."

“ That old b'iotl” said Willie; “ that‘s nothing
but circumstantial evidmee, and we must have
something else to hang a maul”

“Helical my sprig ,0! a lawyer; so you are

/_.

 
studying the law-books to defend your friend.
Pretty company for a young gentleman of your
standingl”

This rouSed Willie’s temper, and he replied
with some warmth:

“ He’s better than some others that I know,
and don’t deserve hanging half as much. The
less you say the more the people will like it."

“ You’re rather sharp, my 'ttle man. I’d no
wish to offend you this morning. I’ll haul OK;
so good-by to ye,” and he went oﬂ‘ down the
street.

Dick Loud was the son of Mrs. Loud, the
housekeeper of Judge Webb. He had been a
very bad boy and an ungrateful son, having
spent all his mother’s little pro rty, and made
her much heart-trouble also. e was with Jack
Cheever a great deal of the time when he was
on shore, and Lottie said that it was Dick that
made her brother so bad, for, when he was
gone, Jack behaved better.

“ Dick, it seems, was not at home when the
murder was committed,” I suggested to Willie.

“ Wasn’t he?” said Willie.

“ Why, didn’t you hear what he said?”

“Yes; maybe he was at home, and maybe
he was not,” said Willie. “A fellow that will
steal the last dollar from his mother will tell
lies and do somethin worse.”

This was good logic, and I did not dispute it.

“Lottie, I am going up to see your Aunt
 to-day. Any message to her?" asked

1 ie.

“ Oh, yes, Willie; please take this to her,” and
she went to the pantry and produced from un-
der a bowl, where she had hidden” it, an apple
and a piece of cake, both of which she had
saved from her own plate at table; ” and, Wil-
lie, do on think—could I, any way—” and as
she s e the tears came, and she choked so she
coul n't finish the sentence.

“ I know what you mean, Lottie—could you ’

send something to Jack? I’ll try. Now, I’ll
tell you what Lottie—I must speak it out—if
Jack is guilty i believe in his unishment. Yes,
l’d hangamurderer; and, 8. ve all, a fellow
who would coolly go and murder a feeble old
man for his money. But, Lottie, I don’tbe-
lieve Jack did it. You see the money wasn’t
taken, the silver that was in the house wasn’t
taken—nothing missing unless it is the judge’s
will, and everybody that knows anythin about
it, says he kept his will in that safe. know
that the 01d boot tells hard against him, and
then, yesterday, they found a handkerchief with
his name marked upon it, in the ard. near the
Window. It was a red silk hand erchief, with
his name in white sewing—silk.”

“ Ohl Willie " I exclaimed, “don’t tell Lottie.
See, she is e as death 1” The poor girl was
leaning a must the dresserin the ,panti' , her
face bl less, and her blue eyes openedy wide
and staring at Willie.

“ Yes, I will tell; she ought to know every-
thin , and then she will understand better, by-
and— y, what to do.”

“ Willie! Willie!” said Lottie, “ I marked
that handkerchief for Jack on New Year’s Da ,
but he told me, a few weeks afterward, that
had given it away and I must work him an-
other just like it—but I haven’t done it M

‘

 
Jack’s

Snare. ' 13

 
Here it is ” and she opened a drawer in the
kitchen an showed it to us.”

“ Exactly like itl” said Willie, “ for I saw the
handkerchief in Squire Cushin ‘5 ofﬁce. But
who did he give the other to? he did he give
it to?” asked Willie, ea erly.

“I don’t know—I on’t know.” said Lottie.
“ Do ask him, Willie, please. Perhaps he didn’t
drop it. He couldn’t, you know, if he had
given it away.”

 
Lottie’s Aunt Lucy was sitting by her little
table, binding shoes, when Willie entered, while
Susan was cooking the frugal dinner of ﬁsh and

tatoes. Willie’s basketwfor he had managed
lgprocure an additionto Lottie’s "ft—was very
acceptable. The poor aunt loo ed wan and
pale, and the sight of Willie brought tears. Al-
mostall the town behaved Jack guilty; one or
two gentlemen had expressed some doubt, but
the community were so struck with horror at
the nixd, that they looked upon the whole
Chee r family as disgraced, and their poor
neighbors seemed almost afraid that any kind-
ness to the aunt and children would confound
them with the guilty.

It was a long time before I could understand
why Willie so stoutly asserted his belief in
J ack’s innocence.

“ Mrs. Lucy, I am goin to the jail to see if
they will admit me,” said illie. .

“I guess they will, Willie,” said the aunt;
“and it isso kind in you to do it.” The tears
dropped upon her work. “Oh, Willie, can we
live through it?"

“ The trial don’t come on for some weeks yet,
and who knows what may happen? If Jack’s
innocent, I guess it will be made to appear.”

“I hope so—I hope so," said the old lady;
“ but it is difﬁcult sometimes to prove one’s in-
nocen "

“Ay, but they must prove his wilt! That’s
it, Mrs. Lucy.”

Willie was beginning to make quite a display
of his legal acquirements.

Willie was admitted to Jack’s cell, but had no
conversation with him save in the presence of
an omocr. When Jack heard of the ﬁnding of
the handkerchief, he appeared much troubled.
“ Ayl ayl Willie, it will go hard against me. I
wish I hadn’t been such a. bad fellow before, and
then people would believe my word- but no
matter what I say I can’tbetrusted. I sup~

I deserve it for being such a good-for-noth;
ng brother!” '
‘ Jack, about the handkerchief?”

“ I haven’t had that handkerchief in my pos-
session since—let me see "—and he studied a mo-
m” “ since the twentieth day of January

“ Who did you give it to?”
“A ,my boy, that won’t do! Jack Cheever
is badyenough without turning informer."
Willie was walking from the an toward his
home, wondering how he coul learn more of
what seemed to him a mystery, when he met
John Martin, a boy in the same class at the pub-
lic school.
The boy was much excited: “ Come on, Will
--come on, quick! I haven’t told an of the
other boys. Come, see what I’ve foun l”

 
Will thou ht only of a stray bird’s nest, or a
treasure in t e old ruins. “ Is it far?" he asked.

“No, only down here by the Church on the
corner. I haven’t touched it yet, but I am sure
there’s blood on-it.”

The boy ran on ahead, certain now that Willie
was following. They came to the church, to a
narrow alley behind it, where, in a hole under
the old steps which led to the vestry, they saw a
club with what appeared to be a loaded head.
There was a dark stain upon the head, and also
on the handle, and, as Willie knelt to examine
it more closely, he saw two or three white hairs
clinging to it. For a moment he felt a cold
shudder come over him; but his caution did not
forsake him. “ John, you stay around here,
not very nigh, but in sight while I go down to
State street for Squire Cus ing.”

The sentinel was faithful, and the lawyer
soon had possession of the weapon, which he
felt sure had some connection with the death of
Judge Webb.

We had no school on the day of the funeral.
My father and Willie were resent. I sat at the
parlor window and watch the lon recession
on their way to the cemetery. The exits were
the chief mourners, and were in the ﬁrst car-
riage. I saw James and Kitto, and I thought
they looked very grave and pale. Mrs. Ross,
and Helen, and Robert March came next. It
was wron in .me, I suplpose, but I thou ht what
a ﬁne-loo ing couple obert and He en were,
and I said so to my mother.

“Yes,” she said, “ but Helen will marr
James Kent, and she thinks him a very han -
some young man. Now, I suppose, he will be
very rich, as there has been no will found. I
did hope,” she added, “that the judge would
leavea few thousands to Robert, and an annuity
to Mrs. Ross; but, it is so too often in life—
those who need it most are forgotten.”

It was a very large funeral, and the whole
town was quiet and solemn. Business was sus-
pended, and the spectators turned pale as they
looked upon the hearse. and thought of the hor-
ror of that midnight death.

The day after the rumors], a message came
from Squire Cashing toihe Kent family, and to
Mrs. Ross and Helen, requi-sting them to meet
him at the Webb mansion, at two o’clock, P. M.
As that hour drew nigh, he asked R0 11'- March
to go with him. “ I may need you witness,”
he said. .

As Robert entered the room where he had so
often sat with the judge, what sad memories
came over him. There was the familiar easy-
chair in which his mother sat on that last even-
ing when she bade him for et what was dearest
to him in life, save hersel ; and there, too, sat
the judge at three o’clock, P. M. only a few
hours before his death, talking of husinws, and
as absorbed in this life. as if no other stretched
beyond in the illimitable future. Robert was
not disappointed: he had been told that he must
expect nothing from the rich man’s store. He
had been so thankful for the present received
when he left the house, and had made such good
use of it, that he felt now strong to carve out
his own fortune. Once only when he looked a
Helen, so beautiful even in her plain dress, '

 
I4 Jack’s

 
Snare.

 
the thought cross his mind: “ For her sake, I
would. like to change places with James Kent.”
The passing thought led him to look at that gen-
tleman, and he was surprised to see him so
pale and haggard, With his eyes ﬁxed on
the lawyer, as if he expected that gentle-
man to pronounce his death-sentence, in—
stead of conﬁrming his claim to a hundred
thousand. Kitto, too, Wore no expression of
pleasure, but the Same dogged, stupid look of
ow cunning which had become habitual to him.

Mrs. Kent was restless, and rose to open the
door, as if she felt op ressed with the atmosphere
of the 00m. Even rs. Ross, usually so quiet,
looked as if she would like to know what Squire
Cushing wanted of her. Helen; alone, was
serene, though the place itself could not awaken
any cheerful emotions.

“ I came here,” said the lawyer, “ in compli-
ance with the wish of the deceased, who made
me promise to perform this duty. 1 now hold
in in band the last will and testament of Judge
Webh."

There was a perce tible commotion in the
Kent family‘group. ames stared at Kitto like
an enraged tiger; then the ﬁre disappeared from
his face, and he became more deadly pale than
before. Kitto looked at his mother with a sin-

, gular expression of incredulity and surprise.

“I thought there was no will,” murmured
Mrs. Kent, almost inaudibl .

Lawyer Cushing studie their faces with a
quick, rapid glance, before which each member
of the family shrunk. It was a glance which
looked into their hearts.

He then slowly proceeded to read the do u-
ment, which he had produced from his breast
pocket. Stripped of its legal phrases, its pur-
port was as follows: To Mrs. Kent, a life
annuity of two thousand dollars. The remain-
der of the large estate, saving some legacies to
the Seamen’s Friend Society and to the Town
Library, was to be divided equally among
the four following rsons, namely: James
Webb Kent, Kitto ebb Kent, Helen Wads-
worth Ross, and Robert March. The lastnamed
individuals were so taken by surprise, that they
involuntarily glanced at each other, and “ What
can this mean?” was expressed in the face of
each. The disappointment and rage of James
and Kitto was too evident to escape notice.
There was a sullen lare upon the ace of the
latter, which, Helen oss afterward said, was
fearfultolooku n.

Mrs. Ross an Mr. Kent were perhaps the
most satisﬁed individuals in the group; neither
was named in the will.

Squire Cushing and Robert walked back to
the ethos together. “ Well, young man, and
how do you feel, becoming suddenly rich with
one stroke of a pen?”

“ I feel as i it were all a dream, sir; I can
not believe it. I must think it over and sleep
upon it sir.”

d wake to ﬁnd it real,” said the lawyer.

' “Robert,” said Squire Cushing, “I have

strange thoughts to-d ay—strange thoughts, Rob-

ert,” and he came and laid his hand on the young
an’a shoulder. “ Robert March, I congratu-
te you. You have been a good 9011, undo.

prudent, industrious young men, and will, I

trust, make a good use of your money. God
bless you. But Robert. I have horrible thoughts
—hor’rzble! I can’t shake them 011‘: and I would
sooner lose my right hand than give them
speech.”

The lawyer paced his ofﬁce back and forth
with hasty strides, now and then stopping and
laying his hand on Robert’s shoulder, as the lat-
ter sat at a desk before a pile of papers.

“ Robert, do you believe in a devil?”

“ So I have been taught from childhood,” said
Robert, “and it would be difﬁcult for me now
to reason myself out of that belief. Yes, sir; I
believe in a devil—4n an actual spirit of evil.”

“ Well, if ever there was a devil made sug-
gestions to a man, there’s one making them to
me, and I can’t “ down 7’ with the tempter. The
more I try, the stronger he ate the case, and
piles on the arguments, till Pthink he’ll ma
me believe him. But he’s a liar, isn’t he?”

“ The good book says he is the father lies;
but,”you are talking in an unknown ton eto

e

“ Well, I’m glad of it. I’m glad you can’t
look into my heart to night. Such horrible
thoughts, suspicions, fears. are within me that
I feel as if my soul was polluted by its unclea
tenants. Ugh! There’s no sweet sleep for in
to—night. I’d fain wash seven times in Jordan,
if, thereby, I could be free from these torment-
inﬁthoughts.”

obert looked at the lawyer and was troubled.

“ Suppose, sir, I bring your horse round and
we ride. The fresh air will do you cod.”

“ Right' let us have sunshine an the sweet
breath of Heaven, to chase away these thoughts
that, come to me straight from the bottomless
pit.

 
For once in 2:. Ion life, the unfortunate Mr.
Kent was at ease. he racking cares of life
had Worn deep furrows in his brow, had bowed
his form and whitened his hair. Two thousand
a year was ample for his wants, and he returned
from the reading of the will with a restful leel-
ing, to which he had been a' stranger for many
a long year.

Laying aside the new suit of black, and put-
ting on his old coat and slippers, he sat down to
read the newspaper. His wife, who had re-
mained at the old mansion to give some direc-
tions to the housekeeper, entered» soon afterward
and found her husband asleep over his paper.

“ Well, John Kent, you ta 9 it quietly, upon
my word!” sue remarked, angrily, as she shook
him roughly.

“ How should I take it, Sally? I don’t want
to go out and about in the streets, nor run round
to the nei hbors and tell them of our good
fortune. ut, indeed, I am thankful —- so
thankful that we have a competence for our old
age, that, like Paul after the lon tempest
when he saw the port of the Three avems,I
thank God and take courage.”

“ Well. really; and so this is your state ot
mind! Thankful for the ittance of two thou-
sand a year—thankful t at one-half of that
large estate has one to strangers, when the
whole of it should ave beenours.”

 
“ Why, Sally, as far as it regards Helen  ,

 
' as was supposed, by many thousands.

15

 
what difference does it make witthamesl They
will he married now.”

“I don’t know about that—I don’t know.
Helen Ross is no favorite of mine, as you well
understand. I had hoped when James came
into his property, he would give up this foolish
fancy, and marry into a richer, better family.”

hMr Kent rubbed his eyes and sat erect in his
c air.

“ I don't understand you, Sally. Helen Ross
isa beauty, and a good, dutiful daughter. I
can’t see your objection, now that she has the
other requisite—a fortune.” :

“Never mind what you can’t see. You never
were very quick-sighted, or quick-witted,
either.”

“ Well, perhaps not—perhaps not, Sally. One
thing is certain—l have not been a successful
man. This is the only hit of good—fortune that
has ever been given to me. Let us rest and be
thankful.”

“Rest! When so much injustice has been
donel Rest! No I’ll never rest till that will is
brokenl Robert archl A mere beggar to be
made equal to my children] He has tampered
with the old man, or with his will.”

b“ 1 gas a littlﬁ surprisedhl tings; confess, that
te'u e ave imsomuc, u suposedhe
would 1E8.th him a few thousands.” p

“ I know more about it than you do,” and
here the woman paused a moment. She had
never told her husband of her midnight dis-
covery. “ i. knew what my brother’s intentions
were—coaxed into it, I suppose. by Cushing.
He has played his part well. Fifty thousand to
go into that ﬂrni. 1 say I knew what my
brother’s intentions were, but I ho , as there
was no will found in the safe, he ” d thought
better of it and permitted his own ﬂesh and
blood to have their full rights.”

“ Sally, it is straﬁge that the old gentleman
didn’t keep his w' there. Such has always
been the impression. I wonder what Jack
Cheever did get for his great crime.”

“Plenty of money, you may be sure. Cush-
ing himself said that the estate was not as large
It is my
opinion t at Jack Cheever knew of a large
amount deposited there, and took it, but was
cunning enou h to leave a rt.”

“You may right; I t ink you are. It is
strange that a. more thorough search has not
been made for it.” '

“ We’ll let Jack Cheever alone. The law will
hang him as he deserves. But the will! I mean
to break it if it can be done ” -

Mr. Kent shook his head.

“It can’t be done—it can’t be.done, Sally.
Better let well enough alone; we have enough—
]et us enjoy it.”

“But we have debts, incurred with the ex-

ctation of receiving an abundance from my

rather."

“ We have no debts now but such as were in-
curred for James and Kitto. Their money must
pay them. You and I Sally, will have our
annuity, and enjoy it. i am satisﬁed, I wish
you would be also.

“ You were always so—no ambition, no energy.
I! you had been like mehwe shouldn’t have been
dependent on a brother.

“I: 

 
“ Very true, very true, Sally. I have always
been running after fortune, but she has always ‘
been too ﬂeet of foot for me. Now that I have
a iece of her robe, 1 am satisﬁed.”

rs. Kent ﬂung herself out of the room, muih
tering:

“Nothing can be done with him. I’ll see
J ames.”

James was not at home. Squire Cashing and
Robert had met James Kent and Helen Boss
in their ride. They, too, were in a chaise,
enjoying the soft spring evenin , and ridin
leisurely through High street, t at beautiiu
avenue, which is the pride of the town. The
grass was fresh and green and the trees were
just beginning to open their leaf-buds to the
soft southern breeze. \ There was a sweet, serene
expression on the face of Helen, very lovely to
look upon.

Squire Cushing, who was a nick observer,
noticed it. “ I think her name s uuld have been
Serena,” he said, as their carriages passed each
other, and she bowed smilingly to the gentle-

men. There are few faces more winning than
hers. I always think of a white dove when I
see her."

Robert made no reply, but in his heart how he
longed that the white ove should ﬂy to him.

“And there’s James,” continued the lawyer,
“a handsome fellow, too in his way, but how
different their typesl What a keen black eye
he has, and how quick and lithe in his move-
ments. Helen is, perhaps, a little slow, just
enou h to give one the idea of ease and grace.

“ 0 what would you compare him?" said
Robert.

>‘ If you will not think the comparison in«
vidious, I should say the tiger. Now lthink
the tiger a very handsome animal, and i always
linger at his cage in a menagerie. He is ﬁerce
an cruel, but he moves with celerity and with
grace too. I am not certain that James Kent is ’
not crafty and cruel by nature, but with an easy
tortune, and Helen Ross for a wife, such traits
would be kept in abeyance.”

Robert made no reply, and there was silence
for a few minutes; but it was suddenly inter
rupted by a sharp cut iven to the horse by the
lawyer. “ Come, Conn ss, let us haves. trial of
your muscles. What do you say to a nod
three-ﬁfty trot on the turnpike, Robert? hat
devil is at me again. I wonder if I can’t run
away from him?”

Robert smiled, and quoted the'passage, “ ‘Re-
sist the devil and he will ﬂee from you.’ But
are you sure it is a devil, squire?”

The lawyer turned sharply and looked at
Robert. “ I thought it must be, because the
feeling was so horrible and ugly. Speaking of
resisting the devil reminds me of Deacon Morse.
He said that when he awoke one Sunday morn:
ing, the words of an old drinking song which he
had learned in his outh. occurred to him. He
couldn’t get rid o it. It haunted him in his .
morning prayer; it was in his head all breakfast
time; it went with him to church, and at every
pause in the sermon, try hard as he would. the

oolish, profane lines would intrude themselves.

When he sat down to dinner to as grace, he
came very near re ting a verse 0 the so .
Wearied, at last, e thought totry an expo

   
Jack’s Snare.

 
ment. He went into his barn, and there sung1
the whole song in aloud, clear voice. That ‘di
the business,‘ as he expressed it. The devil had
his due, and anno ed him no more. He was
ableuto spend the ord’s Day in a proper man-
ner.

“ Suppose ou try the ex riment, uire ”
said Robert. y p6 sq ’

“I think 1 will," said the lawyer, “if I am
not cured by sleep, and I‘ll make you my father-
confessor."

“I was not seekin that ofﬁce, sir. I would
recommend Parson ndrews.”

“ Heaven forbid, Robert! The ood man
would send me forthwith to a lane ic asylum
as a penance. I hope for more mercy at your
hﬁiis'ilan d d Q

s try to o my du sir an pro or-
, tion the penance to the guilty, ’ p
“ Whewl" said the lawyer, and shrugged his
- shoulders. “I must be prepared for something
severe then.”

Countess was now stepping away at the rate
of one mile in four minutes, by Robert's watch,
which he held in his hand, and the two gentle-
men were etting interested—for the squire was
very prnu of his mare—when a wretched-look-

g woman, clothed in rags, with an old black
hood on her head, rose from a stone by the side
of the road, and extended a paper toward the
gentlemen.

The lawyer saw the woman, but was too in-
tent watching his mare to heed her. “ The old
woman must wait,” he said. She screamed out
at the top of her voice: “Take it, squire; you’ll
be sorry if you don‘t. It’s life or death to some—
body perhaps."

Robert heard the words, but the squire did
not, and drove on to the next mile-stone, where
he slackened rein, and allowed the animal to re-

, turn gradually to her usual pace. On looking
back; Robert perceived the old woman sitting
upon the stone from whence she had risen a mo-
ment before, evidently waitin for their return
to town. “ Suppose we drive ack and see what
the old creature wants," said Robert.

“ At the expense of a dollar to our pockets,"
re lied the la er. ,

‘ Perhaps so, ’ said Robert, “ but her manner
excited my curiosity.”

They returned, and Robert, being upon that
side, held out his hand for the paper; but the
old woman refused to give it to him, and hob-
bled round to the other side of the carriage.
“It is for you, squire, and you only.” she said,
and then turned at once into a little lane which
led into a piece of dense wood. The lawyer
tore oi! the envelope and Robert noticed a sud-
den pallor of his face as he road. He placed the
packet in his side pocket; and asked Robert to
drive on. “ I came out to resist the devil,” he
remarked, “ and now he certainly has appeared
to me in' the shape of that old woman. sup-
pose he can assume any form he pleases, can he
not, Robert?” ,

“ He sometimes aﬁpfars as an ‘angel of light,’
We are told. I thin e generally prefers a more
attractive form than that repulsive old woman.
If I am not mistaken, I saw a bit of scrubby
red beard under that old black hood!"

_ “A beard, did you say! Robert March, I

A

 
once ex lored a great cave, running miles he-
ueath t e surface of the earth. My light went
out, and for a moment I lost the thread Which
would lead to the entrance. I never shall for-
get that moment of perplexit and bewilder-
ment. I feel like that now. his old woman,
if woman it be (I have heard of women with
beards,) has given me an enigma to solve, and
strange to say, no secret thoughts—thoughts
which have never can clothed in s ch-will
solve this enigma. To-morrow, chart, to«
morrow we will talk this over. I will leave you
now at our boarding-house. By the way Mrs.
Ross wi 1 not kee boarders much longer, l sup-
pose? I am i that Helen Ross is so fortu-
nate. I Won er yqu didn't get ahead of James
Kent, Robert, and secure such a prize.”

“ I wish,” said Robert, “ that Helen Ross was
not so fortunate—in other words that she hadn’t
a dollar in the world."

“ And I wish,” said Squire Cushing, “ that
Judge Webb had been shipwrecked in the
Chinese Sea, forty years ago, and made a peace-
ful grave where ‘ pearls lie deep,’ as the poet
hath it.” With such strange Wishes the two
men parted.

Robert took his tea with Mrs. Ross. Helen
had not returned. Mutual congratulations
passed, for Mrs. Ross was very fond of Robert,
and had loved his mother. While they discussed
matters pleasantly and quietly over their tea,
James and Helen were riding home through a
quiet by-road, and Helen, with blushing cheek
and downcast eyes, was listening to those words
of love, which James Kent spoke in soft, low
tones, that thrilled the heart of the listener:
“ We need wait no longer, Helen. Your mother
can not new object to our engagement and our
speedy marriage. Say, Helen, shall it not be
soon? I want to take you away from this dull
town to sunny France—to the old world of our
school—day studies. We will spend a year there,
and see the storied castles on the Rhine that we
read so much about in our childhood, and the
cathedrals, gray with age, but full of the echoes
of rare music, and will tread the streets of Rome,
walking in the shadow of St. Peters, and over
the dust of the Cwsars. I want to whisper my
love in the old world and the new, on the land
and on the sea, in your own little home, and in
a palace of ancient Italy. Helen, say, will you
go with me?”

Won by his ardor, charmed by his passion,
moved by his tenderness, it is not strange that
the trusting woman forgot her romise to her
mother, pledged herself to James ent and per-
mitted him to place the ring upon her hand, the
Signet of her betrothal.

Robert March, noticing the ring, the next
morning, at the breakfasttable, remembered
the ride of the night before, and, in the language
gfls’pripture, “his heart was exceeding sorrow-

u .

 
At the same hour when Mrs. Ross and Robert
March were taking tea, when James Kent and
Helen were riding slowly home in the twilight
of the spring evening, talking of the bright
future before them and a year of. pleasure in
the old world, poor Aunt Lucy, havmg ﬁnished

her long day’s labor of shoe-binding, wrapped,

  
Jack’s

Snare. 1‘?

 
herself in her best shawl—an old merino that
had seen twenty years of servme, but was clean
and presentable yet—put on her black
straw bonnet and cotton gloves, and with
her basket on her arm, told Susan that she
was going to Horton’s to return her shoes
and get some more. “I have some errands
to do, ’ she added, “ and may not be back for an
hour, and you can read your Sunday-school
book while I am gone.” This was quite a
treat to the little girl, who had so few books,
and so little leisure to read. Before Aunt Lucy
left the house, she went into her bedroom and
opening a little wooden trunk brought up from
the bottom a small calico bag full of something
precious, for the old lady lookedat it very
tenderly, and fastened it with great care under
her dress. Then she knelt by the bedside and
prayed, and as she prayed, the tears trickled
through her thin fingers. She arose, wiged
them away, and went t into the street. he
kept her hand by her side, as if she feared the
little bag might escape, and walked very
rapidly to the shoe—shop, where she reﬁlled the
basket, and leaving it to be called for, she
turned into High street, and walked slowly in
the shadow of the Large elms that line that
noble avenue. Her head was bowed, and her
steps was not ﬂrm. Poor Aunt Lucyl the
trouble of the last week had told terribly upon
her frame, already weak from hard labor
and scanty food. She came to one of the ﬁnest
houses on the street. It stood on a rise of
ground which was neatly terraced, and )lanted
with choice shrubbery. A broad walk ed to a
side door, and thither the old lady bent her steps;
but she stood, doubtful, a moment, at the door,
and then, gathering courage, gave two faint
knocks with the brass knocker.

“ (Jan I see Squire Cushing?” she asked, of a
tidy colored irl who opened the door.

The girl to d her that the squire was at home,
and waited upon her into the library, a bright,
cheerful room, in which the candles had already
been lighted.

Squire Cushing had taken a. bath and dressed
for tea, which was on the table and waiting for
him. He was weary, hungry, and, if it must
he confessed, a little nervous. He wanted his
tea and the excitement of a pleasant chat with
his wife and daughter. He thou ht he would
see no one on business that nig t; but when
Chloe said: “ A woman is very anxious to see
you, sir," he thought of the old woman on the
turnpike, and curiosity led him at once to the
library. He was surprised to see Aunt Lucy.

“ I came,” she said, her voice trembling and
her eyes full of tears, “Squire Cushing,_to
know if you will defend my oor boy. I think
he is innocent, though everyt lnﬁ looks so dark
for him. I have brought you a the money I
have in the world,” and she took out the little
calico bag. “Here are a hundred silver dol-
lars. Ihave saved them for the days of sick-
ness and to buy my shroud and coﬂin, thatI
mig t not be dependent upon charity at that
time; but I’ll wil ingly die in the poor-house, and
have a pauper’s burial, if only Jack’s innocence
can be made to ap an”

The lawyer loo ed at the poor, worn face,
turned so pleadineg toward him; at the little

 
calico bag on the table, and then put his hand
in his side-pocket, to make sure that the packet
was safe.
“1 am sorry, deeply sorry for you, Mrs.
‘Ifuclygyut appearances are very much against
ac .

“ I know it, sir; but is it not possible that ap-
pearances may be against him, and yet he be
innocent?

“Ihave found such cases oftm in my 'rac
tice. But, if Jack is guilty, you \. ould not ve
him shielded from the nalty of his crime, even
if I had the power to o it?”

The tears ran down the poor old withered face,
but she answered decidedly:

“ No, sirl Jack has been a. wild, heedless boy,
but I know—indeed I know—he never com-
mitted this awful crime.”

“ You know, I suppose, that if a. man is ac-
cessory to the crime, even if he did not strike
the blow, he is considered legall guilty, and
will be punished accordingly. ow, are you
slure’that Jack knew nothing about the mur-

er. -

The r woman’s voice {altered as she said:

“ I t ink he knows more than he is willin to
tell; but Jack will suﬂ'er himself rather 1’. an
turn informer.”

“ That is wron ——all wrong, Mrs. Lucy. I
will see Jack. Ta e your money, and wait at'
least till I do something for you before you part
With your hard—earned money.”

When she had gone, the law er took the paper,
from his pocket and examine it carefully:

“ Look out for higher game: it is better to hunt
the fox than the partridge, and in your hunting-
Erounds there are deer, if you can onlgoget the

ounds. xun."

“ Come, husband, our tea. has been waiting a
long time. Come, forget business for a while,”
and a soft hand was laid upon his shoulder.

The reply was a kiss and an arm thrown
about her waist, and thus they walked to the
dinin -room. The room was pleasant, the
table right with silver and china, and fragant
with coffee and steak.

“ Yes, Carrie, I will forget all trouble and
business for this evening," and with wife and
dau hter, and aper and music, he exorcised
the emon that ad annoyed him so much.

 
The jail was a massive stone huildin , about a.
mile from the center of the town. ack’s cell
was neither damp nor ﬁlthy; his food was
coarse but wholesome, and be ad a Bible and
one or two other books. But the solitude and
the idlenem were terrible to him, and he fretted
so under them that he grew thin and pale.

It was new dark in the cell. Jack’s supper of
bread and water was still untouched, but he
had thrown himself down, hopeless of any re-
lief, and trying to reconcile his mind to the ter—
rible death which he thought was before him,
for he was sure he could not clear himself from
suspicion. The key turned in the door and his
aunt stood before. him. “ Jack, I have been to
Squire Cushin 1”

“Well, did e tell you I was a poor, miser-
ablpﬁiogjanlgvhe hoped they’d hang me?”

o

‘ . ac ,
“Well, if he didn’t say so, Iam; and if it

 
1 8 Jack’s Snare.

 
were not for the disgrace to you and the girls,
I’d like to be hung tomorrow. ‘

“ Jack, Jack, don’t talk so. No. the squire
was very kind, and there was something in his
manner that led me to think he is not so certain
of your guilt as the rest of the world. He is
coming to see you to—morrow.”

For a moment Jack’s eyes bri htcned, and he
looked eagerly at his aunt; but he next instant
the cloud returned, and he said: “ Aunt, it is of
no use. The more I say, the more guilty I shall
appear. Squire Cushing can’t clear me.”

“Jack,” said the poor aunt, laying her hand
upon his shoulder, “ I would die for you; you
know how gladly I would take your place in
this cell.”

“I believe you, aunt; but I am unworthy of
your devotion.”

“ Will you tell Squire Cushing all you said,
all you did, and where you were, on the night or
the murder, for the three hours you were away
from home?”

Jack did not reply.

“ Jack, my boy, I don‘t ask you to tell me, but
I ask you to tell the squire, and I ask it as it I
were on my death-bed, and were making my
last request-for your sisters’ sake as well as
for your own.”

Jack looked at the poor, broken-hearted wo-

man, and thought of all she had suffered for
him. He hesitated a moment:
‘ i,‘ Yes, aunt, I will for your sake and the
girls’ sake,” and just then they came to lock up
the jail [or the night, and Aunt Lucy went to
her sad home.

 
CHAPTER V.

ON THE RIGHT sanr.
THE town of Norbury is very well laid out
the original settlers evidently having a regard
to health and some love of order. The streets
slope to the water’s edge, and the broad, deep
, gutters carry to the river the melted snow in
winter and the rains of summer. High street,
which runs parallel with the river, and over-
looks the lower part of the town, is a. broad,
beautiful avenue, adorned with venerable elms,
which ﬂing their shadows over well-built but
antiquated houses, surrounded with lawns, and
indicating, by their appearance, opulence and
comfort. Upon this street there is a rk, in
which isa large pond, the delight of eye in
‘ winter and of all classes of population in the
heat of, summer. Norbury is a quiet old town,
with some traces left of its more thriving days,
when its merchant-princes sent ships to Canton
and Calcutta and its learned divines and erudite
schools were linown in the old world and the
new. Its ancient glory has departed, but it
still is a pleasant home for those who, weary of
the whir of city life, like quiet sea-bathing and
old-fazhioned ways. There is some business
done there et, and every day vessels leave for
the West ndies, or our Southern ports, and
little ﬂeets go annually to the ﬁshing-grounds of
our northern seas. Water street, running by
the river-side, is. at some seasons of the year,
quite lively; but the number of liquor-shops,

sailors' boardiu -houses, tobacconists, cho
houses and the li e, render it no pleasant wal ,
especially in the season of ﬂsh-curing—in which

 
occupation many of the dwellers in the lower
part of the street are employedl

In the lower part of a sailors’ boarding-house
on water street, was a small shop for the sale oi
books, writing-paper, pen-knives, pocket—books,
and many other similar articles, which sailors
often buy and put away in their chests when
going on a long voyage. It was a low, dingy
place, and directl overhead was a room where
sailors’ ready-m e garments were sold, and a
red shirt and tarpaulin hat were hanging from
the window. In a dark, small room in the rear,
two youn men were sitting. during the same
evening 0 the day on which the will was read.

It was nearly midnight. James Kent had
taken the night train of cars, and was on his
way to Boston; the moon had gone down, but
he sat by the window and looked out into the
starlight, and upon thlzebroad salt meadows,
over which the night—b zes came laden with
the smell of the sea, and he longed for the hour
when he should be sailing over that sea with his
betrothed.

One single candle burned in the back room of
the stationer’s shop, but the wick was lon and
covered with shrouds, and its light scarce y re-
vealed the features of the two occupants. One
was in black clothes and rather more carefully
dressed than usual for a frequenter of this part
of the street. But Kitto Kent had been to the
old brick mansion to hear his uncle’s will read,
and had not yet laid aside the mourning suit
worn on that occasion, and his hair and whiskers
still showed the handiwork of the barber.
Kitto had 3. ve expression of face (almost all
miserly peop e have). and he sat by the table,
leaning one arm upon it, and looking his com—
panion in the face with an eager, anxious ex-
pression. as it he feared to lose one word. His
companion wore the dress of a sailor—a pea-
jacket, loose trowers, and a red shirt, the collar
of the same tied with a black ribbon, very loose-
ly, exposing the throat, which was thick and.
red. An old cap, that had seen much service,
covered his head, but was pushed over to one
side, showing a mass of thick. unkempt, sandy
hair. He had whiskers of the same dull, red
hue, short and stubby. The light was dim. and
he sat with his back to the table, so that Kitto
had only a side view of his face. His hands
were in his pockets, and he leaned back in his
chair in a very nonchalant manner, quite in
contrast to his companion’s attitude of unrest.

“ I say, Kit I won’t take off one cent. It’s
ﬁve thousand down to-night or to-morrow mom-
ing. 1 shall go to Boston and ship fora lon
voyage this week, it 1 get the money, and it
don’t get it, you’ll be sorry. Where's your bro-
ther? Too much of a gentleman, hey, tocome
down here to see me, to-ui ht.”

“ James has gone to Bo n!”

“ The dogs he has!” said the sailor, roused
somewhat from his apparent indiﬁerence.

“ You needn’t be alarmed,” replied Kitto;
“ he’ll be back in three days. His lan is to be
married, if he can persuade Helen 038 to com
sent to a wedding so soon after the death of my
uncle; if not, he will go abroad by himself, and
remain a year in Europe.” v

The sai or did not reply for a moment, but
put his hands deeper into his pockets, and whis-

 
' i
,1

    
Jack’-

Snarec ' I 19

 
tied. The other watched him narrowly, and
said: “ Under the circumstances, it seems to me
you ought to take less. I’ll give you a thousand
down, to—night.” and he opened a small trunk
and laid upon the table a hag of gold, and pro-
ceeded to count the contents. The sailor did
not remove his hands trom his pockets, but
wheeled his chair round a little, so that he could
see the operation.

“All right,” he said, as the little piles of
eagles and half-eagles lay before him. “Now
count me out ﬁfteen hundred more and you
will be all ri ht. 1711 run my risk with James.”

“I can’t o it,” said Kitto as he graspeda
ten-dollar piece in his hand; ‘there’s no more
here. as you can see b the empty bag.”

“Your note will 0; it will begood at any
bank now,” said the sailor, coolly.

“ You are rather hard, as I said before, under
the circumstances. To be sure you brought the
ship in, but the cargo was of small value com-
pared to our expectations.”

The sailor laughed—a coarse, low chuckle it
was, and not %leasant: “Hal hal You are a
cautious chap it, and always were lon -head-
ed. ‘Ibro htthe ship am Yes, I di . Ha!
ha! but. if was ca taiu, I had a ﬁrst-mate to
that ship. You cant dispute that, and we’ll
sail in the same shilp onalonger vo age, per-
haps, my mate!" an be leered at itto and
chuckled again that low, hateful chuckle.
“ What do you say, my hearty?”

Kitto said nothing, but looked at his compan—
ion with the same eager look as before, as if he
would fathom, if possible, the lowest depth of
the sailor's heart. The sailor did not notice this
look, but, with his hands in his pockets, which
he had removed only for the purpose of utting
a fresh quid of tobacco in his mouth, e now
aimed at a. barrel of waste paper, and, having
“ hit the mark ” with tobacco-juice, to his satis-
faction he rose, and to the surprise of Kitto,
thus held forth: .

“Kitto Kent! once for all, that money, or
you and I sail again in the same ship. You are
a tight one, everybody knows, but ﬁfty thou-
sand dollars Will be a fortune in Norbury.
True, ,y‘pn expected four times as much. I can’t.
help 1; t. I ve been knocked round the world
till I don’t much care when I’m knocked out of
it; if I had my choice, I’d rather be swung out
by m shipmates, and have a ‘ Heave hoI’ for a
bone iction, than a land~funeral, with mourners
in long toggery, and a person to mumble pray—
ers over my grave. But it don’t much matter.
after all. I say, ‘Live well, it you die poor.’
Now, my mother hasn‘t the sweetest temper, as

on know, and there’s no love lost between us;

ut she is my mother, nevertheless, and as I
never expect to see her a ain, I’ve anotion to
leave her some money. ow, you didn’t hear
her name in the will, did you, or don't you
know all that is in it? Perhaps. you didn’t hear
it all!”

Kitto moved uneasily in his chair‘ the con-
versation was not pleasant to him. 'l‘he sailor
Went on:

“My ship will sail this week for Columbia
River. I know where toﬂnd James. Pay me
ﬁtteen hundred more and I’ll give you a receipt

in  I’ll call here to-morrow morning for

the last time, and if I don’t ﬁnd the money
ready, then pcrchance you and I will take a
voyage in the same ship again. Good—night,”
and the sailor went out of the shop without look«
ing back.

When Kitto was left alone he opened the
little trunk and counted over its contents.
He was not satisﬁed with the result; he was pale
and haggard, but he did not seek rest, and
walked the room, or sat and leaned his head
upon the table all the night. Tho candle had
burned down, and was sputtering in the socket;
the light of early morning was struggling
through the small, dingy window, when Kitto
Kent rose, took all the money from his box and
fastened it in a leather belt round his body, and
went out into the street, taking the direction of
the chain bridge, which crosses the river north—
east of the town. After walking perhaps half a
mile, he returned, rc-entcred his room and
wrote upon a slate near the door: “Gone to
Rowle ; will return tomorrowﬂ’ he then de-
posits the key where the shoprboy would ﬁnd
it, and went out again, but not toward Rowley.

James Kent was in a luxurious chamber in
the old Tremont Hotel, Boston; he had ordered
breakfast at ten, in his own room, and was
meanwhile occupied in writing a long letter to
Helen Ross. Ro ert March had taken break—
fast at an early hour, as usual, with Mrs. Ross
and Helen—the latter looking fresh and lovely
in her neat iugham morning-dress, and was
social with ohert, more so than usual, he
thought, and he understood why as he glanced
at the ﬁlain gold ring upon her engagement ﬁn—

er. e was not in a ﬁt mood to do business

was not much to be done, as Mr. Cushing was
not to be found.

came out, about nine o’clock, of the door of a
sailors’ boarding—house on Water street, a. little
unstead in his gait, and we}?r careless in his
dress. e made his way to itto Kent’s shop,
and found a little boy waiting upon two sailors
who were buying some penknives. He inquired
for Kiito, and on being shown the slate, swore a
terrible oath, and staggered to a chair, where he
sat down, and letting his head full upon the
table, fell asleep. He did not Lear the remark
of one of the sailors who knew him: “What,
old fellow~half-seas over so early in the day i”
Failing to rouse him, they went out and left
him asleep.

 
“ Where’s the squire this morning?” “ Squire
in?” “ What has become of the squire?” These
were the changes rung in Robert March’s ear
for some hours. It seemed as if everybody
wanted the squire, just at the time when he
could not be found in his house or ofﬁce. But,
there helwas, locked up in his private room that
opened into the oﬂice, and heard all these in—
quiries, and still sat in his arm-chair smoking
his cigar, once in a few minutes taking it from
his mouth, knocking a little of the white ashes
from it, and then dropping into. a reverie and
forgetting even, for a few minutes, to put it
back again. Then he would pnﬂ’ again vigor-

 
ousg for awhile; a second cigar followed. and
all

g ,
that day, though, fortunately for him, there

The sailor, with whom we parted at midnight, .,

e time the lawyer kept up a terrible think-

  
90 Jack’s Snare.

ing. As the smoke of the cigar curled up and
passed away, the smoke from his thoughts clear-
ed also.

“ I wonder,” he said to himself, “ that such a
horrible thought should ever enter my mind

. after seeing the bloody corpse. No woman’s
hand dealt that blow. Why, a common police-
man knows a wound inﬂicted by a woman, and
I should not have shown myself more ignorant;
and yet—and yet, a will was there the day be-
fore the murder, and was not there afterward—
a will just like, in all its provisions, the true
document which I had in custody! The old gen-
tleman was right in his suspicions: some one
had opened the safe, and knew the disposition
made of the property. Poor Kent has the sini-
plicity and kindness of a child, and the courage
of—a hare. We’ll put him one side. No \voniun
wielded the heavy club that broke with one
blow the skull of the sleeper; We will send that
horrible thought to its lying author. Some vil-
lain, desperate for money; but who admitted
him into the house?”

The reader Will remember that Judge Webb’s
room and that of the housekeeper were sepa-
rated by an entry, and that the only window in
that entry was securely fastened, and found so
after the murder; but the door, which had a
lock and bolt, was unfastened and left open, the
murderer having entered bya window in the
rear, and through the door, which must have
been designedly left open. Jack Cheever, no
doubt, knew the house—had often been there,
and the handkerchief and boot were presumpv
tive proofs that he was there on that ni ht.

Now, the law er knew better than litt e Willie
the power an the weakness of circumstantial
evidence' he knew what a high authority in law
has laid down: “ Until it pleases Providence to

ive us means beyond those our present facili-

ies aﬂord, of knowing things done in secret, we

,must act on presumptive proof, or leave the
worst crimes unpunished.’ Then Jack was

‘ poor and sometimes reckless; the old man’s

money-chest often had been talked about

‘ among the boys, and Jack might have been

tempted to the great crime. Still, the lawyer
was slow to believe him guilty. The very fact
of his goin back to his own home and bed was
evidence in is favor. Then everybody thought
him guilty, and the lawyer, with his practice’of
looking on the other side, wanted to make them
out in the wrong. Thus he kept on thinking,
till, in the middle of the third cigar, he suddenly
threw it aside and walked out, to the astonish-
ment of Robert, who had not known he was in
the building. “The squire in?” he inquired of

Robert.

The latter replied, laughing: “ No, he is en-
gaged with a. client from a far country.”

‘ Ayl ayl my boy.” said the squire, “I have
no confessions to make. Do you remember
when one of the old monks was tempted by the
devil in the shape of a wmnan who appearei in
his cell, he heated the tongs red-hot and applied
them to her nose. Well, I have met, resulted
and conquered my tempter.”

“And shall have your reward,” said Robert,
handing him a check, which had been brought
in b a client for services rendered.

L“ ames,” said the squire to his ofﬁce boy,

 
“bring the horse and chaise round. Robert, I
shall not be in the ofﬁce today. Any business
that needs my attention must line over till to-
morrow.”
squire, in a few minutes afterward, was in Jack
Cuuevor’s cell.

“Now, Jack,” said the lawyer, “I do not
think you murdered Judge Webb, but ou—”

Before he could go further, r ack, who
hadn’t wept since his mother di , when he was
a mere child, bowed his head, and the tears
ﬂowed freely.

“ Squire Cushing, God is my witness, I would-
n’t have hurt a hair of his old head.”

The wary, world-wise lawyer had heard just
such assoverations of innocence from criminals
guilty of the worst crimes but he looked at
Jack, and said Within himself: “ I defend this
poor follow." He went on, however, with his
sentence, apparently not noticin the tears or
the remark: “ but on will pro ably be hung
for it, unless you c oose to make a full confes-
sion. There is strong resumptive evidence
against you; the community demand that some
one should suffer for that crime, and suspicion
attaches only to you. A full confession will not
injure another, for the real culprit is, before
this time, beyond the reach of the law. Your
confession may save yourself from death and
your broken-hearted aunt and your little Sisters
from great sorrow and disgrace worse than
death.”

Jack thought a moment and then asked:

“ Did you say, squire, that the real murderer
would be beyond the reach of the law by this
time?”

“ Of course, unless he’s a fool, or insane.”

Jack took from his pocket a ten dollar bill.
“ Squire, do you think I’d murder a man for
that?"

“ I can not think so, Jack.”

“ I believe you, sir; but take it— leasetake
it from me; it urns in m pocket. suppose I
did help to murder the Oli man for that. ’

“ But, Jack, wh at did you say just now?”

“ The truth, sir. "

“ But, don’t you know that the accessory is as
guilty as the princi ill?”

“ I don’t know w at you mean sir' but I su
pose I did hel to murder the judge for ten do -
are. But if am going to confess, I might as
well begin at the beginning and tell you all I
know about it. My story is short.”

“ Tell the whole,” said the lawyer a little
more stern and short than before, inhis man-
ner.

J ack’s confession was very brief ‘ and the only
remark the lawyer made when he heard it. was:
“I’ll be here again to—inorrow, Jack. I must
go now.”

The lawyer drove immediately to the police
station. and said to the chief: “ You know the
old Currier house, on the turnpike?”

“ Yes, it is not occupied now."

I“ I‘ll send the key to you in the course of ten
minutes; I want you to take a small force, well
armed, and have them secreted in that house. Be
cautious about attracting attention, but be on
the watch. 1 will ride ast there early this
evening. You are aware go there almost dail
to see my farm. If you see an old woman with

g

The chaise was brought, and the.

 
1.?"

l
l
i
41.
ii
i

 
i
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i§

 
Jack’s

Snare. ’ 2 1

 
a. black hood and along gray cloak sitting on a
stone by the roadside, keep a close watch upon
her movements. She may give me a. paper
when I ride that way. Arrest her immediately
after that. Be on the alert; don’t let her es-
cape, and be secret in your movements. Make
no report to the paper of your doings.”

The lawyer, havmg ﬁnished his morning’s
work, went home to dinner, rather satisﬁed
with the result of his solitary thinking. His
evening ride was taken alone; the result ex-
ceeded his antic‘ ations. The old woman was
there again upon he same stone, and presented
him a paper as he passed. The lawyer took it
and rode on; but he was not out of sight before
the capture was made, though the attacking
party had hard work of it, for the old woman
proved to be a man armed to the,teeth, and two
of the policemen were severely wounded.

The paper read as follows:

“ Offer a. reward large enough (ﬁve thousand say),
and you will be ut upon the right track. and aston-
ish t e town.— oxen, for the last time."

That very night the squire was on his way to
Boston, slee mg soundly all night in the cars,
and ready or an early breakfast at his hotel.
When that meal was concluded he turned to
his memorandum-hook—“ John Green, schooner
North Star, Henderson, master.”

“ Now for a journey to the North S‘ar.” 0r-
dering a cab, he gave certain directions to the
driver which were implicitly followed, but they
didn’t lead to the North Star. Three or four
hours were spent in a fruitless search, till
toward night it was ascertained that the North
Star had actually moved southward, and Cap-
tain Henderson with her, and was by that time
in Havana. But the lawyer found out the
owner of the North Star, and learned that a
swift clipper ship was to start immediately for
Havana, and thither in this same clipper, went
an a cut for Squire ushing to Havana.”

“ on say your schooner, North Star, came
into port on the tenth of April?” asked the law-

er.
y “Announced at sixA. M. and was lying at
the wharf by ten A. in, April 10th.”

“ All right.” said the lawyer, “ come and
swear that before a magistrate.”

Squire Cashing was enjoying his dinner at
six o‘clock, when James Kent entered the din-
ing-room of the Tremont, and seated himself
opposite the squire. He had ordered supper be-
fore they recognized each other.

“ Hal ou hero, James? Glad of it; want to
see you: ut it is no place here for what I have
tosay; but I think we are on the right track
now. But, never mind, we’ll talk of something
glee,” he said, as he observed the waiters near

no.
They talked upon indiﬂerent subjects, and at
the c 089 of dinner, the judge whispered to
James: " Come to my oﬂice as soon as you re-
turn to Norbury," and then he whispered a
name which made James start back and turn

le. “No wonder it takes you by surprise;

at, on second thought, it is what we might have
expected from such antecedents. But come to
my ggioe and we will consult what steps to take
DPX . ,

Joules Kent bowed and replied, “I will call

\

 
at your ofﬁce, squire, as soon as I get home.
When do on start?”
“ I shal go in the earliest train— ﬁve o’clock.”
“I can’t get off till the noon train,” said

 
James. “ Good—evening, sir. I will see you to-
morrow if possible."
CHAPTER VI.
THE BLOW.

DICK LOUD—form readers may have already
reco nized, in the ol woman wit the scrubby
red eard, the sailor whom we left asleep in
Kitto Kent’s shop—sat in his cell and blas hemed
God, and cursed himself and his own foo ishness
for coming within reach of that old fox of a law-
yer. He might have known better; and, what
added to his misfortune, was his powerlessness
to revenge. He knew well enough that Jack
was in the same building, but that was only
sorry comfort. Then he remembered that he
had been thrown into prison without even being
charged with crime. His disguise had been
stripped from him, the handcuffs put on, and he
borne foreibly onward without one accusation ’
of crime. His own guilty conscience had been
his only accuser, and he now determined to
silence that. and demand why he had been thus
treated. When the keeper looked into his cell
at night he demanded to know why he had been
thus treated. '

“ Don’t know,” said the keeper. “ Squire
Cushing is responsible, and he generally knows
what he is about; if you are an innocent man,
you’ll not stay here long.”

Dick muttered threats of revenge, and the
kee r, surmising, of course, why he was there,
sai tohimself: “The fellow looks bad enough ,
to deserve hanging."

The matter was soon made clear to the pris-
oner by a visit from Squire Cushing, who en-
tered the cell unarmed and alone, though the
more cautious jailer stood sentinel at the door.
The lawyer looked at the coarse features and
sinister ex ression of the sailor, and felt sure
that he ha caught the villain. “ Dick Loud,”
said he. “ I arrest you as the murderer of Judge
Webb.”

“ You’d better prove. in the ﬁrst place, stkuire,
that I was in town. You’re a. little too fas , in
old lark; you can’t catch this old bird wit
chaff

“ We will not argue the matter, Dick. The
ewdence is strong against you. If you are not
guilty you will not suﬂer.’

“ I don’t want nothing to sa to you. s uire.
If I am hauled up here, it’s Hu hard and ones
can at me out: you’re no friend to me. or you
won dn’t have nabbed me up so quick, when I
was just handing a letter in a uiet way. When
I was the old woman, I can d have told you
something that would have made you open your
eyes, I guess; but you’ve lost the chance. I’ll
carry my news to another market.”

The lawyer left him, and Jones and Hubbard,
ﬁnding that, though his hands were dripping
with blood, he had plenty of money, undertoo
his defense.

It was now well known, that the two young
men, Jack Cheever and Dick Loud, were in the
County Jail awaiting their trial, which was to
take place in June. The people at Norbury

 
‘22

misck’s Snare.

  
slept more quietly in their beds, though rich old
men were more wary than ever in the use of
bolts and locks and the banks had an unusual
%uantity of plate and specie in their vaults.

oor Aunt Lucy and Susie sewed night and day
and denied themselves the common comforts oi
life, that they might have money to pay the
lawyer for Jack’s defense. The poor fellow be—
came more and more despondent, and the squire
was very cautious in encouraging any hope of
acquittal when he visited him.

 
Helen Ross was sitting at her window. She
saw the broad river where it gave itself, with
its wealth of waters, to the great, graspin sea,
and far beyond, where white sails dotte the
broad ex anse of blue, and where sky and water
blend. n open threepaged letter lay before
her, closely-written, and full of those words of
love. so sacred and so dear to the betrothed
maiden. He pleaded very earnestly that she
would consent to a speedy marriage; he would
likeaqulet wedding, with no guests save her
mother and his own parents. and then they
would leave for Europe. He named the very
day on which the steamer was to sail, and pleaded
eloquently for her consent, reminding her of the

ears that he had waited—of their love in child-

ood, and his own lonely life without her. The
heart of the white dove ﬂuttered, and she
thought of the mother who would be left alone,
and she hesitated. She leaned her head upon
her hand, and looked out upon the sea. and its
surroundings for some time. Then she read the
letter again.

She laid the letter aside and sought her mother,
and by such arguments as daughters know how
to use, she drew from her a sad, reluctant con-
sent. Then she returned to her room and sat
down to her writing-desk, with the white sheet
before her that whs to bear upon its pages the
words that would make James so happy, while
the mother retired to weep.

Kitto Ken t, the miscrly, unloved brother, was
wandering through green ﬁelds and shady by-
paths on that same day. The little shop boy
wondered why he did not return. Kitto had no
love for the woods and ﬁelds; he never gathered
wild—ﬂowers in his life, nor cared for ﬁshing and
hﬂnting. Still he lingered in a little, lonely

' farm-house, and made an occasional pretense of
fishing. “ A little too early,” said the old
farmer, who understood the business. Wearied
at last of his solitude, and thinking that, by this
time, Dick Loud would be on the sea, he re-
turned to Norhury; but, with his usual caution,
he chose the night for his return. It wasa dull,
gloomy night; there was a ﬁne misty rain. such
as is common by the sea at that time of the
year. No people were to be seen in the streets;
still Kitto looked warily at very turn. As he
turned into Federal street, he saw a light in the
chamber of the old brick mansion, where so
short a time since the terrible tragedy was en-
acted which made strong men turn pale. It
startled him at ﬁrst, and he aused suddenly;
but then, remembering that rs. Loud was yet
in charge of the place, he started forward again
a few steps. Then, as if changing his purpose.
be turned and passed into another street, and
reached the old shop on Water street by a more

    
circuitous route. The key was not in its hidin -
place, but he had another in his pocket whic
ﬁtted the lock, and he opened and entered the
gloomy little room. Everything was just as he
had left it and he was about to change his coat
for an 01 one which hung against the wall,
when anoise startled him. It s as as if some
one turned the key in the lock or the outer door,
but, hearing it no more, Kitto thought it his
own fancy, and went on changing his coat.
The next moment a. strong, heavy hand was
laid upon his shoulder. “ Kitto Kent, I arrest
you as accessory to the murder of your unc1e,

udge Webb!" As this was spoken, a second
ofﬁcer of the law slipped the iron handcuﬂs on
the paralyzed, unresisting man.

Both of these ministers of justice seemed to
have come out of the ground at his feet, so
$1lck, so noiseless had been their a preach.

itto spoke no word; the light of the ark-lan-
tern, which was now turned upon him, sh0wed
aface pale with terror, and he trembled like
one seized with a deathly chill. A carriage was
at hand, and he was lifted into it, for he was

werless to help himself. Ten minutes later

e, too, was in prison, an heard the heavy iron

door close upon him, and the grating sound of
the half rusted key as it turned in the lock.

The rain, which had commenced the evening
previous, still continued; it was the commence-
ment of one of those long northeast storms
which often come in May to dwellers on the sea-
board. These spring storms are very depress-
ing—the chilly air, freighted with the moisture
from the sea, penetrates to the very heart, and
as it continues to blow, sometimes without
change for a week at a time, it is very trying to
invalids and persons of nervous mrﬁperament.

Robert March was not an inv id; be was
walking briskly from his oﬁce to an early
breakfast—«for he still boarded with Mrs. Ross
—when, on turning the corner of one of the
streets leading into Federal, he saw before him
Helen Ross, walking with rapid, light step to-
ward her home. She woro a morning-dress and
shawl, with a plaln straw hat, and Robert could
not but notice her ceful, easy carria 'e and
queonly bearing. 6 overtook her and gged
to carry the large umbrella which she held.
Helen had been to the post-ofﬁce to deposit her
letter, making sure of its departure in the early

mail, for she knew the impatience of James at”

such times. As Robert and Helen entered the
door, the paper-carrier came by, and was about
throwing the paper on the step, when, seeing
them, he passed on without leaving any.
Helen smiled at the omission, and remarked:
“He thinks such early walkers must have heard
the news,” and Robert, who was ignorant as
herself of the morning news, called the man to
return. He did not hear; whereupon Robert
ran on a few steps and took a paper rather un—
ceremoniously from the man’s hand, and, with
a reproof, turned back without waiting for a

reply.

“Just as well, perhaps,” muttered the man
“ but she is a beautiful creature and gentle and
kind. I would have saved her this for a while
longer. It must cut close, for it is James Kent’s
only brother. ”

1

Robert March would hm auto: his right '

 
‘ beans»; ‘

 
Jack'-

 
Snu-e. 23

 
hand rather than have'given pain to Helen Ross,
and yet that same right hand was now giving her
,that which would, thenceforth, take away the
brightness of life from the heart that he would
so ladlv shield.

rs. Ross, Heleﬁ, and Robert sat down to the

breakfast-table. elen opened the paper, turn—
ed to the inside, lanced a moment at the head-
ings, looked at obert March for an instant,
with those large, dark eyes of hers, as he after-
ward ex reSSed it, as the poor wounded deer is
said to ook up when hopeless of escape, and
then she attempted to rise; the paper dropped
from her hand, and she would have fallen, ut
Robert was quick, and sprung to save her. He
laid her upon the sofa; her mother aiplied re-
storatives, and she rallied (iuickly. ising to
leave the room, she said, “ am better; don’t
come, mother-«I would rather be alone,” and
she went to her own room.

“What is it, Robert?" said the anxious
mother. The paper was already in his hand,
and he stood pale and speechless, unable to read
for, indeed, he was horror-stricken. The old
lady came and leaned over his shoulder and
read; she was calmer than Robert, and laying
her hand upon his arm, she said, almost in a
whisper: “ Robert, 1 hate feared this 1"

He turned his face toward her, on which was
written pain and astonishment.

“You feared this?” he repeated, as if he was
bewildered, and had not heard aright.

With her hand still upon his arm, as if she
trusted him and needed protection, she said:
“ A woman’s quick instinct sometimes discerns
that which man’s stronger but slower reason
fails to see; but I had hoped and prayed that I
might be wrong. Robert, the storm this morn-
ing is but the forerunner of a darker, longer
storm to my poor Helen. You will not forsake
us? Promise to be a brother to her and a son
to myself.”

Gladly would he have been more than brother
and all a son.

The excitement in Norbury was intense, and a
great many, perhaps a larger rt of the com-
munity, would not believe Kitto Kent guilty.
Lottie Cheever heard Willie read the arrest
from the morning paper. She stood as if sud-
denl paralyzed. with her large blue eyes ﬁxed
on illie,andI think she was actually more
horror-struck than when her own brother was
arrested. Every one but Willie shared the feel-
ing: be, naughty boy, as we called him, looked
almost exultant. ‘ Why, Willie," said my
mother, “ you cannot rejome in the wickedness
of such an ungrateful ne how?”

“No. mother," said illie, “only that the
real criminal is brought to justice. You know
what old nny Keezet says before a northeast
storm—‘ know it is coming, because I feel it
in myttiionesé’h tI ligvexfeg lttlnklxll‘ly bones for a
ong me a it on ew som '
 “m

on o r. out was dressi that morn—
ing he said to his wife: ng

“Sarah, how pleasant it is for a man to be
out of debt. Iam thinking every morning when
I wake that the one burden of my life has drop-
ped OR. I haven’t been successful in life, I
acknowledge it; and no man, unless he has trod-

 
den the same path of trying and failing, trying
and failing for thirty years, as I have done,
knows what a relief a comfortable annuity is to
such a man.”

“ You are contented with a very little,” said
his wife, “ and if you had only been more ambi—
tions and aspiring, I have no doubt my brother
would have given us more of his fortune.”

“ N o doubt; no doubt; you had ought to have
had a man like the Duke of Marlborou h; you
remember the name of his duchess was Sgarah.”

" I was a foolish woman, as all my friends
say, Mr. Kent; I might have married a rich
man; but. instead of that, it has been drurlge,
drudge, all my life, and likely to be so still. I
have to work as hard as ever. Don’t for at to
send Jim Hall to nail down the carpet. shall
have the Turkey carpet which was in my bro—
ther’s drawing—room put down in my parlor.”

This conversation took place in the Si! oping—
room of the Kents. Mrs. Kent seldom read the
morning paper herself, but her husband brought
it to the breakfast—table.

He did not ﬁnd it in the ball as usual. I think
the carrier, who had a kind heart, and liked the
old gentleman, rather hoped he would not ﬁnd
the aper till some friend had communicated
the information to him more (Luietly. But Mr.
Kent never allowed himself to e cheated out of
his paper, and be searched till he found it in the
front yard. He seated himself at table, adjust-
ed his spectacles, and read.

Let us dro the curtain upon that family
scene; upon t e patient, guiet, suffering of the
stricken father, and the oud, hysteric roans,
and shrieks of the frantic mother, who eaped
curses upon those who had so wrongfully ac—
cused her son. And yet, in the occasional lulls
of the tempest which swept over her, she re- -
membered her midnight reading of the will, and
the telling to her sons the next morning that‘she
had learned its provisions. She recalled now the
bitter oath which escaped James’s lips, and the
dark, stern look upon Kitto's face, and his
threat that Robert March should never enjoy
the fortune which belonged of right to others.
This memory was a dagger piercing her heart.

The grief of the poor, stricken father, was too
doc to ﬁnd relief in words or tears.

elen Ross wrote another letter on the same
day that she mailed one so early in the morning
—a letter written in sadness and tears—but thus ,
it ran:

“Mr Dun Juan—Think not for one moment
that the terrible misfortune which has happened to
your family will make any dilference in our hopes
and plans, as far as I am concerned. My heart im-
pels me to write to you, and say that I share in all
your sorrow. Even should your brother be found
guilty (which God forbid), I ho e to console and
strengthen you in this bitter t al. The shock of
this accusation will be terrible, and I wish that my
letter mi ht reach ou before the telegraph dis
patch. 'l cannot e, but believe me, my heart
bleeds for youl and I would gladly share the heavy
burden. our mother is overwhelmed, and can see
no one. I will go as soon as she permits me. Her

test consolation will be in seeing you. Come to
her. Ever yours, Hamid”

 
The Night Express train is swift! But. rapid

 
asit is, its as is snail-like to the impatient

Wager w o sits at one of the car-windows,

 
24

 
Jack’s Snare.

 
and looks eagerly out for the ﬁrst glimpse of the
great city to which the train is hearing him.
“ At last!” he exclaims to himself, for he has
caught sight of the city that never sleeps, and
, knows no peaceful night with its soothng shade.
The train moves slower as it approaches the de-
pot. He watches carefully, and as soon as the
rate of speed permits, he springs to the ground;
he waits for no baggage or expressman, but,
ettin" into the ﬁrst coach on the stand, he or-
ers t e driver to Jersey City ferry, where a
swift-sailing steamer is about to leave for Eu-
rope. She is there! He is in time! Safe! and
he takes his berth with a sensation of relief, such
as those only understand who have just escaped
a real: danger.
here is a letter waiting for him in the Boston
postcﬂlce. Yes, two; but he will not get them
—-thev will wait long, but, the owner never will
call for them. They are superscribed “James
Kent,” but, there is no James Kent now. The
gentleman who went on board the Africa, at
early dawn one day, looked like him—the same
hair and eyes, and light, agile ﬂ ure: but he
has booked his name as “ John orton.” The
‘Africa is not the steamer in which he hoped to
sail with his bride to Europe, that is not yet in,
and there is still time before its arrival and de-
parture for ample preparations for wedding and
voyage.

 
Kitto Kent is sullen and silent in his conﬁne-
meat. He makes no inquiry for his family, and
saving the one question: “ Where is my brother
James?” he has not spoken.

James Kent does not return home. Day after
day passes, and nothin is heard from him; his
mother is in a darken room, moaning bitterly,

‘ and reproaching those who arrested Kitto. H ar
husband utters no complaint. He does not show
himself in the street, but sits alone and stares
vacantly into the ﬁre (which has been kindled
on the hearth, for the weather is chilly) and
seems as if paralyzed h a heavy blow.

Helen Ross venture into the house. Mrs.
Kent refused to see her, but Mr. Kent rose from
his chair, when she entered his mom, came for-
ward to meet her, took both her hands, and
looking full at her pale, sWeet face, so full of
sympathy, said not one ward, but the tears
rolled down his cheeks. They did him good,
and relieved, for awhile, the weight that seemed
crushing him to the grave. Helen sat down by
his side and when he became calm, he asked in
a trembling voice but with a most, earnest,
anxious look: “ ave you any news from
James?” Helen shook her head; then her calm-
ness forsook her, and her tears fell also.

“It is only two days since—1’ she did not
ﬁnish the sentence.

“ Are you sure you had the right direction?"

Helen showed him the letter received on the
very day the storm commenced, and lead in
that last hour of sunshine. just as the clouds
were gathering for this dreary storm, and now,
as she looked back, she thought how the sun-
shine ot her life departed as these clouds
gathered.

“ We must be patient,” said Mr. Kent. " He
may have been out of the cigle, and our tele—
grams not have reached him. Will come in

b' .

 
the next train, and then all will be right a ain,
I hope. We must not despair. We will ope
and pray.”

His words were broken, and it was evident
that he was trying to comfort Helen. She saw
how pale, and worn, and wretched he looked,
and tried to be cheerful, and checked her tears.

“Oh, yes; I am sure he will come today.
I think he has been to New York. He will be
here—I am sure he will,” and the old gentle-
man looked at her and was comforted, Mr.
Kent went with her to the door, at her de-

parture, and she promised him that she would .

come again soon.

CHAPTER VII.
AT LASTI AT LAST!

JACK CHEEVER was making shoes in the jail,
and was actually heard by the keeper, one day,
whistling a merry tune. He was very quiet
and industrious, and though sure that not even
Squire Cushing could save him from the terrible
fate that awaited him, he had made up his
inind, he said, to live like a man while he did

we.

The trial was to take place on the ﬁfteenth of
June, Judge W—, from Boston, for the Gov-
ernment, and Jones and Hubbard for Kent and
Dick Loud. Almost every one felt a regret
that Squire Cushing was not on the prosecution,
and that he was merely, on such a trial, to de-
fend poor Jack Cheever, already pronounced
guilty by the community. The two law-ﬁrms
of “ Cashing,” and “Jones and Hubbard,” were
never more friendly than now, and I think,
from what I have since learned, that their will-
ingness to have the real criminals brought to
justice made them less zealous partisans than
usual of the maxim: “Every lawyer must re-
gard his own client as the injured man.”

There was great interest in the community as
the trial approached. In the case of Jack there
would be great difﬁculty in impanneling a jury.
There was a wide difference of opinion as to
Kitto Kent’s guilt: many were slow to believe
in the hardihood that could permit the murderer
to stand and gaze at his victim in the coﬂln, to
wear the habiliments of mourning, to go about
the streets and mingle with others in common
talk of the different theories of the murder.
Dick Loud excited no sympathy. Indeed, there
were many who en 'oyed the thought that the
timber was cut an dried, and the rope made,
that should rid the community of him.

The fourteenth came; but James Kent was
still abroad. The mother could hardly be called
sane, she was so bitter and reproach 11] toward
every one, scorning sympathy, and r fusin the
friends who would have ministered to her. oor
Mr. Kent rew thin and pale; his hair whitened,
his step to tered, his voice trembled, but he was
gentle and patient, and waited for the return of

is son.

Helen Ross waited, and Robert March saw,
day by day, the sweet patience that did not de-
spair, and the quiet sorrow which was vailed
under a calm performance of every- day duty.
Helen could not be i orant that her name was
associated with the ,ent family—that vulgar

  
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«Tuck’s— Snare.‘ \

  
eyes watched her whenever she went cut—that
busy tongues wondered how she could bear the
disgrace which had come to the Kents. But,
knowing this, she still went regularly to church,
and to her class in the Sunday—School, where
her pupils found her loving and kind as ever,
but pale and grave.

On the morning of the fourteenth. Robert
March breakfastcd, as usual, with Mrs. Ross and
Helen. The latter said to him as he sat a few
moments before going to the ofﬁce: “ Mr.
March, we must look to you for all information
in regard to the trial. Don’t heSItate to tell us
whatever takes place. We can bear it better
from you than from others.”

There was no one else in the room, Mrs. Ross
being in the kitchen. Robert saw then how
much Helen had suffered. She was pale and
thin, and the large eyes had a weary, drooping
look. The strong man could hardly repress the
longing he had to clasp her in his arms, and
beg her to forget all the gloom and horror
which surrounded her, and let him protect and
shield her. “ My poor, wounded dove," he said,
within liimself- but he had great power of re—
straint, and we 1 for his peace that he used it.
One word of love from his lips then would only
have added to her trouble.

Squire Cushing was busy in his private room,
and had been so since early morning. Robert
March was so full of business that he did not go
home at the usual dinner—hour. The ofﬁce was
silent for a short time, as most of the town's-
people dined at one o’clock. Robert, recollectin g
that Mrs. Ross, usually punctual herself, would
wonder at his long delay, had locked his desk,
and was takin oil? his ofﬁcecoat, when Jones,
of the ﬁrm of ones and Hubbard, entered hur-
riedly and with some excitement of manner iii—
quir, for Squire Cushing. The latter gentle-
man heard the inquiry, and recognizing the

' voice, came out.

“ I have just come from the jail, Dick Loud
committed suicide this morning with a knife
which he had concealed in his cell. I have his
written confession, corresponding with what I
had already gathered from him, and with what
he told Father Andrews, who visited him yes«
terda l“ .

“ e was the murderer, then,” said uire
lushin , with a look of relief, “ and young eat
is safe l’

“Not so,” said the lawyer; “ but we will
read, and you can Judge for yourself.”

Then Jones rea what, ut in better English
than the original, was as follows:

“ I, Dick Loud, now make my dying confession. I

4 know so well that I shall be hangedif I come to trial

that I prefer to die by my own hand, in private, to
making an exhibition of myself on the gallows, and.
as no falsehoods will do me anv good now, I shall
tell the truth. that the guilty only may suffer.

“ vii“! in own hand murder (1 Jud e Webb. I
used a clu , which I threw, afterwar , under the
church steps. into a hole which is under the low r
step. I used alsoasharp clasp-knife. I found the
old min aslee , and the moonlight lay in the room
and shone tn 1 upon vhe bed and upon his face,
which was turned partly toward the wall. I ave
him a blow with the club which made him sense ass,
then I stabbed him three times With my knife, for I
thought I had better make sure work of such a job.
Iraised the left arm once to wound nearer the heart,

 
then laid the arm back in its lace. I was induced
to commit this murder by ames and Kitto Kent,
who offered me ﬁve thousand dollars for the job.
They wanted to get a will and destroy it. This will
was in the iron chest and I carried it out to James
Kent, who stood at ihe corner of Hi h and Federal
streets. I came to Boston on the 1 th, in the brig
North Star, but did not come to N orbury till two
hours before I went to Judge Webb’s house. My
business was all planned for me in Boston by James
Kent. Everything would have gone well enough if
that cunning old lawyer had not had the genuine
will all sealed and signed in his emce. That knocked
things up terribly. Kitto Kent was mean and didn’t
want to pay down. James was scared and feared to
stay at home, and I got desperate mad because they
didn’t pa me as they promised.

“ Kit ent put the board to the chamber window,
and I got Jae Cheever to climb the board and look
into the window to see if the old man was aslee .
Jack never guessed what we were at. He thong t
it was only a little fun the Kent boys were u to. r I
went up to his house, and told him I‘d give ' ten
dollars if he’d take a peep into the old man’s slee -
in -room. ‘ No stea. ing, 'pon honor?’ he aske .
‘ I m not in for anything bad. Dick, t at you know.’
‘ Nothing of the sort. Jack,’ I said; ‘only a. bet with
Kit Kent, and you’ll oblige me very much. It's all a
joke. I assure you, so don’t refuse.

“ Jack was not suspicious after that, and he’s too
chicken-hearted for any such business as murder.
So he in t pulled his boots oﬂ? and ran u the board
like a cat, and when he came back he sai : ‘ The old
fellow slee 3 hard and snores loud. Now, what‘s
up, b0 ‘9? net let me know the joke.’

“ ‘0 , go along with you ’ said Kit Kent. ‘You
need not know anything about it."

“ I gave him the ten dollars, and he was of! with-
out one of his boots, which he couldn’t ﬁnd, for the '
reason that I had kicked it one side purposely, and '
I dropped the handkerchief with his name upon it.
I am more ashamed now of my treatment of r
Jack than I am for putting the old man out o the
way. But James Kent said that it would draw away
suspicion for a while fiom the others, and when we
were all out of the country We could save him by
writing and aﬁldnvits whic we would make. I
didn‘t understand it all, but James Kent has a Ion
head, and Ilet him do all the planning. Kit Ken
went into the house in the evening, and managed to
leave the hall-door open for me. I wasn’t much
afraid or Jack‘s turning informer, for he isn’t that
sort of a chap; and, besides, I meantto be out of
the way and on the salt water before many days.

“I help, on the word of a dying man, declare that . J
Jack Cheever is innocent as a bab of any knowl- "
edge or any share in the murder 0 Jud Webb.
James Kent knew the contents of the WI] , and de-
termined to get it into his ossession, while Kitto
Kent stayed near by while I id their bidding. ,

“ If he had not been so mighty mean about paying
me, I could have got off to sea and saved myself.

“ There is nobody to mourn for me but in mother,
and she never loved me overmuch. I in nded to
have made her comfortable in her old age with my
hard-earned money. but it is all over now, and I hope
she‘ll forget that I ever lived.

“This is all a true statement, so help me God!"

Squire Cushing heard this read with less sur-

rise than Robert March. He tinned to the

utter gentleman and said: ‘

“Robert, do you remember when I was so
troubled w1th the suggestions of the devil! Well ~
I was possessed with the idea that Mrs. Ken
was privy to the murder, and the very tho ht, -
was so horrible to me that I loathed myself or
entertaining it. I suspected, along time ago
that she knew the contents of the will, and i
was this suspicion that led me to pro to the .
judge to place the genuine documen in some

    
to look for aid. ,

86 Jack’s Snare.

safe depository out of his own hmse. I was re-
lieved when Dick Loud was arrested, for I felt
sure that he was bad enough to murder a man,
if he could be well paid for it. But, d2}; by dig,
the proofs accumulated against Kitto ent. y
most efﬁcient aid in my investigations is little
Willie Wood. He has traced the club to the
place where it was obtained. and has followed
the movements of Dick Loud and Kit Kent,
without suspicion, but with singular sagacity.
It was through information ained by him that
I caused Kent to be arrest . The boy has be-
lieved from the ﬁrst that Jack Cheever was in-
nocent, and his determination to ferret out the
guilt ones has led to his interest in the case."

R0 ert March heard the squire, or rather he
sat looking at; him as he talked, but all the time
he seemed to hear the words—“ We would rath-
er hear it from you than from an other one,”
and he, of all others, to tell her 0 Dick Loud’s
confession: “ James Kent was the one who

tanned the murder!” Such was the afﬁrma-
lion of the man who was about to take his own
ife.

Robert March walked slowly homeward at
evening. He would rather have remained away,
for he felt himself powerless to soothe the suﬂer—
ing which he feared to meet, but he knew his
longer absence would excite their fears, and he
resolved to o, hoping that he might not meet
Helen at ta 1e.

For the first time in his life he wished to avoid
her. Chance favored him. She had taken her
tea and gone to her room, where she was still
busy with her sewing.

The hour was late and Mrs. Ross was watch-
ing anxiously for Robert. When he entered,
her quick instinct detected in his manner and
expression that he had sad news to communi-
cate, but she controlled her feelings, and busied
herself in little attentions to his comfort. But
there was evident restraint on both sides. As
he rose from the table, Mrs. Ross, with the
familiarity which her position permitted, came
to Robert, and laid her hand gently upon his

arm.
“ It must be told, Robert; suspense is as ter-
rible almost, as sad reality."
“ break it to her gently, Mrs.”Ross. I fear it

'will be more than she can bear.

“Robert,” said the old lady, “ answer we one
question now. Is James Kent implicated with
his brother?”

“ I fear it will prove so,” said Robert, sadly.

“ My poor Helen] My poor Helenl Oh, God
be merelful to herl Give her strength to bear
this reat sorrow l”

Ro rt bowed his head, and with his whole
heart responded to this pm er. Then he told
her of Dick Loud’s death an confession.

When all was told, he said: “ Mrs. Ross, I
would to God Helen could be spared the knowl-
ed of this. May it not be?”

Ears. Ross shook her head. “No, Robert, she
must know it. sooner or later, and thank God
my child is stron to endure, and knows where
on know the promise: ‘ When
thou passest throu h the waters I will be with
thee, and through xthe ﬂoods they shall not over-
ﬂow thee.’ Don’t stay away, Robert, to-morv
row. Come to breakfast as usual. I know you

 
sympathize in our sorrow, and don’t fear that
we shall be reluctant to let you know we do
suffer. I lean upon on at this time."

“ But Mrs. Ross, am powerless now. If I
could bring back the smile to Helen’s face, and
the brightness to her eyes, God knows my heart,
I woul do it at any sacriﬁce to myself.”

“Don’t forsake us, then! Come to us every
day of the trial, and let me, at least, know the
proceedings.”

Robert promised, and returned to his ofﬁce,
thinking 0 the heavy blow which was about to
fall upon Helen, and he, turning from her, pow-
erless to protect.

I will not give a detail of the trial of Kitto
Kent. Our readers can easily understand the
train of evidence, and the people of Norbury
were astonished at their own want of acuteness
in not detecting the criminals sooner, but the
circumstantial evidence a ainst Jack Cheever
was so strong as to blind t em in their search
for the guilty.

Kitto Kent was silent and sullen. He had
scarcely spoken since his arrest, and manifested
but little emotion when told of the confession
and death of Dick Loud. He resigned himself
stoically to his fate, expressed no wish to see his
friends. His mother visited him, but her moans
and reproaches annoyed and at last angered
him, and he said, bitterly: “ Your foolish am-
bition has ruined your sons." It was too much
for the unfortunate woman to bear, and she was
carried to her carriage insensible.

The old gentleman came by himself in the
evening. Kitto rose up from his low bed as his
father entered, and took the trembling hand

‘which was held out to him. “ My son,” said Mr.
Kent, “if I had been a better father you would
not be here 1”

The stern, hard heart of the youn man melt-
ed, and he bowed his head upon ' father‘s
shoulder and wept.

“ Not so, father. If I had been as upri ht and
as free from avarice as yourself, I shoul not be
here. James led me into it, but I might have
known better.”

The hardest trial to hear was this—“James
led me into it.” James, the pride of his father’s
heartl James, the handsome accomplished
mung man, whom the father 1; ought so much

' superior, and who would, he fondly hoped,
honor his name and memory when he himself
should lie sleeping in death. No wonder he
looked old, and went with bowed head as he
passed from the prison to the outer world? He
went home sat down in his arm—chair by the
chimney-side, and waited—she was always wait-
ing now. James would come home and prove
his innocence; he was not guilty; no, he could
not believe it. He sat there alone, with one
hand on each arm of his chair, and with his
head inclined forward as if he were just ready
to rise. Some one did come, for a soft hand was
laid gently on his shoulder!

He turned his head a little, and Helen Ross
stood looking at him with such loveOand sorrow
as beams from pitying angels in their ministra-
tions here below. _

He arose and threw his arms caressineg
round her. “M. poor girl, you must not come
here; forget rat er “that such aswe have ever

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' Jack’s

lived. Your name must not be coupled with
our shame.”

She stood erect, looking queenly as she did so,
for few women had her tine physical develop-
ment. “ Not so, Mr. Kent; we suffer together
—we’ll wait together, will we not?” and, as she
spoke, she drew a seat toward him and sat down
by his side.

“ Yes, yes: we’ll wait together. There’s a
train at ten o’clock to—night, is there not?"

“Yes, there’s a train to—night,” she said, but
she sighed heavily. How many nights she had
listened for that train, and thought—“ he must
betherel”

But Helen looked no more now. She had not
lost faith in James Kent. Dick Loud’s word
was worthless, and Kitto was always jealous of
his brother, and never loved him. She did not
say this to others, but she consoled her own
heart thus: but she waited—not to see James in
Norbury—but for letters from him. He would
write to her, and, some time, when all this terri-
ble trouble had passed away, they would meet
and be happy.

Jack Che-ever was making a pair of shoes for
Willie and never were shoes made with a more
caref hand; the choicest pieces of leather and
the strongest thread were selected, and the shoe-
maker thou ht as he worked, of the kind-
hearted lit 9 fellow who had defended him
when all others had forsaken: and he said to
himself as he plied his aw]-—-“ He’ll remember
poor Jack when he lies in a dishonored grave,”
and perhaps he said to himself-“ he may come

.in these very shoes to the place that any one

else will shun because they will say it is a
murderer-’5 grave.”

Jack was ignorant, then, that in anothcr cell,
Dick Loud was a corpse, with the written con-
fession by his side, and little dreamed that,
while he sat at his work, happier in his leather
apron and with his lapstone than he had been
for many days, that they were carrying the
dead sailor to his long home.

Jack had a fixed idea that, having been at the
house of Judge Webb and, to all appearance,

(i deed, no lawyer could
clear him, and was trying to reconcile himself
to his fate and prepare or death. But, now
and then, a gleam of hope for a few minutes
would brighten his solitude, and then he would
break out In snatches of songs; he tried to recall
some psalm-tuues; but, poor fellow, he had not
been a regular attendant at the Sunday—school,
and his memory retained only two verses, that

bf he used to hear sung when a little boy, and one

of these was_so lugubrious he thought it made

- him gloomy when‘he ventured upon it.

Th”Earkl from the tomb a dolcful sound."
e other was associated with his mother’s
death-bed, and Jack thou ht it almost too sa-
cred for such a Wicked fel ow as himself. But
now and then, he ventured to indulge himself;
especially when he thought he was willing to
die, and just now the words:
“ When I can read my title clear,
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bid farewall to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.
Ono): ’s—And wipe my weeping eyes,
And wipe my weeping eyes 1"

 
Snare;

were rin ing in the cell, and .echoed by the old
stone wa ls when Squire Cashing entered:

“ Well, J tick—making shoes and singing?”

“ I don’t feel good enough to sing it often,
squire; my mother sung it just before she died,"

.7

and Jack choked a little, and bent his head over ,

his work.

" I remember your mother, Jack. She had a
very sweet face, and was a good wife and
mother; but she died young—a great misfortune
to her children.”

“Please don’t talk about her now, s uire.
Somehow, it seems as if her name mustnt be
mentioned in this place.”

“Jack, Dick Loud is dead!”

Jack dropped his aw], the lapstone fell to the
ﬂoor, and a look of blank hopelessness came
over his face.

Ah! how true it is: “Despair is never quite
despair.” Jack had, in his secret heart, in-
dulged the hope that Dick would tell the truth,
and perhaps the jury would believe him; but
Dick dead—then there was no more chance for

him, and the gallows loomed up before him in,

all its horrible reality!

He couldn’t speak; he made no sign; his arms
hung by his side and his eyes were ﬁxed upon
the squire. “ I have his confession here,” said
the squire, “ and, for once, I believe the rascal
has spoken the truth, for it agrees with your
own statement, excepting that he says he kicked
the boot out of the way purposely, that you
might not ﬁnd it: and dropped the handkerchief
because it had your name upon it. I think on
need have no more fear, J ack; your trial wil be
a more form, and you will be honorably ac-
qliitted.”

Two great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks,
as the squire spoke. 

“ I can’t help it, squire," he said. “ I don’t
know what it means,” and he wiped the tears
away with the sleeve of his jacket “Are folks
so glad sometimes that they cry about it?”

By this time the lawyer felt a choking sensa—
tion in his own throat, and he rose to hide his
emotion.

“ Don’t go—please don't go yet,” pleaded Jack.
“ I ought to thank you, squire, but I can’t ﬁnd
the words. I’m a poor scholar, you know."

“You needn’t try, Jack,” and the squire
turned and shook hands with him, as he stood
there in his grocn jacket and leather apron, and
thought within himself: “ This poor fellow that
has just escaped the gallows is more worthy to
live than many who are in kings’ houses and
wear soft raimcnt.”

“Please, sir, I should like to see the person,”

said Jack.
“ Right, and he’d like to see you.”

 
The court-room was crowded, and, as the trial

Erogressed, the public indignation against Kitto V

out increased daily. The saddest sight of all,

was when poor Mrs. Loud came in, clad in deep,

mourning, and testiﬁed that Kitto came in at
ten o’clock in the evening and bade hls uncle

“good-night.” Aftcl' he left the chamber, for.

the judge had retired, Kent removed the key
from the inside to the outside the hall-door,
and locked the door on the outside. She rose
from her bed, and, ﬁnding the door locked, sup-

88 Jack’s

 
Snare.

 
posed that Kitto had gone to bed in the cham-
er just the other side of the hall.

The judge’s charge to the jury was one of
the most solemn ever delivered in that house,
and few listened without tears. Kitto Kent
was one of the few.

The jury was absent from the court-room but

two hours. Every one knew the verdict which
must be rendered, and yet every ear was strained
to catch the answer as the judge asked the ques—
tion of the foreman; and when the word
“Guilty!” was pronounced, in a clear, decided,
but not loud tone. not a person but heard dis-
tinctly, even in the lobby, where the crowd
,hardly breathed, so intense was the stillness;
but/when the foreman had spoken there was a
slight movement in the audience, 11' e a Wave of
wind sweeping over the tall grass of the prairie.
The judge feared some demonstration, and
waited a moment in stern silence to repress it.
It was not necessary. Respect for the white-
haired father, who sat beside the prisoner, re-
strained even the rudest boy in that court-room
from any outward manifestation, and the crowd
passed out in silence and order.

Jack, of course, was called as a matter of
form, the nolle pros. was entered on the docket
and he walked from the court a free and not
dishonored man—everybody rejoicing at his de—
liverance.

 
CHAPTER VIII.
“PEACE ON EARTH, AND GOOD WILL 'ro MEN.”

POOR old Mr. Kent and his son arted in the
court—room on the day of the tria , and the old
man went to his desolate home to wait in his
arm-chair by the ﬁre. It was warm weather
but he wanted a. ﬁre built every evenin —-they
thought he was lonely without it. e never
left the house except to see Kitto. People didn’t
blame Kitto much for saying that he would
rather his mother would not come, for she was
sofullof lamentation and re roaches that he
was tenfold more miserable af rward.

My mother persuaded Helen Ross to spend a
few weeks with her on a little farm that my
father owned about twenty miles from Nor-
burly. I think Miss Helen was pleased to be
wit my mother. They read and walked and
rode to ether, and we had no company but
Robert arch and Mrs. Ross. Robert came in
anice little 0 n carriage purposely to bring
Mrs. Ross, thce while we were on the farm.
When we returned to town early in September,
the last act of the tragedy was over, and Kitto
Kent had paid the 1penalty of his crime.

Mrs. Kent was i1 with fever, and for some
weeks the doctor thought she would not live,
butastrong constitution carried her through,
and she rose from that sick bed the mere shadow
of her former self. She was, till the close of
her life, a querulous, fretful invalid. Day af—
ter day, month after month, and year after

ear, for ﬁve weary years, Mr. Kent sat in
bat arm-chair by the ﬁre, waiting—waiting—
always waiting. He sat with his head bowed
and his hands on the arms of the chair in those
hours of the day when the Boston train arrived
-at other times he read the Bible and his news-
paper. His mind was shattered and his health

 
broken, but the white-headed, childless old man ~ v '.
was very patient, and would often say: , V
“I have never been successful in life, butI *‘
struggled hard. None know but those who have
struggled and failed, how hard it is.” _.
The attendant went in to his room one day 
just as the whistle had sounded for the evening
train. The old gentleman sat as usual in his .
arm-chair, listening; as the door opened he ’3
tried to rise, but fell back; the servant sprung 
to his side, the weary head dropped; one short ,3
struggle, and the spirit was freed from the wan, ; ,
feeble body. . ‘3 ‘
Five years! They were years of shadowto '
other hearts than that of the poor old waiting
father. To Robert March the seasons were so
full of dumb, still pain that Norburybecame '
to him no longer home, and after two years of
suffering—of hoping against hope, be resolved ,
to leave it forever. His desireto be near Helen ,
his tender affection for her mother, who loved '5;
him asason—his he s of promotion through
aproifered partners ip with Squire Cushing,
all impelled him to stay; but, in his soul lays
shadow which nothing but essence might ban-
ish, if, indeed, it ever would go away. His
sainted mother had said he would and must 2
crush out the love he bore Helen, but what a 2
sacriﬁce it called for. Yet he must do it or I
perish. The sense of his loss of her he idolized f:
was becoming daily heavier to bear. To leave . ‘
Norbury. to plunge into the vortex of life else- .
where, to form new associations, to arousehis ,r ‘ .
ambition for professional distinction—in these  of
lay his only hope for peace of mind, and he re-
solved to take the steps ere it became too late. ”‘
The opportunity for a quiet escape came dur- ‘
ing the summer of the second ear succeedi
the tragedy. Sqnlre Cashing ving assum
the management of a heavy land—case which re-
quired his presence, or that of a trusted and
efﬁcient agent, at Chicago, depnted to Robert
the responsible task, and thither the young law-
yer repaired. Before the close of the year he
was involved in the whirl of the busy life which
rendered the then rising metropolis of the :“ '
West one of the noisiest and busiest of places. *
The spirit of the people, the incentive to exer- .
tion, the success which had attended his labors, ,
and the consequent position he had won at the
bar, all cons ired to conﬁrm his decision not to
return to orbury; and, the land case being :
closed up favorably, he wrote to Squire Cush- "
ing of his resolve to tarry in Chicago perma-
nant y. 7
“Please so inform, Mrs. Ross,” he added,
“ that she may not be expecting and arranging
for my return." . ,
“Just as I feared!” ejaculated the old coun— '
selnr. “ Bad case. He‘s a man of nerve, but he ’~
can’t face the loss of a woman. What a scoun-
drel that James Kent was, and—what a fool is .
Helen yet to cling to his memory! I have to '
believe there is something wrong in her heart if
this old tenderness continues, for it is not possi-
ble for a truly pure woman to love suchimpurity '
and haseness.” He paused, and remained long V.

wrant in thouggt. , r "
"I seeit,l iieve,” he at length said, half ,
audibly. “ Helen does not know how unworthy '

James Kent is of her devotion, and Robert ﬂ,

 
v;

 
 " memes,“ ‘

in of Robert.” And he closed his oﬂipe, walked
»‘ thoughtfully homeward, entered his library,
.. and, taking down a. printed re
r murder trial, began to add to it notes and sug-
/ gestions, asifto further elucidate some of its

1 3' both herself and Helen at home, seated before
; ' the cheerful blaze of the wood ﬁre which, every
‘ Winter, glowed upon the cottage hearth. Helen

‘ sive, illuminating nature which seemed to come

’ Ross,” the squire said, as he drew his chair up

, and her lips suddenly compressed, as it to still a

jeyes were riveted upon the ﬁre, and no sign ,

March has been too honorable to make the re-
": relation to her.

Jack'l

Snare. 89

 
If she does know how base he
is, and still reposes upon his base, bad love—all
Ihavetosay is, that she is totally unworthy
of Robert’s love, that is certain. This is not
quite the business of a lawyer, but it is my busi<
ncss as a friend to a noble, true man, to unde-
ceive Helen or rove her unworthy of such re-
gard as we all wear for her, let alone the love

rt of the Webb

ints.
poﬂe was greparing for a trial of James Kent
in which elen Ross should act as judge and
j —a cruel trial, but one which he had,never-
the ass, resolved should take llace.

Calling that evening upon rs. Ross, he found

never looked more beautiful. Her two years of
suffering had given her old sweet repose some—
thing of a severe air; but her native sweetness
of disposition seemed also to have dee ened by
her sorrow, and her sad smile was of t at diffu-

froin the soul, deeper, and purer, and more
abidih than the heart-smile, as it was.
“I ave word from Robert, to—day, Mrs.

so located that he could
uare y in He n’s face.
111 he not return soon?” asked the mother.
“His absence seems long to me.”
_ “How does it seem to you, Helen?” the legal
1n uisitor queried.
is eyes were bent full upon her, and a faint

blush ﬂashed over her face. but it was gone in
an instant. She answered: “ e was ever so
kind and attentive that we both miss him.
When does he return?”

“ Never!”

“What do you say, squire?" exclaimed Mrs.
Ross, half 3 ringing from her seat.
Helen sai not a word; but her eyes dilated

to the ﬁre, urposely
e

look i
i

great heart-beat.

“ He never will return, he says, having re-
solved to settle in Chicago.”

“ Did be send us no word i” asked Mrs. Ross.

“ He said, ‘ Tell Mrs. Ross of this, that she
may not expect me and be arranging for my re-
turn,’ " answered the squire, laying stress upon
the “ Mrs. Ross.” .

“ I am more sorry than words can express,”
the matron said, as tears ﬁlled her eyes. “ I
love Robert March—love him like a son, and
yet no claim have I on him." Her last words
were almost inaudible.

“He was very dear to me,” the s uire added.
“ I did not know how much I lean upon him
until he was gone, nor how deep was my re ard
for him until he wrote to me a germanent are-
well. And yet, Ido not deny t e propriety of
the stop he has taken. H18 life, here, was not
one of gladness. I think.” ,
He looked somewhat sternly at Helen, but her

 
upon her face betrayed any emotion within her
bosom, if emotion was there. The rin upon
her ﬁnger—that engagement ring, g istened
there as if to warn the lawyer not to press her
to an expression of feeling. But he would not
be warned.

“ Helen Ross 1”

He 5 oke the words sharply, and she turned
sudde y upon him, startled and expectant.

“ You drove him away!”

Her eyes gazed upon vacancy.

“ I drove him away ?” she said, slowly. “Was
it I, to whom he has been so true and kind? 1m-
possiblel I have been walking in a great
shadow, and his hand has steadied and 1guided
me. I have no friend so close as he. ave I
given him pain, and has he had to ﬂee from me?”
Pain was written in every lineament of her
face; her voice was as if speaking to the air;
and tears ﬁlled her eyes, streaming down over
her checks.

The lawyer, visibly affected, rose and paced
the ﬂoor.

“ Say no more, squire,” said Mrs. Ross; “leave ,
it for me to draw away the vail which has been
before her eyes, only too long.” Her woman‘s
intuition knew well what the counselor’s coarser
instinct, called 5 gacity, had failed to ap—
preciate—the pecu iar condition of Helen‘s
mind, which would have rendered her uncon-
scious to the nature of Robert March’s feeling
toward her.

“ Helen, my dear girl,” said the squire, laying
his hand gently on her head, “ there are degrees
of love as there are degrees of human excellence.
You have obtained the ﬁrst degrees, but have
not penetrated to the hights which lie beyond,
where those alone can dwell who love virtue,
goodness, truth. None of these have you Wor-
shiped in the idol you have made-mot one of
them—not one! I have a solemn revelation to
make to you, my child. Come to my library to-
morrow, if, after your mother talks to you to-
night, you care to know the whole truth, and
to act from a nobler, purer, more sacred motive ‘
than has controlled you in the past. Be just to
yoilifself—be just to others, and all will yet be
we .

He took up his hat and was gone. ‘ Neither
mother nor daughter stirred for some moments.
Rismg from her chair, and dropping on her
knees before her mother, Helen said:

" What does it all mean, mother? I am stun-
ned, frightened, confused. Tell me all.”

Mrs. Ross did tell her all—how for yrars
Robert March had loved hen-how he had not
only forborne to express it, but had actually bid
it—how he had contributed to and studied her
happiness alone, regardless of his own desires——
how he had suppressed from her all knowledge
of the baseness of the man she had loved, and
shielded her in the hour of her trial, and now,
ﬁnding her still unmindful of his devotion, he
had at length gone away to suffer in loneliness—
alone. Not a word did the daughter utter
through all the revelation. ﬂights and depths
of feeling opened before her which she had, in
her blindness never suspected; and her heart
throbbed with a keener  than it had
evernknown at the thought 9 such mriﬂce tor

' .x'

 
80

Jack’s Snare.

 
How Helen wrestled with that night’s vistants
never will be known. She came down early the
next morning, as calm as ever, but paler and
more sad. Not a word was said of the subject
uppermost in both minds all day. When the af-
ternoon came she simply said, “ I am going,”
and passed out to seek the sqmre in his library.
He was there, awaiting. His eyes brightened at
her appearance. but the pallor and deep sadness
of that impressive face rendered him less hope-
ful as a man but more professionally resolute to
discharge a painful duty fully.

“ I am prepared, Squire Cnshing, for any rc-
velations you have to make,” she said coldly.

“ The revelations I have to make are not new
to the mass of our townspeople, though new, I
fear, to you. I cannot conceive it possible that

on are aware of the true character of James
ent. It is so foul and black that to my come
men-sense View it savers of sympathy with foul-
ness and blackness to aﬂiliate with it. If you
have loved only what is pure of the man, read
that document and see, with an unbiassed
judgment, how little there is of purity in his
nature.”
t  placed in her hands the report of the Webb
ria .

” That you may not be hurdeded with reading
all the evulence elicited, I have gone over the
report and marked such portions only as you
will care to examine, adding such other remarks
to each point as will fully elucidate its hearing.
I will necessarily be absent for an hour during
which time you Will here be alone and undis-
turbed. When I return I will lay before you
certain other points of evidence which I was
able to suppress. but which you should know.”

Helen was left alone—face to face with a ter-
ror which might well appall a woman’s heart.
Her idol was to be shattered—her dream of love
dISsipated—her past to be repudiated as wasted
and lost, and her future—what of it?

The judge returned to find her wrapt and
overshadowed by her great sorrow—

“ Calm and cold and still as clay."

“Oh, squire, this is horrible—horrible!” she
exalaimed.

, “ Horrible, indeed, my child; but not so hor-
rible as it would have been had you become his
wife. How near you came I know. Here are
the letters you wrote to him directed to the
Boston post-ofﬁce; they were never called for.
Even before this ﬁrst one arrived, in which you
pledged yourself to become his wife at once. he
was a fugitive; under an assumed name he ﬂed
to Europe, as I have ascertained, and never
more will be known as James Kent. His whole
design. I will now say, was to marry you at the
last moment in order to et possession of your
share of the property—w ich he would have
sold at once and have lived in Europe upon its
proceeds, and you, even if he had taken you
abroad, would have led a life of misery, for
such a man would have made even your person
contribute to his haseness, if it were possible. ”

“ I do not care to hear more, now,” she said,
rising. “I am crushed to the very earth by
this sad hour’s testimony. That I can not at

‘ once root. out from my heart all the tender
memories thereis human nature’s weakness;

 
butI fully see the chasm u on whose brink I
have been standing, and that have escaped de-
struction is, to me, a cause for thanks too dee )
for words. I thank you, squire, for your kin «-
ness in this matter and here, in your presence,
I destroy the visible sign which binds me to the
ast.

p She arose, and slipping the ring from her
ﬁnger, placed it upon the gleaming coals in the
grate.

“ thus destro the signal of my bondfo an
unworthy man; nt, alas! that I cannot con-
sume with it, the memories linked with it.” ,.

Helen returned to her home like one walking
from a horrible dream. It was months—many
months ere perfect peace of mind came to her.
During the summer Mrs. Ross’s health visibly
failed, and as the fall season approached it was
evident that her end was not far 01!. Helen’s
anxiety became intense. A longing for a.
strong arm to lean upon Igrew stronger as the
invalid grew weaker. ever had Robert
March’s name been mentioned by mother or
daughter, save by incidental references to some-
thing in the past; but, now that Mrs. Ross be—
held the coming great change, her desire to see
him once more 1m lled her to speak:

“ Helen, dear, 0 you think Robert would re—
turn if he knew that death was so near to me?”

“ Oh. mother, don’t speak of death! What can
1 do if you leave me?” '

“ But, my child, will not Robert come?”

“ Yes, mother; but how can I summon him?—
I from whom he ﬂed, and whom he doubtless
has learned ere this to despise?” .

“ Never that, I am sure. He is not one to
suffer and grow weak and spiteful by suﬂering.
If my child could but realize the war of
that man’s nature, both for love an forgive-
ness she would not shrink from him.”

“ realize it, mother, but too fully. It is that
which makes me shrink—I am unworthy of
such a nature. I think, mother, I love him be-
fore all beings on the earth—a love that is better
expressed by reverence or adoration; and yet I
would never dare to betray it.”

“Could you be his wife, Helen 9” ’

“Iam not worthy, mother, of that relation.
I could be, and would be; but, alas, it never
may be." She bowed her head upon the bed-
side and wept.

The door into the hall stood wide open: A
soft step on the stairs Mrs. Ross had heard, but
not to heed it. She closed her eyes to utter a
mother’s prayer over her child's sorrows, and
opened them at the touch of a cool hand on’her
forehead, to behold Robert March bending over
her, on the side of the bed opposite Helen.

“ Robert—dear Robert!” cried the mother,
and, in the rapture of her surprise and delight,
her arms were thrown around his neck, as he
stooped to imprint a. kiss on her forehead.

Helen sprung to her feet, trembling in eve
limb. Then she fell forward on thebed, wit
extended hands, unconscious, in a brief swoon.

“ Take her, Robert; she is yours now, my
son—yours—yours,” the happy mother mur— '
mured.

The young man gazed a moment upon the
prostrate form as one stu ﬂed. The out-
sttetched hands were tow him—the engage-

 
sum . .

 
n...» 3; " ~

To '5

n l

 
m: 219’,

 
Jack's Snare.

81

 
ment hand almost touching him. His nick
glance was arrested—the ring was gone! ift-
mg the hand, be pressed it to his lips, and tears
ﬂl ed his eyes, for the seal of his three years’
sorrow was broken. Leaning over the bed, he
drew the form to his bosom. Bathing her tem-
ples With the camphor from the stand, con-
sciousness guickly returned.

Clasped in his arms! Reposing on his bosom!

Her peace was made.

 
Ten years have passed since the year of the
tragedy, yet how little changed is Norburyi It
has the same old houses, old trees. old roads, and

old sea. But, there is change there, neverthe-
less. uire Cushin ’s law-sign is gone, and in
its ste is that of ‘ Rosnnr MARCH, Arron-

NEY AT LAW;” and in the old cottage of Mrs.
Ross are the patter of little feet, the clatter of
.pure, merry voices—three dear beautiful chil—
dren, who call Helen Ross ‘lmammaﬂ’ and
whose sweet faces glow like sunlight when
Robert March’s hand is upon the gate.

And what of our own household, which I, the
story—teller, have so long forgotten? There is
.change there. too. We are all there—all save
Willie, who is in New York, in active business-
life, giving ﬂne promise of usefulness and earth—
ly prosperity. ottie Cheever is still with us;
but how changed. The same sweet creature;
but grown so tall and beautiful! She is the
pride of our house—the beloved of our hearts.

am plain in my beauty beside her, yet- not a
pang of jealousy ever troubles me—she is wor-
thy to be beautiful.

And so Willie thought; for, one day, there
came a letter, brief and characteristic, which
she at once showed to me. It ran:

' Lonrm— I am coming in a few weeks to consum-
mate the hopes of years. by claiming you for my
wife. I have never spoken of love to you. for what
used was there tospeak? Will you not write me,
and say ‘ come?‘ ours, as ever.

.\ "WILLIE."

“The cool assurance of this!” I exclaimed.
“ What right has he to claim you? Just let me
answer that business note!"

“ Answer it,” said Lottie, “and say ‘come!’
and I’ll sign it—‘ Yours, forever, Lottie Chee-
ver,’ ” and she leaned her head on my shoulder
to hide the happiness which ﬁlled her being.

Jack Cheever had become Ca tain John
Cheever. Squire Cushing, my ether, and
Robert March had. two years before. purchased
a ﬁne ship, giving Jack a onequarter interest in
the craft. and her command, in virtue of his
good qualities as a. man and seaman. She was
named the Content, and was manned by some
othhe best of Nor-bury boys, whose parents and
.i‘riends were proud that they should sail under
Captain Jack’s command. On that happv day
she was in from her ﬁrst voyage to the East'
and that Jack should have spent the entire
proﬁts of his 'share in the venture was quite
natu::.1.d {lane‘s intimation of the arrival
was e e ivory, a evenin at the
box marked: g, door' at a

LOTTIE CHEEVER,

REWARD or MERIT.
. It was,» surprise. Whenoo had it come!

 
From Willie, probably—just like him, we all
thought. So father asmsted in breaking the
stout cover, to ﬁnd within a tin case, securely
sealed. The tinner was thereupon summoned,
when, 10! there burst upon our gaze one mass of
treasures from the Orient. Lottie was astound-
ed as father lifted out silks, a crape shawl, a
camel’s-hair shawl, a magniﬁcent escritoire, in—
laid with mother of pearl and precious woods
an elegantly carved set of ivory chessmen, an
box after box of bijouterie which a lady’s toilet
and boudoir demand. It was evident that
J ack’s craft was in port.

Quite evident, for, in the middle of our ex-
citement, stepped the man whom, next to Wil-
lie, Lottie loved best of all in the world—~her
brother. And he was worthy of it, for Jack
Cheever was A MAN.

THE END.

 
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9339
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80 Kentucky Ben, the Long Riﬂe of the Canada. By
Roger Stnrhnck.
81 The Kit Carson Club. By T. C. Hurbaumh.
89 Little Huck. the [lay Guide. By lsnrry liingmrld.
88 Pony Bub, the Rat-kin” Rider. B ~ Col. 1’. ingrahmn.
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88 The'Bu 'Exumps; or,Lil'u Among tug Gipslvs. By
J.  lnﬂn n.
89 ’Lnnzuhore Lile. iiy C. D. Clark.
90 Roving Kiiie.buster’n Little Scout. By 'I‘. C. llurbnugh.
91 (Frog-on Josh, tiw Wiznrd Rich. By Roger Stnrbuck.
iiﬂ Hurricane Kit. liy A. F. lioit.
Jumping Juke, the Colorado Circus Boy. Ily Bryant
ilnmin-iiiiru.
94 Sum Spence, the Hrondhnrn Day. By Eli. “'iilett.
5 Moucow to Mum-in; or, A Yankee Boy to the Rescue.
By Churn-s Morris.
96 Fixhtiu Fred. By T. C. llnrbnnpii.

m3”3

 
97 Urulne o the Flynwug. Ilv C. Dunniu! Cinrlr.

9A The Boy Vi "allt-l‘l. Ry . j. ii. i: Stoddard.

99 The White ' ‘igern. iiv i‘nn . (‘lin Huwnrnl.

100 The Snow-Hth Trnll. By St. run itnthbonr.

101 Mariano, the Ottuwn Girl. m Edwnrd  Ellis.

102 The Flynwny Aﬂoui. iiv I. Dunning Cinrk.

103 Pat Mullouey’a Adve en: or, Silver Tongue
the Dtlcﬂtllii inen. liyil. .. .Illvnnln.

104 The Boy Proﬂoecior. By linger Rtnrlirirk.

105 ﬁnance, the VVrrml “'iicll By Edwin Emerson.

100 he Boy Cruisers. ll) Edwur-d Wilh-tt.

101 In "order Rovers. By J Miitnn linirlllﬂn.

103 .nnkn. the VVolf-Quuen. ilv Cnpt. limvm-ii Lincoln.

109 C'uﬂlgtinn Jim, the White Mnn'n Friend. iiyEdwnrd
- . 4 m.

110 l’lueky Jne, the Boy Avenger; or, Dir-k Boimont’n
Lust Ride. By J. Milton Huii‘umn.

111 The Harder Gunlnuker. Bannn-n L. Bowen.

1.12 Len-"undeil Pete, the Dunbaninil’n. liy Jusepil
E. “vulgar. Jr.

113 The River Rifle-I. By Capt. J. F. (1. Admins.

114 l lone on the l’luiun. iiy Edwm-d \‘i'illuti.

115 S lvcr Horn, and His Riﬂe Firnduutli. liy Roger
Slnrbnrk. ‘

1.16 Exploit! oi’ liezekiuh Smith, ti): Burkwoodamnn.
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117 The Young Muntnngern. By C. Dunning (flnrk,

118 Old Tram; ur, the Roy ltivnln. By Furry Rinuzuld.

119 Center thi. the VVhitn (Haw. By 1‘. C. linrhnunli.

130 A Hot Truil: or, Clnrk ()luveriyAnion).r lhe'l‘nrtnrs.
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121 1 nutm- l'arrl Ben. By aner Sturhnck.

122 The Enquimnux’ Queen. By G. “'nllin Browne.

128 Tim, the nor Acrobat; or, Life in the Gin-u. Ring. By
Charles .‘lnrris.

124 mean Benin. lllel‘inrilurﬂlri. Bv Hr-nryJ.Tiiomnn.

195 ' 0m Tuhor, the Buy Fugitive. Bv Hurry llinggnlil.
126 Mink Uunt, the Brandi-Shot. Hy Jun. E. limlgur, Jr,
19'? The Beer Hunters. iiy John J. Mnrsilnli.
19-3 Woliﬂﬂnn; or, The Night-Hing ol the Fire-Lands.
By cm. (in... Hnwnril.
129 Palmerawurj or, The Muuntnin Heroine. ByEdwm-d
' ntt.

180 Keetnen, quen on the I‘lninu. liy Percy B. St. John.

18'! Wlntnh. the (mild Spy. li_\' Gem'goi‘xii-uann.

1K2 The island Trapper. ily Chm‘irn limvunl.

183 The, Forth Hpeeter; or, The Yuung linnler’a Foe.
iiy i‘hiwnr-l \rVilletl.

1341mm Nat, the’rrnnpn. By Wm. R. Eyrm,

185 The Silver Bugle: or, The Imiinn Maiden of St.
Croix. By Lient. (10'. lluzcitun.

13“ The I’I-ulrle Tripper. By C. Dunning Clurk.

13'? The Anti-lope Buy. By Geo. L. Aikan.

188 Long shot; or. The bwnri‘ﬂullle. ny(tnpr.(:m.mock.

139 (lolouel Crockett, tho llenr King. By Cl-inriu- E.

hurdle.
140 0111 Pen, the Mnnntnlneer. By Lewis W. Cnrlon.
141 The (Hunt llunter. Hy Hurry lliunmi.
113 Black Panther. the HiliiJiloud. By J. E. Budger.
143 Carson, the Guide; or, i‘uriii uf the Frontier. By Lleut.
J. H. Rmnioiph.
144 Kent, the Ranger. By Edwud S. Elill.

 
Price, Five Gents.

’8

LI

B R
{96. «1 A R Y
000 EVE Y 89596ng 
R

145 "ill Rnhhilll, Hunt". By Edward Willett.

146 The Half-Breed lilvul. By Jan. E. linliger Jr,

14? The Munkcd Avenger. By ('ol. Prentisn lnurhilnm

148 gut. the 'l'mppur and lndinn Fighter. By l’llul J:

rescirit.

149 The Elk Demon; or,Tho Giant Bruthen. By T.
C. llnrbnugh.

150 The Buy Mustang-Hunter or. Ennlnlie, the
Bountiful Arnnlun. by Fr. ilerick itinlmr.

151 Frunk Ynten, Um Young Trapper; ur, Mountain
Knte'a Winning. By Jnanph E. Bridger, Jr.

1512 “'lld ancn. the Srnnz. ﬂy Oil ( oonwr.

108 Lynx-Cup; or, Four ’l‘mppern’ Among the Sioux.
i'uul Bibba.

154 The (‘hmn Inn Texan Rider: or, Red Buﬁ‘nio,
and the Hervn u Huntur. liy llurry St. George.

155 Dvnky Dit-k'n Doom. By .105. E. Bridger, Jr.
156 Frank Boll, the Buy Spy. liy Oil Cmmcn.
157 Nick Doyle, the Gold Huntrr. By P. n. Nym.

158 Kidnapped Dick; or, The Fnte o! the Fin- l-‘lv. By
'. Stank-y Henderson. ‘

159 Sum‘n Long Trail: or, This Twin Scouta.
limniltnn.

100 linnk Triplct’s Vow. By Hurry annrtl.
161 The Mail Skipper. liy R. Slurhuck.

162 The Trnvpvr King. 133' M \iax M rtinn.
168 Simon Kenton, Hunter. By Emerson Radium.

164 The Boy Chief; or, Frank Bell’s Cornpnct. By 011
/i)01l,1'lr

165 The Trader Traitor. By J. Stanley Henderson.
166 old Juno’n Claw. By Mrs. Orrin ‘muen

16’? The Young“, Trailer. By W. J. iimnilton.

168 The Specter Spy. By Mnj. Lewis Vi'. Carson.
169 Lnnk Lute, the Old Cnlurndo Hunter. By E. W.

Archer.
170 The \Vhltc Wolf. By Edward Willrtt.
171 The Swunlp Guide. By “I  Next-ii.
172 The Yankee I’eddler. By C. Dunning: Clinic.

1715 The Scout und “in Young: Chum.
St. John.

174 Blueknmith Tom’s Illunk. By Gm. D. Gilbert.

i 75 The Bur-knldu Rider. By GnyGn-enwtwl.

176 The ﬁquuitcr‘n Surprlnc. By Mrs. ii. .7. Thmnns.

177 Four Fellow Soon“. l’iy .i. Staniny i'lmninraun.

17“ 0” Kit and "in Comrurlon. By Juu. E. Rurlgel', Jr,

1’?” Uncle Grill’n Ding-nine. By Ilnrry iinznrnl.

130 The Murketl Miner. liy Linut. (mi. llnzultine.

181 The “’ild lluntre-I. By Cunt. Bruin Admin.

18?. The Dwnrﬂk-uny. By :‘luro 0. lb Ira.

1H8 Job Donn": wailcu. By Ingnldsby North.

134 Ynnkoo Epli’n Dilemma. By J. R. Wnrcenter.
Rulllly (minim 22.

185 Tile “'in “'itch’n “'uril. liy Edwin E. Ewing.
Randy (mm. r 2,1.

190 Frank, thv Furrirr.

rmiy Nuvuniwi’ 5.

187 Dlmm. Hu- l’nir Mmiutninm.
away :s'uwunm 1-2.

188 Jack"! Snur . By Mrs. Ann E. l’m'ter.
l‘wndy Nm'umbner 19.

189 Sam} tin‘ Swamp SMnt.
[is .dy Now-miner 2'5.

By

By w. J.

By Warren

By J. Stnnlry Henderson.

liy Capt. F. “'lnttnlﬁer.

Ily W. J. llmniltnn.

Bentlle’s Boy’s Lihrury is rnr Mic h_\' uil ansdullen,
iiva cenu per copy, or sent bv mail on receipt. ofsix cunts such.
BEADLE AN]! ADAMS, I’nhlinhere,
98 William Street, New York.

 
WL'umv- ..