Copyrighted, 1889, by Blunl

 

P bl'sh d Weekl b Beadle and Adams Price,
N0.  3%(5532. u 1 :10. 93 WILLYAMyST" NEW YORK ’ Five Cents.  

 

 

 

 

I‘ It

CAUTIOUBLY THE MAN MADE HIS WAY TO ONE SIDE OF THE WINDOW. WHERE BE 00m 038335 ‘ I
V '- ALL THAT WAS GOING ON WITHIN.) ' ’4

 

 

 

  
   
 
 

 

’ the roof and windows.

~ that she was handsome.
iambitious mother had named Raphael. but

 

C John Mar-ton. Detective.

 

John Marston, Detective;

on,
THE CRAFTY Assure CRIME.

BY MRS. MARY A. DENISON.

 

CHAPTER I.
WHO WILL BE rim BELLE?

“ i wonnna if I shall be the belle of the ball?”
said May Rogerly, letting her hands fall on her

May was scarcely more thana child—only
seventeen. She was prettv, undeniably pretty,

'and gentle and good withal. She was left

motherless when only five years old, and till
within the last few years had grown up in the
wilds of the West. Her father having, how-
ever, accumulated a small fortune, preferred
investing his money in landed property. Ac-
cordingly he brought his little family toa pretty,
thrift Western New York village, bought land,
and ually built a glass manufactow, which
proved a fortunate speculation, and he was con-
sidered wealthy.

He had prevailed upon a maiden aunt of
May’s to leave her little place in New Jersey
and take charge of his household matters. His
residence was a plain, square building with no
architecural elegance, four rooms on the lower
floor. and four above. /

Their nearest neighbor, the agent for the glass
works, lived within a stone's throw. Great was
the contrast which his style of living afforded to
that of his richer neighbor. His house was full
of points and an les, and as old Rogerl con-
temptuoust call it, “gingerbread wor ,” on
His wife, son and
daughter aimed to be fashionable, though they

succeeded but poorly, and the interior of the

“ villy,” as Mrs. Le Forest called it, was as con-
spicuous for show and colors as was the outside
for-ornament. Rose Le Forest flattered herself
The son, whom the

whom common folks designated as “ Rafe,” kept
a horse, wore gauntlet gloves on all occasions,
and took every op ortunity to impress his styl-
ishness on the lube. itante of the town.

The father had, before he entered upon this
business, been a money-broker, and hard stories

v. were told of him.

One more family deserves our passing atten—
tion. In a little, low cottage, half a mile from

the residence of old Mr. Kasey. lived a young'

widow and her two blueey ad rls. twins.
Trouble had come early to this little house-

” hold. At the age of nineteen Mrs. Barclay had

found herself a widow, alone in the world, with-
out fr ads or relatives, with her helpless little

' ‘ . *9 support, and with a mortgage of three
‘7 ndred

dollars on her home.

The agent for the glass-works was the holder
of the mortgage. By paying an exorbitant
illzgilinterest, which amounted each year to a
lit rent, and never gave her a chance to save
anything, she induced the agent, from year to

 

year, to forbear foreclosure, until, at the time
our story opens, he was about to sell her home
from her.

Young Le Forest had done the town the flat-
terin honor to inaugurate a ball. And May,
foolis , happy little thing, was in raptures.
Rose, who was three years her senior, though
she would not acknowledge it, was an accom-
plished dancer, and had taught May all the
necessary steps and figures for a few plain cotil-
lions. At last the day had come—the clear,
bright winter day. The roses flourished within,
for old Mr. Rogerly was as fond of them as his
daughter, and willingly afforded the expense of
warming them all the winter through.

“Aunty, I shall have some flowers for my
hair, and Rose sent over this morning to see if I
could give her some.”

“ Thee can take a few and mix in, thee knows
-but mercy on us, what figure is that coming
this way?”

 

CHAPTER II.
THE MAD HUNTER.

MAY looked up and saw full cause for her
Aunt Hannah’s eXclamation. The figure ap-
proaching the house was that of a stalwart old
man, apparently near upon seventy. Not that
his gait was trembling, or his figure bent, but
his hair was snow—white, and his features bore
unmistakably the marks of age. His head was
surmounted y a high beaver hat, around which
was tied, ending in a fantastic bow at the side,
a red cotton scarf. A handkerchief of a similar
color dangled from his neck, made more pictur-
esque b the long, clinging, snowy beard that
hung be ow it. A pairof hunter’s leggings were
tied over his knees, and by strings crosaed down
to his boots, which were as white and wrinkled
as himself by age. An old-fashioned coat, with
brass buttons and corduroy breeches, completed
his attire. He leaned upon a heavy, knobby
walking-stick, originally a strong young sap«
ling, and walked with a good deal of energy
for so aged a man.

“ May. what, shall we do? I am frightened to
death. Thee sees the man must be craz , and
he is coming directly toward the house. ’11 set
the dog on im.”

“ Auntyl” cried May her face glowin , “ you
wouldn’t certainly set him on a poor 0 (1 man.
Wait till he comes, and see what he wants?”

Presently the old man reached the door and
knocked. May, gently pulling her aunt back,
went to the door.

“ Good-day, young lady. Old Master "—here
he raised his eyes reverentlv—“ told me to come
here and get something) to eat. I am very
hungry, but if I hadn’t a ad finger here, I never
would have asked for charity.”

“ Come in," said May, a cordial smile lighting
up her face. , _

“ Young lady," he said, “ Will you undo the
buckle of this strap and I can put my gun
down?” i ,

She complied With ready alacrity.

“Thank you,” he said _“ my old Master
will bless you for your kindness to a poor
hunter.” . '

l-Iastily reparing some food, the best May
had in the case, she sat it before him.

‘ £3: )1; ‘g:

'-

 

 

ii

 

 

 

John Marston. Detective. ‘ .

 

“ Young lady,” he said, after he had finished
eating, “ it may seem an ungrateful office to per-
form, but I am a lonely man, and have lived for
twenty~flve years in the wilderness, consequent-
ly, I have had nothing to depend upon but my
gun, and no one to keep me company but old
Muster, up there. He has told me not to revenge
my great wrong, though i had the power. But
he has said: ‘ Vengeance is mine.’ And now old.
Muster compels me to speak out. There is a
cloud lowering over this house. Don‘t turn pale,
child, it may not burst in destroying thunder,
but old Master says trouble is coming. Aud,
younf" lady, for your kindness to me this day,
old a’ster may enable me to be of great service
to ou.’

R’Thee has frightened the child,” cried her
aunt. seeing that May drew back, pale and
trembling.

“How can I help it, if I am sent from old
Master? If she had not been what she has to
me, I miiht have let her gone on in ignorance,
and the low would have fallen heavily. She
reminds me of a little daughter that once called
me father, and whose blue eyes I have not seen
for nearly thirty long ears. But I shall see her
before I die because have asked old Master,
and he says l shall. But I must be goin .”

He had reached the door and lifted is gun,
when, confronting him upon the threshold.
stood Rafe Le Forest. his black eyes sparkling
at sight of May. Suddenly he turned, his
glance encountered that of the strange old hun-
ter, in whom a wild fury seemed lighted. His
gun dropped from his nerveless hand and. lay
unnoticed at his feet. As he picked up the
weapon, he said. sternly:

“Out of my light! Stand aside! You come
of an accurssd race-l”

Rafe, really frightened, stepped nimbl y away,
and stood looking after him as he strode off,
with a lowering brow.

“ Who is he? Who can he he?” cried May, in
tones of unfeigned terror.

“ Old Sam knows better than I do. I’ve
heard them tell of an old mad hunter who has
been seen, for the last two years, in this vicin-
it . Upon my word. there he stops at our doorl
T a old fellow can read then. I wonder if he
can be going in? No. See, he shakes his fist at
the house. Pooh! he’s a crazy old thing, and
must be looked after. They always have a
spite toward some particular persons. But is
my sister Rose here?

May replied that she hadn’t seen her at all
during the day.

W"l'll‘h1at’s strange; she saideslhe iwould call.

e , sup you antici a av n amerr
time at the mi" p \g y

“ I don’t know.” said May, absently, still
under the influence of that strange visit.

“Ah, we’ll have a gay time. Rose thinks
she’s going to be the bells of the ballybut I
know somebody that, with all her good looks,
she can’t hold a candle to,” and his bright,
black eyes glanced sane.in at hers. growmg yet
bolder and more brilliant as he noticed the blush
that overspread her face. “ You know you
promised the opening dance with me,” he said,

surly- - -
“ es, I remember that, of course.”

 

“The old savage is out of sight. It’s evident
he had no particular fancy to cultivate my
acquaintance. Good-by till to-night."

CHAPTER III.

WHAT PEOPLE SAID ABOUT THE AGENT. _
MAY had scarcely seated herself and taken up
her knitting before in burst another visitor.
This time it was Rose Le Forest her eyes danc- ~
ing in her head with some live y emotion, her

cheeks redder than was natural.

“ 0h, May. I’ve had such a fright!" she cried,
seating herself, and making ludicrous efforts to
recover her breath. “Do you know, I met a
crazy man on the street, and he stopped and
looked at me sol” ‘

“I have seen him,” said May, gravely. “I
gave him something to eat."

 

“ How in the world could you let such a. crea- ‘ 

ture come in your doors?” .

“He seemed harmless enough,” said Aunt
Hannah.

“ Well, I guess if you knew who he was you
wouldn’t have been so anxious to let him come
to your house.” »

‘ Why. who is he?" queried May, nervous] . ,

“ The hermit hunter, I expect—some till In
the mad hunter—who has a cave, or at. or
something, ten miles out in the woods. I’ve
heard father speak of him. He says he is a.
murderer; that he has killed several people, but v
always escaBed detection, and that if he gets
offended wit anybody, he had just as lief shoot
’em down as not. ’ .

“ Well, he don’t look like such a man to me,"
said May. “He is crazy, perhaps, though he. ‘
acted sane enough in most thin I.”

“ 0h, May,” Rose cried, the t ought suddenly 4
occurring, ‘ I've seen the new teacher. Raphael ‘
is going to send him aticket to the ball. He , -
100 more like a duke than a common school-
teacher. Oh, the contrast between him and
red-headed, bow-legged John Saunders. But I
must go; we shall come after you precisely at a.

  

quarter of seven. Now he sure and be ready.”  *

Two hours after, old Mr. Rogerly sat bolt up-'
right before the fire, reading. A light touch
upon his arm startled him; he looked up to see
a fair vision, shy and smiling, waiting for his
approval. There could hardly be a more heaur .
tiful thing than May looked at that moment, as
in her floating, gossamer robes the glossy,
wavy folds of her hair hri htencd erean there
by a delicate blossom, an the broad. long sash, N
with its frostwork of gold, encircling her pretty

figure, and falling heavily down almoit to the'» '

hem of her gown. He surveyed her in silence

for a moment; his 9 e glistened. his cheek red-

dened - he bent his g ance upon the paper again,

as with a quivering lip he murmured: ' ‘
“ Yourlook like your mother, child.”

CHAPTER IV. ‘
THE SCHOOLMASTER AT THE BALL.

Aim) the men-1y hum of voices, and the  '
liant thring of aughing girls, May Rn erly
stood almosta stringeri1 Quietll‘y takifngo her
wra s enotice wit somet n o a pang 
the pseplendor of hose, and her gevident ease,
among so many new-comers ‘ - , ’

 

\ .‘r'

 

 

 

 

4 I John Maraton, Detective.

 

It was the first ball that had ever been held in
the tawn, and great pains had been lavished upon
the hall. May tried to enjoy it. but. be as gay
as she might, the words of the old hunter would
recur to her and the ominous black cloud
seemed to be hovering over her head.

Another turn in the dance, however, brought
into view a face and form which on the instant
riveted her attention. He stood near the door,
conversing with the former teacher. who seemed
pointin out different persons in the room, indi-
lc’zgiaig t eir prbximity by a careless nod of the
“ Who do you say that young lady is'i",

“ The daughter of Mr. Eagerly-the richest

man in the place,” was the reply.

“ And yet she is the most simply dressed and
retiring girl in the room.”

“You may well say that. There is nothing
like vanity or presumption in little May Rog-
erly. She's a lovely child—one of my best

, scholars a year ago.”
' “ She is decidedly the most attractive young
lady here,” said the new master, his eye follow-
ing her motions.
So I think,” responded his friend, “ and yet
I suppge most persons would give the pro-emi-
nence Miss Le Forest."

“ Le Forest,” cried the youu man, in a voice
like a smothered moan, “ Miss 6 Forest.”

“Yes,” replied his companion, not. noticing
the terrible a itation that accompanied the
words, “ that s owy. dashing girl with the bril-
liant black e e. Sue’s accounted the belie and
beauty here. ’

“ Le Forest,” muttered the teacher again, in a
voice that trembled, while his lips had grown
colorless.

“ You see her, of course?” v

“ Yes, I see her; but who is she?” '

“ Her father is agent for Mr. Eagerly—trans-
.acts all his glass-house business I expect, though
‘I wouldn’t put a. second-hand New York shaver

_ in any position of responsibility—not I.”

“ He was a broker, then,” said the young
teacher, as if replying to his own thoughts—-
3. smothered hate or passion in his voice. “Le
Forest. Great heaven! can it be the same?”

“ Let me introduce you to May Rogerly.”

“I believe I must confess to a little nervous-
ness to-night, Saunders. But, excuse me; you

- are waiting and I am ready.”

The two young men crossed the hall. May’s
heart beat almost audibiy, as she felt that they
were advancing toward her. She could not help
knowing that she had been John Saunders’s
favorite scholar. Her eye, at the moment of
the introduction. fell upon Rose, who, with en.
grossed glance, utterly forgetful of the partner
at her side, was watching her every motion.

After the schoolmaster had gone the rounds.
she still at times saw his earnest glance riveted
upon her with an interest that, though she did
not understand it, flattered her. She began to
wonder at her own emotion. There was more

,than one interested spectator of the teacher‘s al-

‘ most open admiration. Rife Le Forest’s hold
black eyes flashed fire, as he felt that in May‘s
eyes he had lost his old attractiveness.

Soon after to was indignant to see the

strange schoolmaster seated beside May, talking .

 

 

and smiling as readily as if he had known her
for years.

At that moment a fierce hate sprung full-
grown in the bosom of the agent’s son, that was
deepened and darkened when May stood up in
the next dance with the noble-lookingr stranger.

Rose’s heart swelled with envy and a sense of
undeserved neglect. She had been so conscious
of her own attractions, that to have them over-
looked, and the childsface of the girl over whom
she had assumed superiority preferred to hers,
that she could with difficulty conceal her cha-
grin. She grew pettish toward her partners,
and angry at herself. All sorts of malicious
thoughts centered in her bosom toward the un-
conscious girl. She longed in some way to mor-
tify and humble her; and when, as before, after
the dance, Mr. Minot—for that was the name
of the new-comer-sat down by her side, and,
heresy saddest of all, honored no other oung
lady by proposing for her hand during t 9 re-
mainder of the evening, her anger was almost
too strong to control.

And so the bnll‘room, that night, was the
theater of evil passions, in which two of the

actors prepared the way for ultimate misfor-

tune, if not disgrace.
And so ended May’s first ball.

CHAPTER V.
THE FAMILY QUARREL.

IT was early in the morning. The Le Forests
had not yet eaten breakfast. In fact, Rate and
Rose were not up yet, it being by no means their
practice to rise with the sun. The room was in
disorder, for the young people had had company
the previous nig t and left everything in con-
fusion. In the midst of this medley sat Mrs. Le
Forest, very red in the race, rocking back and
forth in a crimson rocker with all the energ of
which she was capable, and talking volu ly.
Mr. Le Forest stood at the window. frowning as
he looked out, and patting the carpet with his
foot. Though gross and heavy in general ap-

earance, he still bore the remnant of the good
ooks that had formerly distinguished him, and
which led his wife to say frequently to
her daughter in the presence of compau ,
“ My dear, your father has been called t e
handsomest man in New York,” and if alone
she generally had the vanity to add, “and I
was a belle ten years after I had married.”
Miss Rose often had the audacity to doubt
this latter clause. for if this had been a fact, it
could not he denied that Mrs. Le Forest, during
the latter part of her life, must have changed
amazingly.

As she sat there pouting. her streaked gray
hair hanging over the sides of her face, her dirty
chintz dressing-gowu exposing a much sailed
skirt, her rumpled cop-strings tied loosely under
her double chin, forty, fat and not fair—her face
evidently under the dominion of the sulks, as
her snapping black eyesproved, she Would have
tried the equanimity of a less gentle persnn than
Paul Le Forest. ,

“ Le Forest.” said the lady. ieanmg t"ll‘VW_1i‘ti
as she spoke. and artly turning toward him,
“ there’s no kind 0 sense in your speaking in
that positive way. The children haven’t given
a party, a real party, for a year, and the poor

 

 

 

 

 

 

John Mar-ton, Detective. ‘

 

things can’t keep up with the fashion at all. It
wouldn’t cost over a hundred dollars the way I
could manage, and you know how economical I
can be.”

“ Yes, save at the spigot and run out at the
bung—hole," sneeredthe entieman of the house.
“ Do you know what afe’s horseflesh costs
me?”

“ Don’t be so vulgar, Paul; your son’s name is
Raphael, after the divine Rafael. But there,
what can I expect—you have no sympathy for
the fine arts.”

“ If by the fine arts you mean the art with
.which that boy wheedles money out of my
pocket, I have a. good deal of sympathy,” said

aul Le Forest, contemptuously. “ I tell you
his extravagance—your extravagance, uuitedly,
is ruining me.”

“ I’m ashamed'of you, Paul Le Forest," expos-

- tulated his larger if not better half, jerking the

tie out of her night cap strings, and growing
redder in the face, “ talking so of your own wife
and children. If we are expensive, you had
better get rid of us as you have of some other
things in your life.” .

This taunt was repented of as soon as spoken,
for Paul Le Forest turned upon his wife with
the face of a demon. His rage was so excessive
that his eyeballs fairly started from his head,
and in the dearth of words that could not come
from his swelling throat, he kicked one of the
footstools near him with such force that he sent
it flying over his wife’s head against the glass of
a costly engraving, and shivered it to atoms.

" You brute!” cried Mrs. Le Forest, springing
up from her chair, but yet cowering as she met
his lance.

“ shall commit murder some day,” growled
the infuriated man, looking her down. Then
turning to the window he took out his watch—

nt it back again—said impatiently, “ want my
Breakfast,” and strode out of the room.

As much as she feared her husband, the pres-
ence of the son and daughter who came crawl-
ing down to breakfast in anything but becoming
dishubille, emboldened her to speak of the party,
and nothing daunted at the threatening look he
gave her as she opened her lips, she put in her
plea again.

“ Oh! yes, father,” Rose chimed in, shaking
back her disordered curls, " pet wants a party.
and pet must have a party.”

“ And pet’s brother too,” echoed Raphael,
mocking his sister’s voice and manner.

“ There is no use in your teasing me,” said the
broker, “ not a. particle of use—I cannot and
shall not let you give a party. I tell you I am
embarrassed, and before long I expect to sell
house, horse and everything else. Then you
won’t think of parties when you have a crust of
bread to live upon.”

“Oh! pa, we've heard that threat so often it
don’t frighten us a bit now,” said Rose, saucily.
“ Besides, if you were so badly off, you wouldn’t
have bought hat handsome new gig.”

“ I took the for a debt.” v

“ I wish you would turn over some of your
debts to me.” said Raphael, tossing down his
coffee. His father’s face flushed.

“How long are you going to let that widow
stay in the cottage?” asked Rose.

 

“I shall sell it the first chance,” said the
broker.

“ She’s running about everywhere telling her
grievances,” suid Rafe.

“Let her tell,” responded Paul Le Forest;
“sbe owes me fairly and squarely. Women
think they can do anything with tears,” he said,
savagely, looking at his wife.

“But, papa, we must give a party, because
I’ve s oken of it,” said Rose, aux ously. '

“ es, papa, we must give a party, for we -

intend to entrap a solemn and mysterious stran-
ger, who knows how to use his eyes and hold his
ton ue,” sneered Rafe.

“ hat! that new schoolmaster?" exclaimed
Paul Le Forest excited] . “ He had better keep
out of my house. Woqu on give countenance
to your father’s worst enemy?”

“Why, what do you meant papal” queried ‘

Rose, while Rafe, silenced by his father's man-
ner, 1fould only look the questions he could not
spea .

“I mean that the scoundrel is worming him- I' 5

self into the good graces of old Rogerly, aud’in-
tends to get me deposed if he can, and be my
successor.”

“I told you that fellow knew on which side.
his bread was buttered,” said Rafe bitterly. ,.

“And then I suppose he expects to marry May
Rogerly.”

“ Probably that is his intention—but I know a r ‘
thing or two that will perhaps put a stop to that j:

pretty little romance. Look here, it,is time for
me to be at the works. confou'nd them 1” .

“ And you won’t tell us whether we may vs , "

ever so little a. party,” murmured Rose, dolefu ly.

“ I tell you no!” he exclaimed with some vehe- :

mence. " I believe you all of you want to work.

my ruin. I tell you l’m head over heels in debt, _

and what’s worse, am likely to remain so, unless
something turns up. Don’t let me hear another

word about this arty—not another word. As ‘-

_for that scamp, inot, I wish you to have noth-
ing whatever to do with him. He’s a 'fellow
without family and without means. You see
how he has avoided us, and good reasons he ill!

for it, too. I’ll make him sweat before I’m done :’

with him.” .
So saying, he went out, leaving a disappointed,
angry group behind him.

CHAPTER VI. ,

STEALING on A LARGE SCALE. r
WINDING his way to the office much earl! .
than there was any need of, fully an hour before
either the clerks, bookkeeper or Mr.
ever came, Mr. Le Forest entered the general

 

office. Leading from this was a little closet with».

one window facing east, which the bookkeeper
occupied. This bookkeeper was a very honest

but exceedingly careless young fellow, who had *
not been long in Mr. Rogerly’s employiufie had I
vs, 1:

taken him at the solicnation of a re nd"
though not uite satisfied with his habits, which
were none 0? the neatest, he knew he could con-

flde in his honesty. Carefully hanging - his out»,

side coat and hat on a pa beside the door, the
man began fumblin in b spooket and at lea

with manysi so tre idation brought on a.
folded paper, rom whic he too a key and opt

plied it to the look of the bookkeeper's door. A

   

Eagerly ~

 

 

  

 

8 ' I _ John Maratom'Detective.

 

“ It fltsl” he muttered triumphantly, and
lookin around him guiltily, he turned the key,
open the door and entered. Walking straight
up in the desk, he tried it and found it unlocked.
“ What a careful fe110w Spangler isl” he mut-
tered, lyiughing to himself. ‘ I dare say he
fillings the desk is locked, or else he has lost the

ey.

As he stood at the desk, the window facing the
east was directly behind him. It did not give a
clear light in cons uence of the huge trunk of a
tree that lifted itsel opposite. Now, as he took
a book containing the most recent entries from
the desk and placed it before him, a figure he—
came visible from behind the tree, and gradually
nearing the Window, revealed the tall prepor-
tions of the mad hunter, a stealthy, half-ferocious
expression making him look more savage than
ever. Cautiousl he crept to one side of the
window, where e could observe all that was
going ' on within. and stealthin he watched,
silent, immovable, like a man out in stone.

Paul Le Forest, meantime, scanned the last
pages of the book before hi n, leaning on both
elbows, and making hurried calculations,

. “ Three paves. all in J anuary,” he muttered

to himself. ‘ Good heavens, what a business!
i'I‘sis man must be making an im'nense fortune.
Well. here at one fell swoop g3 three thousand,"
and with a dexterous movement he tore out the
lastdpage, erased all indications of its having
flue the‘place, and chuckled as be folded up the
abstracted paper, and placed it cautiously in his
, pocket-book. -

Ha thrust the book back in the desk, looked
carefully around to assure himself that his wit-
nesses were all dumb, went quickly into the
general ofliae, and an hour after, when the ro-
grietor came in, he seemed busin at work. r.

ogerly glanced at him once, twice, suspicions-
ly, but spoke pleasantly in answer to the beam-
ing sgiile that greeted him from his unfaithful
agen .

9‘ Good-morning, Le Forest,” he said; “ it's
good. keen, winter weather.”

“ Féine weather for the season,” responded the
ageu
“ Did you get those bills in from the West?”
queried t e careful men of business.

I’ “ Some of them came readily. The rest I
, shouldn’t wonder if you have some trouble with.
Are , 0:: sure J ones’s house is safe?"

“ ell, it’s as safe as any house of the same
pretensions; a little fast, perhaps.”

" So I thought,” replied Le Forest.

" In fact, there's as great a tendency to fast
living in individuals as in firms,” replied the old
man, with a meaning look.

Paul Le Forest’s brow grew red.

“ It’s a. great mistake." he continued, “ and a
' ruinous experiment. Now I’vs been in business
for forty yam, and Pride myself that I am not
f alto ether unsuccess ul, but I never owned a
, fast orse yet."

' “ You have no sons, Mr. Rogerly.”

“Ni. uni it's well I haven’t, it fast horses had
to take the place of and business habits."

“ You need not ‘d uise the fact that on are
talking at me," said r. Le Forest, wit some

eat.
a ,. “ I am talking to you, Mr. 'Le Forest, if you

 

will listen to me. I am aware that I shall run
the risk of being called a fool and a meddler for
my pains, but it does strike me, that with such
an opening as there is in this very house, you
might prevail upon your Son to steady down and
make a man of himself, instead of driving round
town."

“ What do you mean, Mr. Rogerlyi"

“Just what I say, Paul Le Forest, and I say
it in all kindness, too. I am aplain, blunt man,
and never get behind people 8 hacks, but tell
Eben)“ as I have told you, if I have any fault to

nd.

Le Forest began to think he had gone too far,
and to tremble lest he should lose his lace. .

“ I ought to thank you, sir,” he sai , with ap-

urent frankness, extending his hand. “ Indeed,
Phave often seen my error of late in being too
indulgent to that boy, and if you had not
spoken, was intending to cut off the horses and
some other expenses. I am sure you are really
my friend.” '

“ I am by no means your enemy, Mr. Le For-
est. I would be ever man’s friend, out I con-
fess that I do hate i leness and dissipation, and
seldom make an allowance for either. Good—
morning, Spengler.”

The young bookkeeper, a rosy-fa red innocent-
looking young man, pleasantly greeted the pro-
prietor and his agen .

“I wonder who that queer-looking man is
that I almost came bump against just now in
turning the corner?" he said, throwing his rap
on the desk, and then. at a look from Mr.
Rogerly, hangin it in its proper place.

“I suppose its the mad hunter, they call
him,” said Mr. Roger] y, turning over some loose
papers in his hand. ‘ I have heard that he was
once a respectable man, and a merchant of
character and standing.”

“ And I have heard he was a dangerous per-
son,” said Le Forest, a shade of hate darkening
his face. “ Woe to the man who offends him—
it is Certain death.”

“ You know him, then,” said Rogerly, uietly.

“Know him! Who said I knew him asked
1131»; Forest, in a voice that seemed changed with

ear.

“ You spoke with uch confidence that I
thouo'ht he could not be a stranger to you.”

“ e is a stranger to me,” replied Le Forest,
_‘ and so is—and so are some others who are try-
ing to worm themselves into society here, but
who. have neither friends, character nor in-
fluence to back them up.” '

Rogerl was silent, still drawing out and look-
ing over is papers. ‘ -

“I don’t see what the old hunter is doing
here,” he said, presently: “ lsow he lives, I mean.
My daughter-gave him a dinner the other day,
but he don’t seem like a man who would get his
living by begging.”

“ He‘d rather stool it.” said Le Forest, sav-
agely. “I'd no more let him come into my
image than I’d let a known assassin or burglar.

‘- I

He stopped, his eyes distended. and fastened
upon some oblect at the door. The proprietor
followed his g once, but the ~ mad hunter turned
away, after a fearful menace, and left the house

by an opposite door.

 

 

 

 

 

John Huston. Detective. ' , 7 -

y \

,, ‘ . ‘ ‘ :3.‘

 

“ My head feels strangely this morning,” said
Le Forest, apologetically. “I believe I drank
my tea. too strong last night.”

"Something stronger than tea, I guess,” mut-
tered Mr. Rogerly, as he left the oflice.

Meantime, the bookkeeper had numbered a
new page, and in blissful unconsciousness of the
ruin intended by the wily agent, whistled softly
over his work.

“I wonder who this Minot is?” queried the
latter, as he sat idle for a moment, to Le Forest.
who, pen in hand, stood toying with some paper
on the desk before him. “ He seems to be a
capital good fellow, only rather gram and un-
social at times.”

“ Why do you ask ?" responded Le Forest,
without looking up.

“ Because from his manners one would think
he had been reared to ex ct an independent
fortune. I thought the fe low was as proud as
Lucifer, but come to get acquainted with him
it’s only his way. But I like him, because
there’s none of your make-believe about him—
be’s as honest as the sun.”

“ Honest!” sneered Le Forest. “ I advise you
as a friend, Spengler, to have nothing to do
with him. What do you know about his ante-
cedents? I hear that he is looking about for a
wife, and I can guess pretty well who he intends
to entrap. People with disgrace clinging to
them can only save themselves by getting into
some respectable family. I could tell RogJerly
somethin ,butIsuppose it’s none of my usi-
ness.” 9 Lnew the old man stood where he
could overhear every word he said, and he was
not indifferent to the satisfaction which base
minds feel in revenging personal slights or
fancied injuries. Rogerly had dared to call him
to account, and he should dearly pay for It._

“ What! does he come of a low family?”
queried Spengler, his legs dangling as he lazily
rocked himself to and fro.

“ Worse than that,” said Le Forest, in a low
voice. “ But I have nothing further to say about
it. You must go somewhere else for informa-
tion,” and he turned impatiently to his work.

“I say,” cried Spengler, “ it seems to me
there’s something left out here; didn’t I set down
an invoice to Stearns & Whitaker? Well, now
that’s queer, any way. Either I did or I
dreamed it.”

La Forest looked up with a whiter face, as be
said, “ You dreamed it, I guess. There’s been
no Very late order from him.”

“ Why yes there was; don’t you remember you
had the bill — let me see, wasn‘t it Tues-

da i” r

‘¥No—I tell you I had no bill,” responded Le
Forest, almost angrily.

“ Oh—well—thcn of course it’s all right—your
memory is better than mine; but it s strange
that in that case I seem to recollect so plainly—
and this page of figures looks queerly, somehow,”
and again he fell to his low whistling, dismissmg
the subject as he invariably did any thing that
puzzled him. I I

Meantime old Rogerly was revolvmg in his
mind what Le Forest could possmly niean when
he spoke of Mr. Minot, who was givmg great
satisfaction as a teacher—even more than his

predecessor; everybody respected him and 

 

 

were pleased with his attentions. What had Le ‘ '

Forest against him?

“ I don’t like Le Forest,” he soliloquized; “ he
seldom has a good word to say for anybody, and
I'm sorry he is in my employ. But then about
this young man—if there is really any disgrace
in the matter,.and he seems to be coming to the
house retty regularly, why, I must know what ,.
it is. t would never do to lei my little May fall . 
in love With an adventurer. [don’t care how , 5.
poor he is, that’s not the thing; I can help a poor , - ‘
man—though I wouldn‘t have lifted a finger for
Le Forest’s son, the prifi. And I suppose that’s
what ails the father. e expected to boost his
youngster into my regards by giving him a fast
horse that I’ll warrant isn’t paid for yet. No,
no, I’d sooner May died than married him.

f‘ Le Forest," he said, at last, making up his
mindz,“ what do you know against this young
man?

“ Against Minot? Wh nothing against him,
personally, except that e is a man of sullen
temper and conSIderable vanity.” ,

“ could not help overbearing you when on «
spoke to Spengler—and your remarks oer nly
cell for explanation from me. I have a particu-
lar reason inview why I wish to know what
trouble there has been in his family—if‘any,” he
added, with marked emphasis. His manner
“'3‘” LiiForiiSt' ”l d h ti and i ' '

wi te you, is sai , as ' y, gong '

up to him he whispered a few words in his
ear. , .
The old man never moved, but remained
thou hti'ul, his chin resting upon his breast, his"
lips ightly closed. For some moments he did
not speak—Le Forest watchin him keenly.
Presently he said, speaking as c mly as ever:

“ Are you sure, Le Forest .

“ As sure as there is a Heaven.”

“ Poor fellow l" muttered old Rogerly, and
sighed. - ‘ f

“ You know such things have their influence.” ’

“Yes, yes, the innocent must suffer forth!) . .
guilty—but it is hard, very hard,” and the old Y
man shook his head. “I’m ver sorry, for the -“
poor boy. What became of his ether! ' _ v

“ How can I tell?” ’ ' .

“ I thought you might know. We well, his
case calls for sympathy, certainly. am not a
the one to add a feather to the weight he carries
already—and I think,” he added, risin slowly
and speaking distinctly, “ that he mer ts more I
consideration than ever. ’ ' ..

Saying this he went out, leaving Le Forest I
transfixed with an er and shame. The New ‘ ,
that he had aime at another, had recoiled ,
against himself. Rogerly was evidently more
favorably dis oaed toward young Minot than
before, and h s own and his son’s prospect: were
correspondingly damaged. ' l " x

“ The old otard—the beggarly old rascal,’?.hie .
muttered, between his shut teeth, “if I hated
him before, 1 despise him now. Thank Heaven
he don’t go into society, and I shall take care to,
make this place too hot to hold that flung feet,
He to cut my son! -A retty pass it 9 come to-
if this young fellow s to take the bread out of
olir mouths. The trusting old fool! I’ll rob his
pockets to the tune of the sslaryhe oughtto 2
pay me. I Little he thinks whose money goes “to.

 

   
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
     
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
   
  
   

 

 

8', John Marston, Detective.

 

the support of the horseflesh he makes such fuss
over— at I’ll make a living out of him while I
stay in this place, or my name is not Paul Le
Forest.”

 

CHAPTER VII.

,IN WHICH A FAST YOUNG MAN GETS VERY
ANGRY.

MAY sat near her flowers, smilin and think
ing. Of what she was thinking it would per-
haps be needless to say, for within ten minutes
young Minot had passed the window. and his
strangely beautiful smile had set her heart to
beating with heavy but happy throbs.

“ He has the saddest and yet the sweetest
smile I ever saw. I wonder what makes him

look so sad i”

Another shadow darkened the window. She
looked up; it was Rafe, dressed with conspicuous
elegance—and to do him justice, his taste was
nearly faultless. The most fastidious connois-
seur could have detected nothing outre in the
fashion of his habiliments—nothing *flash£ or
gaudy in the few ornaments he wore. ike
other more distinguished individuals whom the
world has noted, he gave his mind to it—and it

‘ was the result of intellect brought down and
centered in a tailor’s show—block.

Naturally she smiled, and he, taking it for en-
couragement, came in. Lounging into the seat
that stood empty near her, he ran one. unglovod
hand through his curls, and laughingly remarked
that he saw the queen was in her bower of
beauty—he su posed she would allow the bum-

, blast of her an jects to Mpay his court to her.

F‘Certainly," said ay, laughing in reply;

” in subjects are all humble.”

“ wonder if they are all as loyal as I am?” he
queried, in a low voice, and with a manner that
made her blush.

“Where is Rose?” she asked, evading a re-

1 .
p x Rose—oh! I don’t know—out somewhere. I
don’t know as I ever saw Rose sitting down,
' sewing as you do. What is the reason?”

“Rose is gayer than I, I suppose.”

“ Do you know I’d never get a wife like Rose?”

“ Men seldom marry women like their sisters.”
May replied. “ I presume she wouldn’t marry
a man like her brother.”

“ Would you, May?" he asked, leaning over
toward her.

“No.” said May, bluntly.

He seemed discomflted for a moment.

“ Then you can't reciprocate the compliment,”
‘he exclaimed, banteringly.

“ I can’t tell an untruth—even in a compli-
ment,” she replied, “ or as we are both talking
now—in sport."

“ I am not in sport.” said Rafe suddenly,
 quite sober. “ Ma if I could only think

if some day on would ike me, it would make
a man of me— know it would.”

“ You ought to be a man for your own sake-

for the sake of your father and mother,” said

a . .
"yogi May—only let me hope!” he said, pas-

. lions. .
f‘Ra —Mr. Le Forestl” exclaimed May,
,- “what are you thinking on Why, we are both

)

 

 

children—and besides, if we were ever so old, I
could only,” she-could neither say esteem or like,
“ treat you as a friend. What would your
father say! What would mine?"

“ Hang what either of them would say 1” ex«
claimed Raphael, in a husky voice, losin his
manly bearing. “I don’t care. And I on’t
care what becomes of me, either. You used to
like me before that pup of a schoolmaster came
here, confound him! And if you knew what I
know about him, May Rogerly, you’d never al-
low him to darken your doors, let alone admire

ou, and flatter you with that smooth face of
is. I hate himl”

“ Mr. Le Forest,” said May, quietly, “ you
forget where you are, and who you are talking
to. Mr. Minot never had the presumption to
address one word of flattery to me. If he did.
he would lower himself in my esteem, and I
should set him down among some other young
men of my acquaintance.”

“Then, at present, he is at the top of your
regard?”

“ I have heard that you have reported so,”
said May her eyes flashing.

“ Me—I’d scorn to soil my tongue with his
name. Let what will be said of me, my events
are honest, thank God! while be, poor t ing, if
any one happened to say the word ‘ mother’
to him, ever so accidentally, he’d knock him
down." ‘

“ 1 never listen to innuendoes,” said May.

“ No, of course not, against the adorable Mr.
Minot,” said Rafe, coarsely; “ less favored mor-
tals might not escape so easily.”

“ Mr. Le Forest your conduct is beneath my
contempt,” said May. - .

His eyes flashed, his lip quivered, his voice
sounded hoarse and strange, as rising to go, he
said: “Miss Rogerly, I wish you joy of our
conquest; the next time he comes here, ask im,
from me, when he last saw his mother;” and
bowing maliciously, the maddened bo hurrie
out of the house, longing only to wrea his ven-
geance on the man he considered his rival.

May sat still where he left her, the indignant
Rlood making her cheek blaze, her eyes flashing
re.

“ If tpapa knew of his contemptible conduct,”
she sai , to herself, “ he’d shake him. I‘m glad
I said 'ust what I did,” she murmured, after a
pause, ughing a little as she wiped the angry
tears from her eyes; “how it took him down,
the conceited fellow. He has always acted as
if he considered himself irresistible, and now, I
hope, he has lost a little of his good opinion of
himself. It won’t hurt him ;” and she laughed
again, looking at his chair which still stood be-
fore her, and in which he seemed to have left a
little of his conceit. “ But, perhaps he will tor-
ture what I said, and make it appear that I con-
fessed more interest in him-in Minot—than—
than—I feel ;” and blushes suffused her face
again. “Well, I do—like him. He is inflnitfiy
superior to any of the young men here. e
never talks nonsense, nor appears laboring un-
der that silly admiration 0 women that con-
strains some men to think that they must for-
ever be saying something of their personal

apfiearance‘as if that was all they thought of."

or fathe came in at that moment.

1
.Li
' i

 

T.

 

John Huston. Detective. 9

“May, I wish you could paint on glass,” he
said, abruptly.

“ I know who can," responded his daughter,
forgetting all her vexations.

‘ Well, who?”

“ Mrs. Barclay; she can do it.”

“How do you know?”

“ Because she showsd me some specimens. She
said she learned when she was a girl. Why,
father?”

“ Because I wish to get up some new fancy
shades. I have set the designer to work, but
shall keep the coloring a secret till they are in
the market.”

" Oh,”father, will you give it to her? they are

‘ To be sure I’ll give it to her, if she can do
it, and glad of the chance. But it seems to me
she shouldn‘t be so very poor. She has the
house.”

“ But, I believe she will have to lose it," said
May.

“ Lose it! Why, how?”

“I don’t know the real facts of the case,”
said May; “ but peo 1e blame Mr. Le Forest, so
he has something to 0 With it.”

“ Ah l” and her father looked up, “ there goes
that old hunter,” he said; “ by the way, when I
came by, he was just leaving Mrs. Barelay’s
house. I wonder what he went there for, or
why he lurks about the town. I wonder if he
is mad? If so he is dangerous, and ought to be
attended to at once.”

“ I don’t think he would hurt anybody. un-
less it might be the Le Forests,” said May.
“The day he came here, he called Rafe some
hard names and said he came of an accursed
fgmily. So I suppose he has some grudge against
t em.”

“ The Le Forests are getting on pular, very
unpopular,” said Mr. Rogerly. “ here’s some-
thin wrong about them all, I’m afraid.”

“ ather, may I go and tell the widow?”
asked May.

“Yes, if you like. If, without seeming to
meddle, you can find out anlything about the
trouble between her and Le orest, I wish you
would,” be added.

May put on her bonnet and cloak, and tripped
along to the widow’s house. A brisk walk
brought her to the door in ten minutes. It was
a pretty, unambitious little place, with four
pillars under the porch, round which the dead
vines still clung, tapping with their withered
tendrils the glass-panes set in over the door.
There was space for a pretty garden before, that
always bloomed in summer, a field, for the pas-
turage of a cow, and a uare of round for
vegetables behind the house. Severe fruit-trees

w not far 03, furnishin apples and plums
or the winter, while on t e west side of the
cottage, thrifty grape-vines grew, producing
grapes abundantly in their season.

In answer to her knock, a little girl of some
nine summers came to the door. The child
looked confused when May asked for her mother;
but after a minute of doubt, during which she
seemed to read the sweet face before her, she
led the way to the back of the house, and tin:-
idly opening a door that led to the general sit-
ting-room, signified that May should enter,

 

The widow, at first sight, sat near the table,
her face u n her folded hands. When she
looked up, t e tears still rolling down her ch
she started, colored, and glanced reprovingly a
the child, as she said:

" You should have told me Helen.

“Never mind, Miss May,“ she continued, as
May excused herself, “ we are in trouble, or, at
least, I am. The children poor thin s, are
hardly old enough yet to rea 'ze how muc they
are about to be deprived of. Pray, sit down."

May took the offered chair, not falling to
observe the extreme neatness of the a
ment, in which the scant but pretty furniture
shone again.

“I have come," said May, “to see if you
could do some work for father.” ,
“ I shall be thankful,” exclaimed the widow,
her face brightening, “to get anything to do.
My sewing is all out and people complain of the
hard times, so that I have very little to depend
upon. I had to sell my cow last week; but—”

here her lip quivered.

“This is painting on glass,” said May. “I
think you showed me somea few weeks ago,
and I took the libert of s eaking of it, when
father said he should li a to ave some done.”

h“ (21th that vtvtill be so mchh to, my 11?“: ,"cried
t e 9, re y woman, er ace 1: n '
“ that is, If I can suit your father." 8 g p'

“I have no doubt about that” said May
confidently. “The patterns are all drawn, and
I know you have the taste to color them. And
father says you must set your price' he is will-
in in ay you whatever you think is reason-
ab e, ta ing into consideration the time and
the colors.”

“ How kind l” exclaimed the poor woman, her
tears starting again. “But how shall I know
what to charge? And how fortunate that Ihave
a full box of colors, scarcely used at all, that .I
was saving for the children. Never mind,” she
continued, seeing that their faces expressed some
disappointment, " mother will earn enough to
buy another box.”

I wish mother could earn enough to bu an-
other house, don’t you, Helen?” asked a ;
“because, you know,” she added, lookin si 9-
ways at May, “she’s going to have th one
taken away.’

“ Oh, don’t talk of it, children. Do you know, ‘
Miss May, that the thought of losing this little
property, which my poor husband presented me
so proudly, as the serum 8 of his own hands,
ago}? me as weak as a ha y, whenever I think
0 l

“I hope you are not goingto lose it," said

a .

“yOh, yes we are; the man came and said wa‘
must," said Helen, who now stood quite near
May, and even ventured to touch her arm. May
too the little hand in hers. . .

“ Yes, Mr. Le Forest is a very hard man,”eaid
the widow, her feelings overpowering her again.
" I was so out of heart this morning so tired of
my isolation, that, what do on t ink I did?"
age looked up, smiling a lttle through her

rs.

Ma shook her head.

_“ {a my children got talking with that
wild-loo as hunter you, may have memes

 

 
 
  

.1 10 . John Max-atom Detective.

 

here lately, and nothing would do but he must
‘ come in to the fire. At first I was a little afraid
of him, but he talked so sensibly, after awhile,
and so like a Christian, that I really felt to re-
spect him. Poor man! he seems ike one that
has seen a great deal of trouble. Well. some
wa the conversation turned to the Le Forests,
an 'I was foolish enough to tell him all my
trouble. I couldn‘t help it; it seemed to be as
natural as if I was talking to my father."

“And what did he say?” asked May, quite
interested.

“ Not a word. He listened like an Indian. his
features immovable; but once or twice there
came a terrible expression over his face, and I
was afraid I had done wrong, for sometimes
such people take it upon themselves to revenfie
the wrongs of others. I forgot—he did spea ;

'he said: ‘My old Master will see to him ’—
meaning, I suppose, God. After he had gone, I
‘ ew so nervous and uneasy that it seemed to
me Icould scarcely live. I am glad you came
in, "for I felt as if there was such a cloud over
me.
. “ 1 wish you had come to my father with this
trouble in the first place,” said May, her face
ex ressing the genuine pity she felt.

‘He was a stranger to me; and, if he were
not, my situation "—she paused. She could not
tell the simple-hearted girl that the shafts of
scandal are as ready for the good and pure as
the fallen and imprudent. That the very name
that should call for sympathy from the commu-
nity. would he used unspari ly in ridicule and
blame; that even the best 0. them would won—
der if the widow was spreading her net for the
rich old widower, by (playing upon his sympa-
thy. No, no; she he suffered too much from
the even thou htless sport of her neighbors, to
lay herself liab e to their censure, even should it
be entirely uncalled for.

5' When my father knows of this, I am sure he
will call Mr. Le Forest to account,” said May.
“ 1 don’t believe he will keep a man in his em-
ploy who has acted so dishonestly. But I must
go; egg I may tell- papa that you will do the

- wor
» “Yes, I think I can; I will try my best, at
any rate, to please him.”

‘I am very sure you will,” said May. “I
will try and call upon you ofteuer; you must be
'lonely here. And you must let‘ your little girls
come and see me."

“ 0h, may we, sometimes, mamma?” cried
Helen, impulsively. “ I like her so very
much.”

“ So do I,” chimed in Mary, who stood hold-
in the hand of her twin sister.

y smiled; the mother promised; and, kiss-
ing the children, the young girl bade them all a
hasty good-by, and returned home.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
INSULTING THE TEACHER.

A GROUP of school-boys stood near the steps
of the only hotel that graced the town of A———.
Mr. Raphael Le Forest, lounging idly there,
smoking and pretending to rea , was yet listen-
ing eager-lite the’several voices engaged in a
  along the boys was an athletic

 

young fellow whose name was Ned Boylston

and o commonly went by the appellation o

Bully ed, on account of his pugilistic propensi-
ties. This boy was the worst fellow in town,
and gave the new teacher more trouble than all
the rest, and as he had several times conquered
him, the boy hated him with all the intensity of
his mean nature.

“ I say it’s all your own fault, Ned Boylston,”
cried Charley Grayson, a fair-haired boy; “ you
know you have tried more than once to kick up
a row, and nothing saved you from unishment
but Mr. Minot’s forbearance. If ’01 been the
teacher in that cistern case, I’d have beat you
to a iielly.”

“ hat is, if you could, Master Bread-andeut-
ter,” retorted the bully, turning angrily upon
him. “ I say old Minot’s a mean sneak, and I
hate him."

“ We always hate people who can conquer us,
at least some folks do, ’said another. “ We’ve got
a master now that knows his business, and if he
gives any of us a thrashing once in a while,
we deserve it.” Several boys chimed in in the
master’s defense, three or four took the side of
Bully Ned, and for a while there was a noisy
controversy, during which Bully Ned’s voice
could be heard above all the rest, declaring that
he would be even with him, he’d have his re-
venge yet, and sundry other exclamations
testifying to his dee hatred. At last the group
dispersed, all but ully Ned, who vowed that
he wouldn’t go to school yet, he’d go late just
expressly to irritate old Minot—and if be under-
topk to trouble him, he’d get the worst of it.

“ See here, my boy," said a voice behind him.
The lad turned. startled, perha expecting to
see Minot, for he was, in spite 0 his cruelty and
bravado, a great coward. “Come up into the

portico here; I have something to say to you,”

said Le Forest.

The boy followed him, evidently in a state of
great wonderment.

“ So you don’t like this new teacher, I under-
stand,” he said, in a low tone.

“No,” said the boy, reading a kindred spirit
in the evil black eyes that Were fastened upon
him; “ he's too confounded ugly, and whacks us

for nothing.”

" I heard you say you would like to he re-
veu ed upon him." '

“ o I should,” said the bully, pushing his
hands down deeper in his pookets, his dull eyes
lighted up. “I’d like to have my revenge for

one whifiplng at least.”

“ 0011 {on whip him?” asked Rafe.

“ Well, don’t know—I don’t ‘think I could
unless I got mighty mad. He’s pretty strong.”

,“ Well, I think I could hel you to your re-
venge in an easier way than hat.”

T e boy looked up. ,

“ How?” he said.

“ If you will follow my directions and keep
closeyyou’ll not only get all the satisfaction you

want out of him but earn five dollars from me.” ‘

The boy nodded his head with an expression
of intense satisfaction.

“ I’ll do it, by jingol” he said.

“Very well, then listen to me. Remember,

- you’re not to back on ”

t.
“ No, I won’t back out,” said the bully.

 

 

John Mar-ton, Detective. , ' II '

 

“ If you do, you loss the five dollars, and if
you inform against me, you lose the five dollars'
at if on do everything as I tell you, you shal
have t llS gold piece," and he held the coin up to

the boy’s eyes.

“ PM do it, by jingol” he said, stolidly.

“ Well, then, see here. You most go in rather
late. Does he punish you for that?”

“ He does, unless one has a good excuse,” re-
plied the boy.

“ And you will have no excuse?”

“ Not unless i make one."

“ Of course you will not do that. Now I’ll
tell you of a plan by which ou can mortify
him before the whole school— efore the young
ladies in the first classes, and the great boys
who are almost men. When he calls you up—
will he do that?”

“ He ’most always does."

“ Very well, then, when he calls you up, go;
and if he threatens to punish you, you have
only to say so loud that all the school will hear,
you’d better 1101 out who your mother is.”

“ Is that a l?” queried the boy.

“ That’s all; that will give you all the revenge
you want. I shouldn’t wonder if it sent him
from the town."

“ That would be bully,” said the boy.

“ Now you’ll be sure to do it?”

“ I’ll be sure.”

“ And after school come straight to my house,
and if I’m not there, my sister will be, with the
five dollars, which I’ll leave with her. I’ll try
and be home, however, for I should like to hear
the joke. See, it’s past nine ten minutes; you’d
better go now. It will be rich,though,” chuckled
Rafe, as the boy went off. “ Wouldn’t I like to
be there about that time—it will mortify him
to death—and serve him right, setting up such
ridiculous pretensions. I’d like to See his face—
and before those Avery girls too, the tifi-ltop
aristocracy of the town i” an off went to,
mightily delighted with his plan.

Bully Ned was no less pleased with his pros-
pective share of “ the fun ’ as he thoughtlesst
called it, and as he went along the road, 1i-Ll’eased
himself with fancying the dismay youn For-
est had predicted. He had rea con deuce in
Rafe, all the fast boys look up to him with
respect, and followed his handsome figure or
horse with unbounded admiration. The snow
in the hedges, the icicles endent from trees or
spouts, had no attraction or him. As he came
within sight of the school-house, his heart beat
faster for a moment, but he measured his own
proportions, and plucked up courage. He had
long promised himself a hand-to-hand fight with
the schoolmaster, and it worse came to worst,
why he could whip him—perhaps.

The School-house was an unpretentious, long,
one-story building, painted a greenish white.
From the outside of one of the windows. Bully
Ned could See the slender but well-knit form of
Mr. Minot. standing just in front of his desk,
apparently speaking to some class or individual.
He entered the hall and hung up his cap, then
opening the door, with an awkward step and
peculiar side-look at the master, he went in and
shuffled to his seat, winking to several kindred
sPirits who slyly put out their hand to pinch
his, or in some way impede his progress. The

 

master was quite bus with a class othe older
girls, explaining their esson in Geometr .

After the class was through and h taken
their seats, the master’s ey§ traveled toward the
place occupied by Bull ed. The boy looked
impudently up, niunc ing something in his
mouth, though eating in school was expressly
forbidden.

“ Ned, you can come this way,” said Mr.
Minot, in is usual quiet manner.

The boy arose, making contortions of coun-
tenancs, treading on the boy’s feet next to him
—overturning his neighbor’s slate, and setting
the little boys into convulsions of laughter.

“ Ned Boylston,” said the teacher, ‘ you were
late this morning.”

“ I know it,” re lied Ned, pouting his lips and
eyin the master efiantly.

“ ell, have you an excuse?”

“ Ain’t at one ’less make up one ” said Ned,
impatient y. “ I can do that if you like.”

‘ Speak respectfully, sir, or I shall thrash
you,” said Minot.

“ Perhaps you couldn’t,” retorted the boy.

“ Ned, what is the meaning of these actions?"
queried Mr. Minot, willing to give the boy a
chance to do better. for he u as averse to usin
extreme measures if it Could he helped; “w
you answer me civilly, once for all, why were
you late?” ' ,

“Because I wanted to he,” replied the boy,
half laughing.

“ You will remain in at recess, and after
school I shall punish you,” said Mr. Minot, still
keeping command of himsslf.

“Who cares for your punishment?” retorted
the boy; “ you’d better find out who your
mother isl” _

For a second there was dead silence. The
teacher sprung to his feet, every movement ex-

pressing agony of the deepest, most intense de-' '

scri tion. His face grew white up to the roots

of h s hair, and great droEs of anguish started _

to his brow, which was 1i e marble. His book,
which he had been holdin , fell from his hands;
his ash lips twitched an quivered, as did his
clinch hands. Then he came down swiftly
from his desk, and with almost superhuman

strength lifted the be , holdin him up at arm’s _

length, opened the oor of t 5 room beyond,
and sent him reeling to the extremest corner.
Everybod saw how his hands trembled and

his whole rams shook as he locked the door; H

and the little tender-hearted children laid their
heads on the forms before them and cried.
Goin back to his desk, he tried to command
himnfiif, but his eyes glared stran ely, and not a
vestige of color came back to his ace.

For the rest of the morning, he went through

with lessons and exercises deadly sick at heart, ,
and dismissed his school as quietly and calmly , -

as ever.

en he sat down to his desk. and for a mo-“
ment gave we to the emotion that, suppressed,
A few long-drawn ,
sobs. and he dashed the tears away, and sat ,

would have llled him.

thinking what to do.

“ Some enem has t the boy up to this ’he ‘
a“ sh p“ i

said, between ut teeth; “ some fiend, who

moi”

has no heart, no human feelings. 

 

 

 

 

’18 John Mar-ton, Detective.

It w Wednesday afternoon, and there was
no sch . Hour after hour the teacher sat
there. bowed down with rief. utterly pros-
trated in mind and body. rice, and once only,
had the daring boy within given any signs of
life; that was soon after the dismissal of the
school, when he threw himself violently a aiust
the door to test its strength, and then su lenly
gave up.

Till almost dark the nearly heart-broken man
.sat there, crushed and mortified. What would
be thought of this outrage? It would be upon
the lips of every person in town.

“ It bars my success in everything,” he mur-
mured. “ [thought here, in this quiet place, to
evade the scorn and curiosity of the vulgar rab-
ble; but even here fiends live, and I am dis-
graced. Curses on—no, no l”—and he shud-
dered. “God forgive me; I cannot do that.”

Presently the shadows deepened in the school-
room; the twilight was gathering, and the mas-
ter started from his seat.

He felt no anxiety about the parents of this
boy, as he was accustomed to have his own way.
and follow his own inclinations. If he had been
Eonea week, instead of aday they would hardly

ave expressed surprise. his father was a
coarse. brutal fellow, who had hardly the natu-
ral instinct of the dumb creature toward his
oflspring, and his mother drank constantly.

As poor Minot thought of these things. be
rather pitied than blamed the boy; but at the
same time a determination to find out, at all
risks, who had instigated him to such cruelty,
made his resolution half-savage.

He armed himself with a stick five feet in
len th, which the boys had hung behind his
cha r one morning, out of sport, and, unlocking
the door of the little closet, he went in. At first
it was qluite dark and only the quick breathing
of the ad could be heard; but by degrees he

saw him, crouched in a heap on the floor. his

forehead scowling. his face as ugly and deter-
mined as ever. .
As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to

the darkness, he went toward his apparatus-

box, and took something therefrom.
CHAPTER IX.
um BULLY SUBDUED.

Tome to the boy, he exclaimed in a stern

verge, ‘ ,.
say your prayers.
The bhy never moved.
“ I tell you to say your prayers,” reiterated the

'master, in a louder voice.

“ What for?" ueried the boy, tremblingly.

“ Because i on’t know as you’ll ever leave
this lace alive.”

“ on don’t dare kill me,” growled the boy,
beginning to whimper.

I dare anything in the mood I am now,” re-
turned the master, making a noise as if with the
lock of a pistol. '

“ 0h, Mr. Minot, don't murder mel” cried the
boy, now thoroughly fri htened.

‘ Say your prayers, tell you,” shouted the
master; " down on your knees!”

“ Ohl master—obi Lord—I—I—I don’t know
any prayers.” he almost Shrleke‘d, after an effort
of memo

ry-

 

 

“Very well, then you must go without them,"
said the teacher, quietly.

The boy shouted, frantic with fear. He
caught his master by the knees and begged and
implored for his life, sobbing wildly, his words
almost lost in sobs.

“ How did you dare insult me in that ublic
miiitiaerl” asked the teacher, apparently so tened
a 1 e.

“ I—l—I—somebody told me to,” cried the

boy.

“ Who told you. sir?”

“ I—I—can’t tell.”

“ Very well, you can have your choice. Tell
me who told you—or take the consequences,” and
again that ominous click.

“ Ohl Mr. Minot—I’ll tell. I'll tell—but I
sha’n’t get my five dollars,” sobbed the boy.

“Oh! you were bribed, were you! And who
bribed you?”

“ It—it was—-it was Mr. Rafe Le Forest; now
let me go home." There was utter silence for a
few moments.

“ I have concluded not to punish you with
death,” said Mr. Minot. in an altered voice,
“ but you have got to stay here all night alone,
and to—morrow, in the presence of the whole
school, beg my pardon and tell them publicly
that you were bribed to make the insulting re-
mark you did by Mr. Rafe Le Forest who of-
fered you five dollars to follow his advice.”

“I want to go home,” blubbei'ed the boy.

“ You can’t go home,” said the master, stern-

ly. “Once for all, I am determined to break up '

your insubordinatiou.”

“ I’m hungry,” sobbed the boy piteously.

“ I will ve you enough to heel) you from
starving," e said, and left the closet, returning
with some food.

“ I don’t want it—-I want to go borne," shouted

the boy.
“If I do whip you, Ned, I’m not sure but I
shell out you all to pieces, ” said Minot, “ so you
had better not rouse me. In this closet you have
got to stay to—ni ht, at all eVents. and if you are
not willing to fo low my advice in the morning
I’ll keep on there all day to-morrow and to-
morrow night, too.” ‘ ‘

There was no more contention. The boy,
thoroughly subdued, inwardly muttering curses
against Rafe Le Forest. crouched down against
the wall, and the teacher turning the key with-
out compunction, placed it in his pocket, and set
011’ for home.

The next do evgfiybody remarked how hag-
gard and ill he ook —scarcely speaking except
when necessary, never smilingJ upon successes
that had been wont to receive is approbation,
but moodily going through the first exercises
of the day. Then he went into the closet and re-
turned with Ned. A more thoroughly shamed,
crestfallen and confused face and manner it
would be hard to find. Ned had slept upon the
floor. His hair, which was rather long, hung
uncoutth over his brows, and his eyes were
bloodshot from violent crying.

“This young gentleman has something to tell
the school,” said the teacher, standing up and
leaning against the desk.

‘ I—I’m sorry I spoke so.” said Ned sheepish-
ly. “ I ask your pardon,“ he added, with em

 

l
l
l

 

 

John Mouton. Detective. 13

 

other hint. “It was Mr. Rafe Le Forest told
me to insult Mr. Minot, and said he would give
me five dollars it I Would.”

There was a dead silence in the school. Mr.
Le Forest’s admirers were ashamed of him, and
the young; girls looked deprecatingly at each
other.

“ Now you can go out to the pump and wash
your face,” said the teacher, scarcely able to re-
press a smile, troubled as he Was, at Ned’s queer
appearance. The boy went out ohedieutly,
without making griiimces as was his wont, came
in again and slunk to his seat, no longer pos-
sessed by the spirit of rebellion—utterly and for-
ever conquered, while Minot went on with his
dutiesas it nothing had happened. There was
at times, however, a florceiiess in his manner, a
determination in his eye that assured those who
were thoughtful that the end was not yet. And
it was not.

The boys who had seen Rafe on that memor-
able morning on the hotel steps, did not fail to
remind him of his cowardly action in more ways
than one. -

“ What have you been doing, Rafe?” asked
Rose a day or two after. “All the girls are
talking about it.”

“ Talking about what?” asked the young fel—
low sullenly.

“ Wh , your hirin or bribing a boy to insult
the tone er,” replied ose.

“ Nonsense—there’s nothing in it," said Rafe.

“Yes there is, for -everybody’s got it, even
May's father, Mr. Rogerly. It’s town’s talk.”

“Let it be town’s talk—who cares?” queried
Rafe testily. “ It’s a lie, anyway,” he added, a
moment after.

“ Why, Nell Avery told me; she heard every
word of it—and said Mr. Minot turned white as
a sheet.”

“ Did he?” cried Rafe, with a boisterous laugh.
“ How I should like to see him turn white~and
cold too!” he muttered.

“ Yes, and she said all the girls pitied him, he
seemed to suffer so. And he took the boy and
pitched him head over heels way across the
room.” »

“ Capital—capital!” shouted Rafe, “ quite a
comedy. How graceful his highness must have
looked trip ing up the young rascal. I wonder
the school idn’t pitch into him.”

“ Well, they didn’t, but they’ll pitch into you,
I expect, for they all take the master’s part.
Rate, I’d have done something a little more
genteel, it I had wanted to distinguish myself.”

“Oh, you hold your tongue; what do girls
know about such matters?”

“ I know that it has made you very unpopu-
lar ” said Rose.

. ‘ And be hanged to it i" muttered Rate, light-

ing a cigar.

d ‘ lgut you’ve no idea what was done the next
ay.

“The prig threatened to shoot me, I suppose.
Let him try it."

“ No, he didn’t threaten at all—but he made
the boy confess before the whole school' just
What you had said, and the bribe you ofl'ered,
beSIdea asking his pardon.”

Rite stopped smoking for a moment—that,
Pombly was mortifying; there were. some girls

 

the-re in whose good graces he wished toatand
high.

“The old Harryl"he muttered between his
teeth. “ Oh, well, that's only a part of the play
-—it will all come right."

 

“ Did you hear of that affair at the school—
house, May i” asked old Mr. Rogcrly.

May replied that she did.

“ A most disgraceful thing for Rate Le Forest
to shoulder,” continued the old man. “ Upon
my word, it Minot don’t thrash him within an

inch of his life, I don’t think he has the spirit of i

a man.” ,

“ Why, brother—that is not like thee,” said
his sister quietly.

“Yes it is, just like me. If the poor fellow
has any private troubles of his own to carry
along. I say a man who would drag them out
and parade them before strangers, ought to be
made to suffer, and if the law can’t touch him, a
horsewhip can."

“ What do you suppose is the troublei” asked

Ma quietly.
“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Rogerly, “and
what is more, I don’t know as I want to. a
young man is working for himself, steadily and
quietly. I like him. He don’t smoke cigars,
nor sport fast horses. You never see him loung—
ing a out the hotel or bowling alley. He dresses
and acts like a gentleman. and intrudes himself
and his opinions upon nobody. I, for one sha’n’t
stand h and see him abused, so let Ellie 
Forest ook out—if worse comes to worst, it
will be worst for him. He’s a nuisance—that’s
my mind, and it I thou ht he ever dared 'to
come after my May as a over—I—I don’t know
but I should be tempted to shoot him.”

“There’s no danger, father,” said May mer-
rily, “ Rafe don’t even come here now, and Rose
very seldom. She thinks I know about the cot-
tage case, and is ashamed, (per-harm.”

“Ought to be, I shoul say,’ muttered her
father. “ I only wish the widow had called
upon me in her strait. Her husband was a
fellow—I knew him ver well. I’d have tried ‘
to help her like a Christian, if I don’t profess to p
be one. As it is, I shall look into the matter, I

remiss on, and ii Le Forest has taken advan-
ge of t e poor woman, why let him look out—
somebody will take his salary in that ‘case.
And in the mean time she shall have as much
as she can do, for those shades are goin to be a
novelty and will have a long run I don doubt.”

“ That is just like thee, Joseph,” said Miss
Hannah who had an unbounded admiration’tor
her brother, “and I do hope if that Le Forest
has been up to any such tricks he will be right ,
smartly punished. It is time such things should
be put an end to. I havo heard some stories'

l

about him, that if they are true. and I believed . ‘

in capital punishment—I should like to see him

hungg” and having delivered this speech with ‘ '

more energy than was usual with her, sho left
the breakfast-table. . ‘

CHAPTER X.
THE nonsmwarrrmo. g
“HULLOI what’s the fuss here?” cried Paul

 

law signs of a general commotion.

Le Forest, at entering his home one aireriing'léc'lfiv~

 

 

 

-
I

weepin in the parlor, her mother walking the

floor so hing hysterically. ,
“ (5h! Paul, I’ve sent for the doctor, but I’m

afraid he’ll die,” exclaimed his wife, pausing

lonfinough for a tragic shriek at sight of her

hus nd.

“ Who’ll die? what is it—what have you sent
for the doctor for?”

“ Rafe, father,” said Rose, pausing in her sob-
hing. " He’s upstairs—almost dead, and won’t
let anybody in his room.”

“Up—stairs-a]most dead—won’t let any-

\body in his room! Why what in the name of
heaven do you mean?”

“,He came home in a carriage, a back from

'the livery stable—and he had to be helped out
and u stairs, and he was as white as a sheet—
and m sure he's fell or something—and he
won’t let one of us in. How do I know but
what the poor boy is trying to kill himself?"

“ Pshaw!” exclaimed Paul Le Forest, “ he
hasn’t the courage to do anything desperate.
He’s got into a fight I sup ose—a drunken row or
something. It would be ust like him."

_ “ Mr. Le Forest,” cried the madam savagely,
“you’re a brute. It‘s only lately that you've
got into such ways of talking about your own

I; ' children—your own flesh and blood.”

“ Because I am driven to desperation,” he

. muttered.

“ Well, if you do have trouble outside, I don't
see why you should bring it into the bosom of
your family—to your own sacred hearthstone,”

,sobbed Mrs. Le Forest. attempting a touch of
'the pathetic, “ but that’s always the way with
men—there ain’t one of them fit to live—not one
of them.” '
f‘ Perhaps not,” echoed Mr. Le Forest, in a

3 « hard voice; “ pity they couldn’t all bekilled off,

and the world given up to the dominion of
those tender, gentle beings we call women. But
I’m going up to Kate’s. I’ll soon know what’s
the matter.’ '

J“ On! step. Paul—there, now there’ll be trou-

' hie,” cried Mrs. Le Forest, following him with

frantic haste. “ Paul, stop—let me go; you
- ain’t his mother—”

“ But I’m his father,” resolutely said Paul Le
Forest. and taking his wife with no weak grasp
by the arm, he pushed her inside the door and
locked it, Yputting the key in his pocket.

“ There 1 be murder done,” raved the half-
distracted woman, running from place to place,
but finding no 5 unless she jum out of
the'window. “ our father acts late y as if he

' was crazy, and I ain’t sure but what he is. This
two weeks back he has absolutely frightened me
out of m senses, what with his talking in his
sleep an his crossness to you children. which he

' never was before, never. And now here comes
Rafe home, acting like a mad creature, too.
The whole house seems upside down—actually,
and I shall lose my senses, I know I shall. ”

ZIPerhaps we had better all go crazy together,”
an

“ You needn’t laugh, child; I have had trouble
enough in my married life to set some folks
0 —but there, I’d scorn to disclose my bus-
ba ’I failings before his children.”

“ Well. I’ve seen enough of them lately.” said
Me, with an undutiful pout. “ Every once in

 

 

y Y

14 John Marston. Detective.

a while the girls say, ‘ Why, I thought you were
going to ive a great party. and they torment
my life a most out of me. I‘m sure father said
last fall that I should give the largest party of
the season, and now see how he flies off if any-
body speaks to him about it.”

“ On, my, just hear that!” cried Mrs. Le For-
est, in an agony of fear, as a heavy footfall
came down over her head. “ What are they
doin up—stairs?”

“ just think Rafe has been fighting,” said
Rose, listening. “ He has made Mr. Minot an
enemy—it was a mean thing to do.”

“ I wish that Minot had never come to this
town,” said Mrs. Le Forest, spitefully.

Rose quietly sighed. From the first her heart
had been interested in the handsome schoolmas—
master, and though she neurly hated May, be-
cause her attractions had drawn him to her side,
and disliked the course her brother had taken,
yet she could not but confess to herself that
whoever he might be, it would have been hap-
Einess enough for her to be permitted tonumber

erself among his friends.

Meantime Mr. Le Forest had gone to the head
of the stairs, and for a moment stood there lis-
tening. There was not a sound that indicated
life. He rapped at the door—still utter silence.

“ Rafe!” he, cried, in a loud voice. There was
no answer.

Quietly taking a bunch of keys from his pocket
he began tryin them one after the other. fitting
them to the loc . At last, after some pains, the
door flew 0 en, and disclosed Rafe, who had
only diveste himself of his coat and vest. He
was lying upon the bed, his face hidden upon his
folded arms.

“ What does this mean, sir?" asked his father,
in a stern voice.

There was no answer.

“ A1re you hurt? What is the matter with

out’

“ N othing,” sullenly muttered the young man,
not once moving his muffled face.

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing:‘ that’s not the an-
swer I want," said Paul Le Forest, sternly.
“Have you been fighting?”

There was no answer. .

“ Will on answer me?” and it was at this
time that is foot came down upon the floor.

Still Rafe would not speak, and his father,
striding up to the bed, caught him by the shoul-
der and turned him hastily over. To his con-
sternation Rafe’s eyes were red and swollen, as
if he had been crying.

“I wish iyou would let me alone," he cried,
fiercely, wit a savage gesture. “ I didn’t ask
you to come here, and I don’t wish to be spoken
to

“ But what is the matter. boy?” urged his
father in a softer voice. “ What have you been
doing? I tell you I will know about it.”

“ Go out on the street and you’ll hear, I dare
say,” said Rafe, in the same sullen voice.

“Have you been fighting?”

“ No, I tell you.” x

“ Has—has that Minot anything to do with it?"

“10:33 him i” cried Rafe, savagely, starting
up n .

Paul’s lips grew pale and he bit them her-
vously.‘ _ '

 “an”

 

 

 

John Mar-ton, Detective. ‘ 13 . g i

 

“ I’ll know about this matter," he cried,
hoursely.

“ I met him this noon,” said Rafe, in a broken
voice, “ on the steps of the Adams House, and
before I knew what he was about, or could move,
he cornered me so that I couldn’t help myself,
and "—his hands clinched, and his face purpled
—“ struck me with a heavy rawhide, tied on to a
stick. I’ll have his heart’s blood yet.”

“ It was never done for nothing," said his
father, in a low voice. “ Is—is that re ort true,
that you Bent somebody to the schoo to taunt
him about his mother?"

“ Yes, and I’ll do it again,” muttered Rafe.

“ No you won’t,” growled the eldest Le Forest,
growing white ” no, ncr—you won’t do it again.
You were fool enough to try it once—he horse-
whi you, and I don’t blame him.”

“ ether!” cried Rafe, savagely, fixing his
glaring eyes u on him.

“ I tell you don’t blame him. What do you
know about him? What right had you to insult
him in that public manner?’

Rafe's exclamation was an oath in reply.
“ You know, if I didn’t,” he said, coarsely, ‘ for
I never heard any thing from anybody but you.
I’ve heard you speak of it a hundred times.”
Paul’s face grew still whiter and his brow more
lowering.

“I tell you you were a fool I” he cried. “ Not
knowing the facts of the case, you have acted
like a double-distilled fool; and I am glad you
have had a heating for your pains.”

Rafe, at this, almost foamed at the mouth
with rage.

“So this is all I receive,” he cried, hoarsely;
“instead of a Vindicator, I find my own father
exulting and rejoicing over my defeat. If any
1one had treated you so, by Jove, I’d have killed

1m.

‘5 And suppose any one had' insulted your
mother’s name?”

“ My mother has not injured her own fair
fame,” said Rafe.

At this the elder Le Forest started, bending
upon his son a look of mingled doubt and inquiry.

“ What are Myou talking about—what do you
know of this inot’s mother?” he asked. -

“ Su pose I ask you the same question?”
querie Rafe, defiantly. \

“ You had better be careful what you say
about it to anybody,” he said, in a smothered
voice—“ let me tell you, ou had better be care
ful. It is none of your usiness, at all events.”

“ I’ll make it my business,” muttered Rafe

“ to come up square with him—I’ll be revenged ~

if I die for it."

“ You had better let the whole matter rest
where it is,” said his father, regaining his com-

sure for he had seemed violently agitated.
‘ Lay by for a while, and as I am going to New
York on business, I will find you a place. In
time the whole affair will be forgotten and blow
over. I have been plannin for some months
for you to go to the city,‘ on have idled and
driven about now, long enough. It is time
that your wild oats were sown, and that you
learn some kind of business. You are nearly
twenty-one, and I reproach myself that I have
allowed so many opportunities to .”

“ ' be hanged!” mut Rafe.

 

“ Meantime your mother and sisters must be
your company. From what I can hear of
young Minot, he will have the sympathy of
the whole community: it’s no use for you to 
try and fight against it, or to endanger your s'
own life by violence toward him." J

“ It’s deuced strange,” muttered Rafe, again; “3‘.
“ I never heard you speak a good word for him . ~ 
before.” ,‘

“Nor have I spoken a good word for him 
now,” said Le Forest, in the same sup ressed
voice. “ I have no love for the fellow, assure it
you; on the contrary, I look upon him as a 
sneaking hypocrite, who endeavors to gain the  ,‘fi
good opinion of every one by his cunning and .5
overreaching. He has contrived to make him- ' "
self a general favorite, especially among the
women; but his downfall will come, as sure as
you or I live. It is true I know some things
that might ruin him, were they to reach the
public ear; but it is not the time to attempt it
now. Keep dark, and I promise you you shall
have your reven e; and those who now fawn =
upon him in sp to of any thing that ma be. ‘
said to his disadvantage, will cast him 0 asxi
if he had been a viper. Whatdo you thinko! *
goin to the city?”

“ ’11 go anywhere,” said Rafe, sullenly; “but
mind, I’m not to be deprived of pocket-money.
A fellow can‘t live in the city as he can out
here, and I’ve been used to a certain sortot
style, so you must let me has it up.” '

“You’ll wanta fast horse, suppose?” said the v
father sneeringly. .-

“ No; but I shall probably 0 with those who ’
own them,” replied Rafe. “ shall not shone
néylgeeding; you may depend upon that," he .
a

“ We’ll talk about that some other time,”.said,
Mr. Le Forest. > ~ » -'

“ Rafe’s been horsewhipped l” exclaimed  V .
crimsoning. “Oh! mother, I’ll never show my
face on the streets.” ‘ _ ‘

“ What did Rafe let him do it for?” cried his  -
mother. _“ Had he no spirit! Then he’s none of '
mine; I disown him.” ‘ . ‘ 

As before there was a general wonder—some ~
applauding the young man; among the latter
was May’s father, old Rogerly. 

“ I don’t approve of street fights ” he said, 4
one evening. as the young man sat talking with
May, “ but I’m glad , the boy was punished.  Ii.
befits you put it on him well." ' ‘ .

inot blushed.  - 5‘

“I regretted the matter as soon as it was v ,
over,” he said, candidly, “and I should never '
have done it it he had made mea frank a logy -‘
or even shown some shame for what has had "
donegvbut his brazen defiance exasperated mo. g
and I am only too glad that I did him so little
harm. I ex ct he d like to shoot me.” - ‘
“Paugh! e’s too greatacoward,” saier u
Roglerly. - ‘ ‘

‘ t seems your father exonerates me,”Iaid »~
Mr. Minot to the smiling Mamas her father  «I,
the room. . - - a.

“ My principles are decidedly puposedtoviohnt a, ,
measures,” said Aunt Hannah, lin her 
out of the blue stocking she was man ‘ng; “ but 1‘.
I couldnot help. thinking thee gave young.“ T“

r

   
   
  
 
 
 
    
 

 

.4 Ve—‘anr-v. ,-

3's.»

‘94 l. .s;vys~..«.,«..w-; «w. "him. .,

 

" others.

13 John Mareton. Detective.

 

Le Forest a lesson that he has needed ever since
he has been out of frocks."

The young man seemed pleased that the
Quaker approved of the act, and changed the
subject by making some trifling remark to

yo .

CHAPTER XI.
TEE THREAT on THE MAD HUNTER.

“I WILL listen to thee, old Master, and I will
still try to obey thee. Keep my hands from
shedding blood; but, oh Master, I have been
sorel tempted."

Th 3 was the prayer of the mad hunter. His
“ lodge in the vast wilderness ” was alittle hut,
composed of rough-hewn logs. A mat made of
the skin of some animal he had shot in his excur-
sions lay before the door; his bed, a collection
of skins, was tumbled together in one corner. A

a hung suspended upon some long nails driven

nto the wall, beside a rifle and a powder-horn.
The only things that might remind one of civili-
zation were the little sheet-iron stove that stood
opposite the door, and a pile of old pamphlets,

’ mostly almanacs, on the shelf.

Going to the corner of the room, with a little
sh‘ck he dug the dirt out of a knot-hole in the
floor, until he uncovered, in this singular hid-
ing-place, a small key, of which he possessed
himself. Then, with many cautious looks and
movements, he withdrew a little sliding piece of

‘bark which had a peared apart of the log on
which it was, disc osing a square hole cut in the

 

- I timber of the wall; from this hole he withdrew

a box—an ebony box, of costly workmanshi ——
to which be fitted the silver ey which be ad

With the box in his hand he crouched down
upon the bed of skins, lifted the lid, and re-
mainedalong time lost in observation of its
contents. Could We at this time have looked

, taken from the knot-hole.

/ over his shoulder we should have seen a minia-

ture case containing a lovely picture—a group
of three—of a young and beautiful woman, not
more than twenty, but evidently the mother of
two children, one of whom, an infant girl, nes-
tled in her arms; the other a. boy of three,
whose curly head nestled against her shoulder.
Thirty years before this day, when the mad
hunter sat looking at these ictures in his rude
cabin, John Marston lived I: the city of New

" York, as happy and proud 9. man as walked its

streets. Successful in his profession, acknowl-
ed eda man of talent, wit a rich and beauti-
‘f wife whom he loved to idolatry, and of
'whom he was excessively road—with two
charming children—earth an heaven for him
were flooded with sunshine.

In an hour, without warning, the darkness
fell. That wife of whom he was so proud, and
the echo of whose l‘ivgihtest footstep ran long in
his heart, sloped th another, a gay young
man of society unmarried, and known to be
nnprinclpled. himself too honorable to suspect

engrossed in the duties of his profession,
he had never suspected how vanity fashion,
flattery was undermining her young teet, until
she sunk at once from his sight.

In her flight the love of the mother seemed

I still too powerful to t aside, for she took with
1. her the by girl w never more would thrill

impetus with his foot. Bees

 

his ear with her silver prattle nor gladden his
eyes with the gleam 0 her golden ringlets float-
ing over his breast.

From that cruel day upon which the dark-
ness descended, Mr. Marston had never emerged
into the sunshine of life. For a time he strove
to obscure the sharpness of injured pride and
betrayed love in the flames of the wine-cup;
gradually his mind became unsettled; for sev-
eral years he was the inmate of a lunatic
asylum, from which he escaped, and since when
his friends had ascertained nothing of his fate.

in these long and miserable ears the ruined
mind had recovered nearly its ormer clearness;
but some thoughts, sights and memories there
were which would throw it into confusion
again. And-in all this weary time, one purpose,
sometimes very distinctly, at others more re-
motely, floated in his brain—vengeance!

The name of the man who had taken his wife
from him was Le Forest. This fact may ac-
count for the other fact of the mad hunter hav-
ing become known as hauntin the vicinit for
the last two years, or since e advent o the
agent’s family in the villa e.

That agent would have s uddered in his shoes
had be seen the hunter rise up from looking at
those portraits carefully return them to their
hidin -place, take down his gun from the wall,
load t, and matter to himself:

“ He is coming through the woods up by Red
Spring," he said, aloud, talking with himself, as
was his usual custom when quite alone. “ He
will cross of! at Stanville—take the pike-road
and come down to Red is ring. There I will
meet him. Let me see; w ere 15 my ink-horn?
0h, here it is; this I will put in my belt, in old
pen beside it—and then when I meet him Will.
have justice. Only, old Master,” and he pious-
ly raised his eyes, “let me not take thy ven-

eance out of thy hands. Restrain me, old

aster, for in thy good time the van eance will
surely fall, and I would not have b ood upon
my hands. Does he know me?” he continued,
as if asking himself the question; “ yes, he
knows me. He knew me the first time he met
me, and he saw the hate my heart would not
let my face conceal. Yes, Le Forest, the
wronged man hates ye worse than he hates the
cruel, painted panther, but he will not risk his
eterna salvation by bathing his hands in your
accursed blood.”

It was true that Le Forest, who had the day
before set ofl on a journey on horseback, would
take the route indicated by the Words of the
mad hunter. When he came to the Red S ring,
he let his horse stop to drink. It was a so itary
place-not a habitation to be seen far and near
—no signs of life up rent save in the little
snow-birds who hop from twig to twig.

“I wonder if that old fellow ives anywhere
hereabouts,” he said to himself. peerin around.
" Hold! hallo! let go that bridle!” an while Le
Forest made an efl’ort to reach a pistol concealed
in his breast, the mad hunter gave hishorse an

shied, and Le
Forest caught at the bridle. n a moment the
hunter’s ride was at his head.

“ Dismounti" he cried, sternly.

“ Who are you?" exclaimed the dismayed
agent.” .

Q

John Marston. Detective. 1 9

 

“ One who has an account to settle with you,”
was the stern reply. “ Dismount, I tell you, or
I will shoot you. t wouldn’t disturb my dreams
at all to have your death on my conscience.”

“.Then you intend to kill me?” said Le Forest,
slowly leaving his horse, his face ashy pale.

“ I have received a message from old Master,”
said the hunter. sternly, “ and I shall obey him.
Keep your hands ofl’ your side. Stop; I’ll re
lieve you of your pistol if you have one. Don’t
move or PM shoot you. But I must follow old
Master’s advice. I have had lyour life in my
hands more than once, Paul e Forest; your
heart has been covered with my rifle three (lif—
ferent times, and each time the voice of old
Master sounded in my ear, saying, ‘ Don’t,’ and
I forbore. Sit down there, you villain! I've
something to say to you!” and the man shud-
dered with hate from héad to foot.

Le Forest sat down. It was a still, cold day,
but he wiped the perspiration from his beaded
forehead, again and again. He strove to rally,
toaddress his formidable companion in some
manner that should disarm his resentment, but
he could not command himself even to speak.

“ Now, Paul Le Forest, I’ve something to set—
tle with you for—not on my own account—that
time hasn’t come yet— but it will, when old
Master wills it. There lives near you apoor
widow with two children. Do you know them?”
1' “byes, I know them,” the man articulated,

as v.

“To their sorrow,” returned the hunter.
“Now, old Master has sent me for you.”he
cried, as if seized with a sudden frenzy. “He
says you are not fit to live among men, and he
teis me to kill you and throw you into Red
River.”

“My God i” exclaimed Le Forest, throwing
himself upon his kness, “don’t kill me—have
mere u nme,”he cried.

“ out pray to me,” exclaimed the man,
s aking in quick, piercing tones, “pray to old

aster, for he says you must die. If you want,
1’il' give you time to in , but you must be
quic about it. Maybe (5’ help you—I can’t.”

Believing that his last hour was come the
miserable man raised his eyes and hands to
Heaven, but feeling in his vile heart that he

could expect no mercy there, he covered his V

eyes with his hands, and in a stifled voice cried:
“Oh Lord—have mercy on my poor wife—my
poor children i”

“ Your wife! your children i” cried the mad
hunter in a greater fury than before, losing the
strange calm that had characterized his move-
ments, “ where is my wife? Where are my poor
children? Die! you viper.”

He pulled the trigger—it snapped but missed

e. \

“Old Master says wait a minute," said the
mad hunter, his frenzy subsiding somewhat,
“and while you’re praying, gust put in a few
words for that poor widow an her two be] less
children, whom you have ruined. Ask old as-
ter to forgive you for the vile deception you
have practiced upon them—tell Him that you
are sorry, and that you are glad that your
wicked practices are shortly to put an end to
by the man you dishonored. Pray!”

. And strangely enougb,in a trembling voice, .

 

the man did pray, even for the widow and the
children. There was fear but no heart in that

prayer.

“ Ahl that does you good,” sneered the mad
hunter. “ The near prospect of death makes a
man wonderfully pious. Strange that it is so,
since we can see death written on everything,
and know that it is surely coming. Let me see
—is there anything else you ought to pray for?”

“For Gods sake, kill me at once,’ said Le
Forest, who, sitting there with the murderous
muzzle pointed constantly at his head, felt all
the agony of a protracted death-struggle. Sud-
denly achange seemed to come over the mad
hunter.

“Stop,” he said, standing in a listening atti-
tude, “old Master says that I am not to kill
you this time, but that if I spare you, you must
make restitution to the widow and her or bans.
You said a moment ago you would be wil ing to
do anything for her or them—are you still of the‘
same mind?"

“I’ll do anything—anythin
spare my life,” pleaded Le
sprin ing up in his heart. .

“ ell, old Master has told me that you must
execute and record arelease of the mortgage
you hold on her property. --

“ I’ll do it,” exclaimed Le Forest, the color
coming back in his lips, “ anything," he mut-
tered, “to get out of your crazy power.” '

“ Well," said the mad hunter, ‘ we shall see.
I’ve got some ink in here, and a pen that old, .,
Master gave me himself—~50 cu perceiVe every,
thing is as ready as it .would e in a court of jus- ‘
tine—where maybe we shall have you one of
these days,” he added.

Sa ing this, he took from the crown of his
hat, aving first secured the gun and pistol, a
sheet of, paper. and apen-ful of ink from his
vial, and seating himself upon a fallen log, he
began to write outa release of the mortgage ‘
upon the widow’s property. ,‘ ‘

“Here,” he said, “sign this pa&er; I am the '
witness (and be read it aloud). hen are you
coming back?” _

“ On Monday,” said Le Forest. . “

“Don’t lie to me.” cried the hunter, laying
his hand on the istol. *

“ I promised r. Rogerly I would come back
on Monday—and I always keep my word,” said
the a cut. V

“ , you do. Very well; then 1you must go
on Manda next to the county cler ’s oflce, and
acknowl ge this for record before him, as it is
best,not to have to call in two witnesses. And 
now, upon two conditions, old Master tells me I‘ -
may spare your life this time. The first condi-n‘

you say, only
crest, new hope

tion is this: To meet me at L—ville on Monday . ‘

at nine or twelve o’clock. The other condition
is, that if you raise a talk or fuss about it, now ‘
orgigreafter, I will assuredly blow your brains _ ,
ou . '

Le Forest solemnly promised to comply with U _

all the mad hunter said, and signed the papers "
with no little tre idation. ,
“ have sign it,” he said, “and given my
word." '

“ Well. now I will sign as witness.” ' ‘

He took the pen wrote a few words. and held I ‘

the paper before 9 shrinking eyes of his only

L, l

 

 

18 , John Mar-ton, Detective:

 

' panion, who read, at a glance, a name which
’ ' evidently had power to blanch his face—“ JOHN
MARSTON, Detective."
Then, stepping aside, and appearing to listen
attentively, he added:
“ There go; old Master says, ‘Vengeance is
mine.’ Now "—and he fired off the agent’s pis-
, to! so close to his head that the wretched man
sprung forward with an exclamation of fear.
“ There, take your pistol, get your horse, and be
of! with you. And look here—be careful of that
paper you put in your bosom the other day. It
may have to be accounted for some time, you
know.”

. Le Forest, if it was possible, grew paler than
before. Mounting with affected leisure, still nar—
rowl y eying the mad hunter, who watched every
motion, he put spurs to his horse, or rather the
whip, and was soon out of si ht.

The mad hunter sprung orward, leaning on

. his rifle. Once he raised it to his shoulder,
aightin the fast-disappearing rider, as if he

' would ( raw upon him; then slowly lowering it,
he took a long breath, and whispered between

4 his shut teeth something about ‘old Master.”
'* 3 Then, slowly dragging his steps, one after the

' other he said to himself:

' “ Weill well! well! little Emily, you’ll have
 good times now. Won’t little Emily’s blue eyes
«r shine when she sees the paper—the paper that
f, sets her free? She’ll cl ip her hands, as she used
if! ' ‘ to, when I came home, a long time ago. She
‘“ won’t know that 1 did it. because I’m her father.
‘Oh no; she wouldn’t believe that if I swore it;
and how could I swear it when I’m not at all
certain myself? Maybe little Emily’s dead, and
this poor widow has stolen her blue eyes. I’ve
got a rininng in my head this morning that
I troubles. can’t just think straight. Is it or
> isn’t it little Emily that I’m going to give the
1 paper to? Oh. no, it’s the widow, over there by

he fields. Well, I’ll keep it safe, here, in the
crown of my hat. Nobody’ll ever find it there,
Began» I’ve got a handsome red sash around my

a . '

' He stopped long enough to secure the release

, in the lining of his grotesquely-ornamented hat;

‘ then strode on, muttering to himself, and brand-

ishing his gun in a manner calculated to excite
alarm in any chance traveler.

CHAPTER XII.

1 ram ACCIDENT.

Norr man days after the events of the last
' chagxter, Le crest hail occasion to visit the city
of ew York on business for his employer.
, During his stay he was riding up Broadway in

an omnibus. The vehicle was nearly full. A
' woman was crossing, carefully, from the oppo-
site walk, a bundle in her hand. As she assayed
to mount the steps, she threw from a handsome
‘ ,but care—lined and sorrowful face her thick,
green Vail. She had nearly reached the floor of
r the omnibus. when she looked up, met Le
v Forest’s p‘erciu eyes, caught her breath, gave
"‘ one shrie , lost er balance, and fell upon the
pavement, her bundle flying from her hands and
, rolling into the street. I

Soon a. crowd gathered; the insensible form
was picked up and carried into a store near by.
» Soon the poor woman opened her eyes. A sigh

  
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
    
   
   
   
   
  

 

-..~\

   

-J\V
.

 

that seemed to come from the very depths of her
heart artecl her lips.
“ here do you live, my good woman?” asked

'a benevolent-looking individual.

“ 162 —— street,” said the woman, fecbly;
then. suddenly missing something, she cried,
wildly: “ Where is my bundle? It was work—
it was not mine. Oh, I have lost it, and can
never, never pay for it.”

“ Gentlemen, there is a carriage at the door,”
said some one on the outer circle of the crowd.
The woman raised her head and looked wildly
about her, shuddering as she did so, but the
speaker was not‘to be seen. Some one led her to
the hack, assisted her in, and the vehicle drove
off. The man who had procured the back was
Paul Le Forest. He had stopped the omnibus
almost as soon as the fainting woman was car-
ried away, and now he stood looking after the
back as it drove through the crowded thorough-
fare. Meanwhile the bewildered woman, now
sobbing under her vail, was being rapidly whirled
toward her home. Leaving the back with diffi-
culty, she entered the house. mounted to the
fourth story, and tottered into her room, al-
ready occupied by a cleanly old Irishwoman,
who looked at her with undisguised pity, and
the murmured words: “ Sech a leddy as she
must have been to come to this!”

“ An’ how are ye now ma’ami” asked the old
woman, pausienig from her work on the coarse
shirts that fill her lap. “ I told ye I thought
ye was too w’ake to try and git out. Has it hurt-
ed ye much i”

‘ I’m ver ill indeed, good Bridget; and, what
is worse, I ainted in the street, and my bundle
of work went—I don’t know where.”

“ Oh! the Lord be merciful to us now, sure-
ly,” cried the old woman, in real distress.
“ What’s to be done’l Thim men is ugly divils
if anything goes wrong. They’ll swear ye sold
the whole, and, maybe, put ye in prison.’

“A boy and a man is come here ma’am, and
the boy brdught this,” said a stout 'bernian at
the door.

With a shriek of jo the woman sprung for-
word it was the bund e of work. .

“ There. now. glory be to the saints,” ejacu-
lated old Mrs. Bridget, piously.

“ An’ the gintleman says as won’t you be let-
ting him come up to see ye’si”

The woman gave a terrified glance at her
neighbor, hid her face in her hands for a brief
moment, muttered, “Yes, perhaps I may find
out,” and said, aloud:

“Tell him to come up.” .

“It’s I’ll be putting mesilf out of the way,
then,” muttered old Bridget. “It’s tosee the
sick woman down-stairs, and to say her prayers
for her,” she replied, in apology as her neighbor
told her to stay, and she hobbled out of the
room.

Another moment, and Paul Le Forest stood in
that humble place.

“Well, Terese?" he said, and glanced round
significantly.

‘ You can sit down if you wish to,” she added,
mastering her emotion with difficulty.

“ I do wish to—Terese—it is—it is twenty-six
years since—since—where have you been all
that time?” he asked, rapidly: ~

-

0

«WV...

~d’i ‘

John Mar-ton. Detective.

 

 

“ Where have I been? Not here—in the' midst
of sorrow and desolation—wherever I have
been—out in the cold,” and she shivered. “ But,”
and she looked up again, her eyes fixed calmly
on his, “I have led an honest, if an unhappy
life, since that day.”

His eyes fell at her searching glance.

“ Yes, for the one dreadful, dreadful crime
desertion of my family. I have suffered, Go
only knows what‘ but, oh, thanks to that pre-
serving Power, I have been able to be true to
in self.”

here was a long pause.

“Mr. Le Forest," she said. at last, “do you
know where my children are?”

“How should I?” be queried, rapidly, turn-
ing pale.

“ True enough; but, oh, to feel the little cling-
ing arms about my neck once more! forget
that they are not my poor little babies,” she
said, mournfully. “I tried to support my or
little Terese for four miserable years. an oh,
how I struggled to keep her! Then I gave her
to a good woman. Since I have come back
from the West, where I have been livin for
years, I have tried to find that woman. I ave
learned that she is dead and that her son mar-
ried my “Terese when she was sixteen; but the
people have lost all trace of her. Whether she

» or her husband be dead or alive, how can I

tell?”

“ What was the name of this woman with
whom you left your child?” asked Le Forest.

“ Barclay,” replied the woman.

“ Ah!” he started, and changed color.

“ W hat! you know—you have seen them?"
she cried, starting up, a wild light in her eye, a
feverish red on her cheek. “ Oh! Mr. Le Forest
you have done me a great wrong, but only lead

’ me to my child, and may God forgive you as

free] as I will.”

“ —I don’t know—Terese—pardon me for
calling you thus,” he said, a sudden respect in
his tone.

“ No, no; what have I to ardoni I have for-
feited all right to be called that more sacred
name; only tell me. What oes this hesitation
mean?”

“ Only that there is a Mrs. Barcla , a widow,
living in the very town that I do. at it can-
not be her; she seems older. She has two
children.”

“But it may be, it may be,” she cried, eager-
ly. “ What is her first name? Have you any
means of knowing?”

Le Forest colored, and drew out his leathern
fightback; do his business transactions he had

occasion to note her name. From a. paper
he took therefrom. he read—“ E. T.”

“ E. T., Emily Terese,” cried the delighted
woman, eagerly; “ I have found my child! God
be thanked!’ and she lifted her streaming eyes
to heaven. .

“ If it should be proved so.” said Le Forest
“ I am happy to tell you that I have just signed
a paper which releases her from any further
trouble on account' of some property her hus-
band left her.”

‘ And have you done this, unconsciously, for
my child?”

‘It seem so. Terese,” he said. his smooth

on.
,y It was evident that she spoke under a am
‘of the bitter wrong that in some way he

 

voice faltering a little, as the memory of that ' l:
terrible interview came back to him with sick- ~
ening distinctness. “ In her extremity I loaned
her money enough to paya small mortgage,
taking her notes. She has not been able to re- ' -
deem them, and I have concluded to cancel the 
whole obligation; so that to—day she is free by
law from all debt, and her little property is .~
saved.” 1 ‘» 
“ Generous man l” exclaimed the widow, tear r ,;
fully; “ then in child is comfortable.” ' v g
“ It is but litt e I can do to atone for my great "
sinfulness,” he said, in a «penitential tone, that ' ’
proved the depths of his hypocrisy." _ ;
“I know not what to say to you, how to - I
act,” she said, after a moment of thought.
“At times I have cursed you bitterly as the
destroger of my happiness; and then ‘1 have
seeme tohear a voice that said: ‘Were not
you as deeplyto blame as hei Had you not
every blessing that would conduce to your hap- '
piness, and did you not willin ly sacrifice them
-willingly draw three loving cuts to disgrace
and misery?’ Ohl I did—I could bow mysalf in
the dust—I could die for very shame. But!
solemnly believe the sin I dared all to commit— .
no. not the sin, for, God be praised, I was~~
blameless there—but the suflerlu consequent .
upon it—the keenness of my anguis for years— V 
the bodily as well as mental affliction I have
home have been sanctified to my salvation.
No; I do not dare to cast all the blame on you.
You perhaps have married, and have a homey.
a prosperous famil ; but my lot has n
wretched, lonely an unloved. I have accepted
it, and learned to say. ‘Thy will be done.’ ”
During this speech Le Forest had sat, his head ‘
on his hand, his face concealed. r
“ You are poor,” he said, looking around him. ‘
l“ Yss, I am very poor, but my conscience it ~
0 ear. ~ .
“ Hang conscience i” thought Le Forest. “ Why‘
does the woman harp on that?” ,
He took out his purse; her eyes flashed as he;
oflered her some bank-bills. . . 
“Paul Le Forest, what is that for? You
could not ofler me a greater insult. Do you
think I would take money from youi” ' ‘ :
“ And why not?" he asked, smiling. and look-
lug upon her with something like admiration;
for in the dim li ht of that room. with her
feverish cheeks an eyes, there shone something-y
of her old beauty. I '
“Why noti Do you ask met I would not
take a cent from you to keep me from starva-
tion. No, I have sworn that long ago. Put up;
your money Paul Le Forest. ,Notacent touches ' ; ’ ,.
my palm that has not been worked for, and
honestly won—no, nor never has. I have 
worked like a slave. that I might not forfeit
my new-won self-respect. Yes. in men's kitchens; , .
I, who never soiled my hands with toil before,
my marriage, labored l ke a bond slave, that I
might be dependent and honest. Don’t, odor“
me mane if you would not obliterate who 
little” fee ug of returning charity I have (any. ‘»

 

 
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
   
  
   
   

z' 
done her. He silently put back the money, and.
thrust the book in his pocket, I

 

20 John Marston, Detective.

 

“I pitied you,” he said, “and thought some
( little hel would relieve you.”

“ No, can work,” she said, sharply; “ work
has become my nature, my life. All I ask of
you is to give me the address of my child. I

i will write to her, and if she can forgive me
. _ ,enou h to answer me, I shall be happy.”

‘ “ on have been ill,” be said.

" “Yes, very ill—I never thought I should get
better—or else meeting with you would not have
overcome me so. I should have brought pride
to in aid."

“ re there doctor’s bills to pay l” he asked.

“ No—not one. I went to the hospital. on, I
am used to poverty now. Once the thought of
such a. thing would have filled me with horror—
but it is good that I have been humbled. It is

1 .’. all right. I havo said all I wish to so .”

 She held the address in her ban . He felt
' ’ that her last words meant a dismissal, and with
,. more real respect in his heart than he had ever

1» , ’ ~ felt for any woman, he left her.

“A mi hty nice gentleman he was, an way,”
said old ridget, coming in, soon after e had

.- gone. “ Was he a relative of ye’s?”

“No, no relation,” said the woman, kindly,

.- r “ but he has brought me news of my daughter—
my little child,” her voice lingered lovingly

‘ alon the words. .

 “ our daughter, is it?” exclaimed old Bridget.

 “. Sure it's mesilf didn’t dr’ame ye had any chil-

ders in this coun try."

“ Why, what did you take me for?” asked the
woman, amused fer a moment.

“ Sure, an’ I thou ht you be a leddy from the
old country—broug t to poor circumstances,”
was the reply.

“An Englishwoman, then, you t0uk me for.”

“ Nothiu else, and a high-born leddy at that.
' , There be something about you that be different
from most folks—an’ I’ve often said it. "

' To prevent further gossip of the talkative
,Irishwoman, she hastily picked up the bundle
 of work, asking her to see if any of the gar-

/ ments were injured by their fall into the dirt of

the street. '

   
 
 
 
    
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
 
    
  
 
 
  

 

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MAD EUN’I‘ER’S GIFT.

“How beautiful they arel” cried May Rog-
erl , "ohl how very beautiful!”
i he stood in the widow’s little keeping-room.
On the large table, drawn to the middle of the
floor and covered with a snowy cloth, stood a
dozen painted shades. In tinting and execution
,r the artist had certainly shown great taste. The
colors were well chosen and admirably con-
m \

sted.

“ I hope our father will like them,” said the
widow, to w oss face a renewed hope had given
almost the freshness of girlhood. '

' . “ Like them? Why, he will be delighted, I
know he will. I don’t believe he began to imag-
ine how pretty they would look. nd by the
way, here is some money. He said he could not

exacty tell what he could pay, till they were in
31‘s market. So. there are ten dollars to begin

tb. ,
' "‘Howkind and good on are, both of you,”
told the widow, the tears rimming her eyes.

 

“And‘ now I in going to stay and spend the
afternoon with you. Whyi how much—I was
thinking," she said, confusedly, “ how much you
look like somebody.”

“ Ohl come now, take oil? your bonnet and sit
down—and tell me who I look like.”

“ Oh! somebody,” said May, shyly.

“ Ahl I can guess who somebody is; somebody
has been making quite a stir in this little town
lately.”

“ Do you think he did wrong?" asked May,
anxiously.

“ Wrong, no: I think he did right. He would
have been less than a man to allow any one to
insult his mother.

“ I, wish it had been the father instead of the
son.

The widow sighed as she said:

“ You lost your mother!”

“Yes, but then I was so young. I have never
forgotten her, though, for father has always
talked about her, and Seems to love her so
dear] 1 Where is your mother?”

“ ‘_v mother 1” and a deep crimson flush over-
spread her face as the widow turned hastily
awa , “ I—haven’t seen her for years."

“ hen I was very young, she went away and
left me with my good mother Barclay, whose
son I married. Often after that I asked her
about my mother, but she never could seem to
tell me. Ohl what would I give if I knew about
my mother. "

Just then in rushed her children, exclaiming
both together: “ We’ve been to the post-office,
mother, and got a letter!”

“ A letter for me. ” she said wonderingly,
“ post-marked New ork. Why, who can it be
from? New York,” she murmured again. “ I
know nobody in New York—it may be some of
my husband s relatives.”

‘ Come, Helen, let’s you and I go and play
while mamma reads her letter,” said May, catch-
ing the children each by a hand and running out-
doors with them.

Impressed with an undefinable fear, the widow
opened her letter. The first word set her heart
throbbing as it had not been stirred for many a.

day.

“MY DEAR DAUGn'ruaz—If it is indeed my child
I am addressing,” the letter went on. " have
lately seen a gentleman from the town of ——,
who tells me that a widow by the name of Barclay,
and whose initials are E. T., Emily Terese, lives
there. I feel a strangely certain c inviction must you
are the deer child I am seeking, and ually im-

lled to tell you the eventful stor‘y7 o my life.

hen you have read it, it is possible hat you will
blush o deeply for the moth ‘1' who carried you in
her arms when you were a helpless babe, that you
will never wish to see her face. I dare not think
what the consequences may be, but it is my duty to
be candid and truthful, even if I injure my own
cause.

“ I was an o ban, left with a large fortune. and
to the uardians ip of an indulgent aunt. This aunt
seeme only to care for my beauty, which she al-
ways spoke of in terms of the most extrava ant
praise, and concerned herself very little either out
my education or my morals. At seventeen, I at-
tracted the regards of a gentleman who was some ten
years older than lwas. He was not mere] my ad-
mirer, but a sincere lover. At last I prom sed him
in hand. He was alawyer in good standing, and

 

w thanezcellent income. 39 wu,vbelides, a very

r

“ream—sham?" mam”..- wW—wfi Al—w  ~ - —

 

 

W'!‘ 1w,"

-..,.V_ A -M

“av-3.”

 

John Max-atom Detective. '81

 

talented man and commanded the admiration of
all classes and for a while I was perfectly happy.
And now i approach that dark period of my life, the
recital of w 1ch will burn into my very heart as I
write, particularly while I remember that it is to a
child 1 am writing. I was the mother of two beauti-
fulchildren, a b0 and a girl, yet 1 was still vain,
thoughiless, an as fond of admiration as ever.
Your father loved me too well—everything I wished
for was mine. For years a. man of fortune. hand-
some and dashing, had bren devoted to me. He
managed to make me dissatisfied with my noble
husband. W akly I yielded to his protestations,
weakly 1 left my husband's rcor‘. taking you to my
arms. We tied together in the midnight train whic
left the city for the West and south.

“ That wretched, endless 'ourncyl for thirty-six
hours we kept on our way. was silent and tremb-
ling. At almost every stopping-place, where we
tarried for a brief and hurried meal, I begged my
companion to let me go—to let me wait for a. return
train—to leave me——onlv to leave me! He refused
to listen to my prayer, ut he was worried and ir-
ritath by my tears and unha pincss. At last we
rested in a southern city. He eft the child and me
at a-hotel. while he went to enga e a more private
boardingplace, in which we won (t be safer from ob
servation, should any one be upon our track.

“ Then it was I determined my course. I gathered
up the Jewels I had taken—I ha i quite a large sum
0 money in my purse. Without giving myself time
to think, I hired a carriage, had it riven to the
depot, where a train was about starting on its east-
ern way; and by the time that disappointed man re‘
turned to the hotel, I had escaped him.

‘ The agony of that ride back I can never tell you.
I was innocent of actual crime; but by this time in
husband had learned of my desertion. I had it all
to think of during that miserable ourney; and by
the time we nearrd the city, I had etermined that I
never could face my husband again. I determined
to seek the house of a woman who had been my
domestic, but who was married and lived in a very
poor way. Iknew I could depend on her to keep
my secret. I went there with my little child. your-
se 1. and s19 received me with unniingled astonish-
ment. As soon as possible I moved to the West.
Occasionally I hear that my husband was heart-
broken, and had plunged deeply into dissipation.
The man who before had had such conlrol over him-
elf that he scarcely touched wine. drank now to
inebnalion. I had been the cause of on this (188018.-
tion, and I des ised myself. My son was adopted by
my uncle—of im I have never since hear . One
in sfortune after another reduced me to complete
poverty. Then i was obliged to part with you,
when you were four years old—that was the bitterest
drop in my cup of anguish. I have longed for you,
dreamed of you night after night—and my toil has
been lightened by just one thought of your-childish
smile. Surely I have been most sorely punished,
and the marks of my suffering have made my face
old and my hair gray. You would not look with an
gleasnre upon the wreck of one who has never fu -

lied the sacred duties committed to her trust. Yet
thank God, with me, that though sorely tempted
and suflerlng I am as worthy of the name of mother
as when I le tyour father's house. save only in the
act of leaving— and that I have repeated in dust and
ashes for the insane step I then took. Remember
what it has cost rue—your love—my son’s respect,
it he be still living. (In uncle is doubtless long since
dead . a home. and a usband of whom I was not
wort y. Oh! my child forgiw me if you can—give
me, it you area is. a place by our fireside. An-
swer me. if you think proper. I I do not soon hear
from you, I shall accept an odor to o as a nurse
with a family who will soon start or Cuba. I
would not, if it could be otherwise, lay my bones in
a foreign land. _

“ From your affectionate, thou!!!) “WOPEPY
mother, limes Mumps.

 

Her heart beat with mingled emotions of
pleasure and pain. The love she had repressed
for years gushed out toward that unknown
mother, and she longed to encircle the weary
form with her arms.

“ What can I do?” she murmured again and
again. “ I will call in Miss May and tell her all
about it.”

She came in glowing and smiling. .

Mrs. Barclay gave her the letter to read. Just
as she had finished it, the children came running

in.

“Oh, mother!” cried Helen, bounding dor-
ward, “ the funny man is coming.”

The door opened. He stood for a moment
staring at her, apparently forgetful of whatever
mission he had come upon. At last, to her
question whether he would come in, he started
and shook his head, saying abruptly, as he
thrust a pa er in her hand: '

“ Here, 0 d Master sent you thisl” and turned r

awa .
“ but can it bet” murmured the widowi

opening the package. “What! is it possible '

Ohl Miss May—I can’t believe it—look at this.”

She thrust the paper with trembling fln on
into May’s hand. It was the release signe by
Paul Le Forest. ~

“Why, my dear friend, the house is all yours 1‘

again i” cried May joyfully. '

" All mine—God has sent it—this release—how
could this men get it?”

“ The old hunter hrou ht it, then?”

“yes, he said that o d Master had sent it to
me.

“ Mr. Le Forest has si tied it, it seems.”

“ Yes—how in the wor d did that old hunter
get him to sign it—and be such a hard man?"

“ Heaven only knows. He probably has some

power over him that we know nothing of. Now“

your mother can come i” she added, joyful! .

“ Yes, now my mother can come. and shall
have enou b, With my earnings, to make us all
golnifortab e. Oh! I am so thanklull so thank.

u i A

“That’s strange about the name,”saldMny,‘ 1- ‘

thou htfully. I

“ hat about iti”

“Have you not remarked? Here is this signs
ed as witness, ‘ John Marston, the Mad Hunter.’
He knows what people call him. But it's the
same name as your mother's—Marston. Did
you think of that?”

“ Why, no; I was so excited by such a com-

bination of surprises, as not to think of it. It it v

curious, however,” she said, reflectivelfi
Ma thought more seriously of it t

at that time. v

“ Now I am free to ofler my mother a home,”
said the young widow. “I will answer her lob
ter this evening.”

CHAPTER XIV.

ran nan nusrna nlscLosns m Adam’s"

ramp. ,

“ Ir’s very strange,” said Mr. Rogerly, look-‘3

in over his ills and papers. “ I’m sure I.
segt the lot marked 1921 to Steal'ns & Whitaker

and yet I can‘t and it on the book, not  

. 'an Mrs. H
Barc ay had done; but she said nothing further - .

 

- 1;.

    
   
 
   
   
   
 
    
 
   
   
    
    
  
   
   
    
  
 
 
     
 
  
   
 
 
 
  
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
   
     
  

,r 22

John Huston, Detective.

 

of a memorandum.” He called the bookkeeper,
explaining the matter to him.

‘It is very strange, sir,” replied the young
man. “ I am willing any one should examine
my accounts, sir. I have run them over again
and again."

“ There‘s a great leak somewhere,” said Mr.
-; » Rogerly. “ I ask you if, to your recollection,
‘-  you have ever left your desk unlocked?”

 , - " I may have done so, sir, once or twice, but
 , not lately.”

;'- V “ How long ago—do you remember?”

 “ Some three weeks ago. That morning I
é , ‘ came in, and you were both here—Mr. Le Forest
i4.“- .V and yourself, I mean."

 “ Was Le Forest here, when you came, that
 morning?”

rs; “ Yes, sir.”

 “ You have never seen any one else in or near
the ofl‘lce?"

“ No one but the old hunter, sir.”

“ What! he ever inside?”

“On that morning, sir.”

“ What was the occasion, pray?”

“Le Forest; he seems to hate that man, sir.
And Le Forest turned round, saw him, and
changed color."

“ There is the old man now?”

Rapping on 'the door, the old hunter opened it
at Mr. Rogerly’s bidding, and came in.

“ Good-morning, my friend,” said Mr. Roger-
‘ ly, who always pitied the unfortunate.

“ Good-morning,” said the hunter. “ Old
Master has sent me with a message to you, and
' lt‘o you alone,” he added, eying the young book-

eeper.

r‘i‘ Spengler, go to your room,” said the pro-
‘p e r.

The you man left the two together.
= “ Do you now,” queried the hunter, his face
gmwin dark, “that you have an unmitigated
, villain 11 your employ?”

“ To whom do you allude?"

“ I bring a serious accusation, but atrue one ”
~ said the old man. “ Paul Le 'Forest is a treac -
erous friend and a bitter enemy—a snake in the
grass; a midnight assassin, who would stab you,
and laugh at your dying groans.”

“ This is very strange language,” said Mr.
, Rogerly, seriously.

“ I speak the truth—God’s truth,” replied the
old hunter. “ Do you know that he tried to ruin
yonder poor widow and her children?"

“I intended to find out the facts of that case,"
said Mr. Roget-1y, “and shall so do the first oc-
casion that offers."

“ I forced him to resign his hold upon the
widow’s cottage and land.”

“ You?”

_ “ Yes, I. I met him in a lonely place. Ask

' him if the Red Spring is deep, and you shall see

him shiver and turn pale.” .

“ You astonish me, sir.”

“ I knew him when he was a pros rous mer-
. , chant. and again when, after his fai are, he be-
came a money-broker. Then, for many a long
 year I had lost sight of him, but within the last
: two years I have tracked him constantly.”

“ Hasrthis man ever injured you?”
, “ Injured me?” and the heavy rifle came down
- , upon the cities floor with a thunderous sound.

    

 

“Never mind about the old hunter, sir- never
mind. Let’s talk about yourself. IIe has
wronged you, and I want you to know it.”

Mr. Rogerly became all attention.

“ Last week, on Tuesday morning, he came to
this place an hour earlier than either your clerk
or yourself. He came in. Presently i saw him
-—1!or I was behind that old chestnut-tree—go in
that room where your clerk is now, open the
desk and take out a book—an account-book.
Then I got closer to the window, and saw him
carefully tear out a. page, fold it up, put it in
his pocketbook, and place the pocketbook in his
bosom.”

“ The villain has robbed me of thousands,” Mr.
Rogerly cried, rising up and walking the floor.

‘ What can you expect from the man who
would rob the widow and the fatherless?”
queried the hunter.

“ Nothing—nothing but outrage,” replied old
Mr. Rogeriy.

“ Well, now I must go. - I have done old Mas-
ter’s errand, and I must go.”

“ Stop, old man,” said Mr. Rogerly, as he was
leaving; “let me at least know to whom I am
indebted for this kind interest in my affairs.
Who are you i”

“ It matters not to you who I am, or what I
am," said the old man, with dignity. “ Enough
that I have performed my mission. When I
have sufiiciently ex osed this villain, I shall re-
tire to my former o scurity.”

“ You shall alwa 5 find a friend in me, my
good old man,” said r. Rogeriy; “ and remem-
ber that my house is your home whenever you
come this way; you will always find the latch-
string on the outside.”

For one brief moment the old hunter seemed
affected; then straightening himself, he bowed
his gray head, his lips moving, as he withdrew.

“ Spangler,” said Mr. Rogerly, “ send John
down to Le Forest’s; let him say that I shall not
be in the oifice to-day, but this evening I should
like to see him at my house.”

The bookkeeper went out, and Mr. Rogerly
mused upon what had filled him with such con-
sternation and disquiet.

“ I’ll dismiss Le Forest immediately; I will
not have the scoundrel round me. If he gives
me any trouble to-night, I'll install young Minot:
yes, instanter. I'll have no such dishonest
hounds and heartless rascals in my em 10y.”

It was Wednesday night. Young inot, who
seldom indulged in pleasures of the kind, had in-
vited May and her aunt to take a sleigh-ride.
The air was bracing. the snow just hard enough
to make a run behind sleigh-bells the most agree
able thing in the world. May prevailed ‘upon
her aunt to accompany her, but she made young
Minot promise that he Would not race. and would
as much as possible, avoid the very public roads.

Rafe Le Forest had scarcely been out since his
public humiliation. As Minot guided his horse,
a spirited animal on the high road, there sud-
denly came in sight a neat little cutter drawn
by a tall gray horse. The two sleigbs passed
each other quick, but not until the occupants of
Minot’s sleigh had seen the features of Rafe Le
Forest. He sat by the side of his sister, a fur
cap drawn low down over his forehead, a thick
scarf mufliing his neck and chin; but in the

 

 

.h? m m, .J,

 

Vi



Ii

 

 

John Marston. Detective.‘ _ ' 28

 

glance of hate which he gave Minot, there was
no mistaking the malice of the young man. The
ride was a delightful one, with that exception,
and that was not long remembered. On their
return, however, they noticed the same sleigh
just behind them.

“ They must have turned, and going up some
other road, followed us,” said Minot. “ They
are nearing us. Shall we drive faster?"

“ NO' thee promised me not to race, Mr.
Minot,’l said Aunt Hannah.

“Very well; I’ll keep my promise. Halloo,
there!” he cried, angrily; for Rafe, in passing,
managed to give Minot’s spirited horse a sharp
cut with the slender whip—cord he held.

With a plunge and a rear forward, Minot’s
horse dashed headlong, throwing the snow from
his heels, and lifting the sleigh like a feather
from the ground. Poor Aunt Hannah sat para-
lyzed with horror. May, pale and speechless too,
watched with terrible apprehension the vehicles
that still filled the read, while Minot, white as
the roadside upon which the drifts were heaped,
stood up in the sleigh, and with admirable pres-
ence of mind guided the frightened animal so
skillfully that the parties on the road, thinking
it a race, clapped their hands as they passed
them. They were almost home, when an old
market-wagon turned the corner. Against this
the light vehicle struck; the shafts were instant-
ly broken, the horse flying down the street, Ma
t rown out, and Aunt Hannah screaming with
all her might, sitting bolt upright in the frag—
ment of ‘the sleigh. There were no houses very
near. '

The old wagoner stopped, with many protes-
tations that “ he was sorry ”—“ never dreamed
of doing no sich thing,” and numberless other
exclamations.

May, fortunately, had ali hted on a drift, and
though shocked by the su denness of the fall,
she was not much hurt.

Leaving Aunt Hannah to scream till she re-
covered er senses, Minot hastened to May’s
rescue. ‘

“My darling,” he whis red tenderly, “tell
nae—are you not hurt? ow shall reproach
in self if you are.”

~‘I believe not; I am sure not,” said May,
blushing and trembling, as he helped her to an
upright position.

“ God be thanked!” he murmured, fervently,
trembling as much as she did. “That coward y
villainl this is the second time he has insulted
me. besides endangering your life. His father
shall pay every cent of the damages. But how

i are we to get home? It is still half a mile.”

“ You are welcome to the wagon,” said the old
man, “ if the ladies will go in sich a thin .”

“I’d rather trust to my feet,” sai Aunt
lIllannah, suspiciously eying the one-eyed, bony

orse. I

“ Needn’t be afraid of that critter,”rsaid the
farmer. “ She’s as gentle as a kitten, and
couldn’t run if she wanted to,” he added. -

“ I don’t see but you’ll have to avail yourself
of the wagon, ladies,” said Minot. '

As for May, she was in such a delightful tre-
pidation, it did not matter to her what way she
Went home, provided Minot accompanied her.
His precious words “my darlingl’ yet rung in

 

her ear. Never before by word had he breathed
his affection for her. The eye had told it, the
timid deference. all unconsciously—but now she
was blissfully assured, and blushed no longer g
with the fear that she had given her heart un~ ’ n
asked. 2’

Leaving May and her aunt at their own home V
young Minot started after the horse, and learned . '.‘
that be was safe in his stable. May’s father was
terribly indignant when he heard the story.

“ Those Le Forests wish to ruin me and mine,”
he said “ but they will have short shrift from
me. ike their masters their time is short
Thank God! they have not robbed me of my
baby yet,” and he kissed May’s blushing cheeksr
“ Minot, stay to tea," he continued. “ Give
yourself no uneasiness about the sleigh—I will
attend to that. Pearsons, the livery-keeper. is
largely in my debt, so I can make it all right.
Besides, I wish to see you this evening on 'busi-
ness' of importance."

It needed no extra urging to induce the young - ‘
man to acoept such an invitation. That evening
Miss Hannah was in her glory. Getting up a V
tea was one of her specialties. No one could in- >
vest a common deal table with more poetry, not
to say romance, than herself. There were pieces ‘ n
of silver and porcelain, kept for Show on such
occasions that could tell stories a century back
when old ladies sat ceremoniously in high-backe- ,
chairs, and filled their tiny cups with the steam-
ing beverage that always seems to do the heart ._ -
of an old lady so much good. To-night the
whole party was unviontedly merry—seeing no ’
threatening cloud, no approaching storm—only ‘
blue sky and bright sunshine. Once only, across
May’s heart came the foreboding feeling caused
by the old hunter’s prediction, and that wasat
this very hour while her father’s merry laugh
sounded in her ear, and her own happiness made
her almost afraid. She had never seen her gra
father in such cheerful spirits—even her aunts
blue eyes sparkled unwontedly, and in her own
{h'eart had walled u a new happiness never; .,
griaangteid of before. he not only loved but was

6 ov . r '

Tea was over and the cloth removed. Youn’
Minot lau hingly helped Aunt Hannah bacE '
with the eavy table, and then sat down "
opposite May, who had Est arranged the men
for a game of chess. Mr. ogerly grew thou ht- -
ful after he had ordered lamps to be carried nto. j
his study in the adjoining room, and walked the
floor soberly, his hands folded behind him. Once
he stood over May’s c‘air, almost unconsciously ’
stroking back the bands of her brownlhair, and’
once he stooped over and kissed her. This was
unusual with him. In all his habits he was un-
demonstrative. /At half-past eight the doors ,
bell rung. He himself went nervous] forward
checking May, and opened the front oor. Pau ‘ .
Le Forest entered. with assumed cheerfulness. “
A he saw young Minot in the position he had‘ ’ r
so long coveted for his only son, his brow grew
dark for a moment. and Minot returned his salu-  s
tation stifliy, and after that seemed constrained “

and unlike himself. ‘

"Quite a cheerful family group, upon .
word,” he said assuming an easy indlfierengr
which perhaps he Was far from feeling. ' ‘9 0w '

    
     
     
 

 

' . proof, I have taken some

I 24 . Johns Mar-ton, Detective.

 

good aunt is always busy,” he added, turning to
where the maiden lady was knitting.

“ No one ever need be idle, Mr. Le Forest,” re-
plied the Quaker, stifl‘ly.

The rebuke, it intended to be such, was too
pointed for him to relish, and he flourished his
red silk handkerchief about his more crimson

face.

“ I heard you had uite a little accident,” he
continued, turning to inot.

“ It came near being a very serious one,” was
the curt reply.

“ What was the cause?
rulyi”

‘ Oh, no !——your son—playfully, I expect,” re-
torted Minot, meaningly, “ touched my horse
with his whip as he passed us. and the creature,
bein spirited, was frightened and run.”

“ hi” exclaimed Le Forest, “is that so? It
was a very ungentlemanly thing, and I shall see
that Rafe apologizes.” .

“ I beg you Will not, Mr. Le Forest,” said Mr.
Minot, “ I cannot accept an apology. I had
rather the matter would stand where it is.”

“ Mr. Tie Forest,” broke in Mr. Rogerly, “ Will
you walk into my library. I wish to see you
upon business.”

Paul Le Forest arose abruptly, looking like a
guilty man.

“I hope papa will not make him his enemy,”
said May, watching their exit, anxiously.

“ I had rather have that man an open enemy,”
said Mr. Minot, “ for he will be an enemy at all
events to all that is pure and good, and if I
tin“; where he stands, I know where to meet

in.

Was your horse un-

 

CHAPTER XV.
AN ASBASSIN.

Tan study was well lighted. Mr. Rogerly
could never get too much light; it was essential
to his happiness. 0n the table stood several ac-
count-books. Motioning his agent to a seat, the
pro rietor of the glass-works took from his
stu y-table drawer several papers and bills.

V - » Then he seated himself in his own arm-chair.

“I have sent for you, Le Forest,” he said,
quietly, “ to talk upon business matters.”

“Item always ready, you know,” said the
agen ‘

“A disagreeable necessity forces me to speak
very plain y.”

“So much the better for both of us Mr.
Eagerly,” said Le Forest, moving uneasily on
his seat.

“ Feeling that it is both unwise and unjust to
harbor suspicion against an individual without
pains to ascertain

whether mine was well-founded. There is a
large deficit in our accounts, Mr. Le Forest,
which I shall call upon you to make up.”

“Upon me sir!” Mr. Le Forest turned as
white as death. '

“ Upon you, sir. If you make honorable resti-
tution, and leave me as you found me, the mat-
ter shall go no further; if you do not, you are
not only discharged from your place, but
published to the world as a scoundrel, a. thief

, and a. liar.”

Mr. Rogerly‘s indignation had speedily car.

mind him beyond t e bounds which he hag

 

 

marked for himself. Le Forest row furious.
He sprung from his seat, his eyes ashing.

“No man,” he cried between his shut teeth,
“ shall say such things 0‘ me and live.”

“ Which means that you would scruple but
little to add murder to your many crimes,” said
Mr. Rogerly, sternly. “ But I am not defense-
less, as you will See,” and opening a box near
by, he displayed a revolver ready for use.

“ Mr. Rogerly,” said Paul Le Forest, cooling
down, “to whom am I indebted for this treat-
ment? Who is my accuser?”

“Ask your own conscience, Paul Le Forest.
A man who could deliberately rob the poor and
defenseless of their little all, must possess the
heart of a fiend."

“ You allude to the widow Barclay' I have
given her back my bond—she is released, utterly
released; I have even forgiven her what she
fairly owed me, leaving everything out of the
question but conscience.”

“ Yes, but you did it at the very point and
fear of death.

Le Forest started.

“ What do you mean, Mr. Rogerly?”

“ What I say—that the threat of a madman,
which he was ready at all hazards to carry into
execution, forced you to do the justice you had
neither the inclination or will to perform of
yourself. But for that, your blood might have
added a deeper crimson to the water of the Red
River.” Le Forest almost sprung from his seat.

“ Perdition i” he muttered, between his shut
teeth, “ that devil has told him.”

“ And now, Le Forest, 1 wish to make quick
work of this business. Al I. told you before, I
am boldly cheated, before my eyes, of several
thousand dollars, and that since the month came
in. Doubtless other seasons have been fully as
prolific to the man who has fllched my money
from me—but of that I have no proof. Restore
the leaf which you tore from this ledger.”

Paul Le Forest trembled as one in an a e-llt.
His eyes grew wild with a deathly stare, is lips
grew purple-his hand clinched as it folded about
some murderous weapon.

“ How dare you accuse me of such a deed?”
he exclaimed, keeping his voice even with diffi-

cult .

“I do accuse you. and it will be better for
yolu 1to confess, Le Forest,” said Mr. Rogerly,
co m y.

“ ionfessl never; I ask you for our proof.”

‘ You were seen to do it, Paul Forest.”

“ By whom i” queried the agent, hoarsely.

“ I do not choose to tell at present.”

“ It is a lie!” shouted the guilty man.

“ Take care, Paul Le Forest.”

“I tell you it is a lie, and I throw it in the
face of any man who dare accuse me.”

“ Then, as you assert your innocence. so ou
will be obliged to prove it in public. Pau Le
Forest, I am utterly deceived in your character.

,I thought at the last, you would be more of a

man than to deny even a foul deed, but I am
mistaken. From to—ni ht our connection with
me ceases. I have a rea y taken steps toap
point your successor a man to whom, if he
proves worthy, I shall give my daughter and be-k,
queath my business. I am about to call him in.”

Saying this, without bestowing a look on the

I

 

.. __.gV.. "

".

 

m on: ‘

 

John Mar-ton. Detective. 8“

crestfallen Le Forest, he stepped to the door and
spoke to young Minot, who immediately entered
the room.

“ Have I been sufficiently insulted?” asked Le
Forest in a, rage, taking his hat up. “Before I
go, let me say that I wish you joy of your new
acquisition. I don’t doubt he will display all
those remarkable talents which he undeniably
inherits from the maternal side of his family.
His mother was a pattern of constancy and vir-
tue,” he sneered, mockingly.

Minot’s eyes blazed. ,

“You internal villain l” he exclaimed, in tones
loud enough to be heard by May and her aunt.
” Do you dare say this to my face? You! per-
jurer. seducer, ever thing that is false and
wicked. Ohl great eaven! this is too much——
too much to bear.”

“ Be calm, Minot.” interposed old Mr. Rog-
erly, who began to have a clearer insight into
the young man’s meaning.

“Calm, how can I be calm?” asked Minot,
sharply, as Mr. Rogerly placed his hand upon
hiss oulder, and felt the flick shudderings of
his anguish. ‘-‘ How can I calm before that
execrable man?”

“ God’s justice has overtaken him,” said Mr.
Rogerly; " you, the man whom perhaps he has
wronged, I to-night appoint in his place, my
agent and prospective partner.”

“I wish him joy,” said Le Forest, glaring,
“.he needs some position to make amends for the
disgrace he Will probably bear for the remainder
of his lifetime.”

Minot was rushing upon him; flesh and blood
could not hear such cold-blooded insult. Mr.
Roger-1y held him back, while Le Forest, with a
mocking smile, but a. raging hate in his heart,
left the house. For a. long time the old man
talked With his deeply-injured young friend,
until Minot’s voice grew low—he grew calmer,
and went out to seat himself again op site
May, her partner in chess. But he co dnot
play. His hand trembled when he made the
moves, and a person of less discernment than
ngmight haVe judged that his extreme agi-
te. on proceeded from deep-seated resentment.

It was Mr. Rngerly’s ha it to go to the fac-
tory every evening at half- st nine or there-
abouts to see that everything was right, par-
ticular y as some of the men did overwork al-
most into midnight. To-night he went about
the usual time—leaving the young people to-
gether, leaving his sister knitting. After he

ad gone, Hannah went to the door and looked
after him. ,

“How dark it is!” she said. - “I almost Wish
my brother had not gone out.”

‘Why, auuty, he always goes,” said May.
“Besides, it will be moonlight soon. I

“ I know it, but thee sees I am foolishly ner-
vous to-night. All at once as brother left, I felt
a strange preSentiment, which thee would laugh
at. But world’s people do not have warmn s
as the Friends do. There was my mothers
mother, Mary Renshaw, she could tell every-
thing that was coming to pass—deaths 01‘ mar-
riages or misfortune. Sometimes I think the
gift has descended on myself.”

‘9 You’ll make me nervous.” said May, look-
1118 up smiling in her lover’s face.

 

 

‘

To her consternation his brow was dark as ~ ‘
night—his thoughts up eared to be centered on 
some far-ofl’ subject. e did not notice her, but ‘ "
hastily rising said:

“I heliovol must go, Miss May. .I am not
well; I have a headache. Excuse my apparent
incivilit -all shall be explained to you to-mor-
row. cod-night.” He took her hand with a

nick pressure. His hand chilled her; it was
like a piece of marble, clammy and cold.

May and her aunt drew up to the fire. May
felt, for the first time in her life, fretful and
cross—why she could not tell. It was no re- '
lief for her to sit there, looking at the fire. ‘
Perhaps her head acbed—she guessed it did. At
any rate she telt a slight dullness of brain and
vision. -

“ If you’re not afraid to wait till father
comes,’ she said, “ I’ll go to bed.”

“ I’m not afraid in the least,” said Miss Han-
nah; " the house is locked up.”

“It feels dreadful lonesome,” said poor May, .
yawnin . ‘ .

“ We 1, go along to bed and get to sleep, then, i
child,” said her aunt; “your father will be
alon in less than an hour, and I’m wide-
awa e.”

So May went to her chamber. The moon was
just coming np—softening the pensive slopes of
the hills—laying a mantle of gossamer upon the
filmed fields~showing the thinly scattered
houses, and in particular the many points of Le
Forests stylish mansion. She stood at the win-
dow, looking out over the wide landscape. A
dim apprehension of coming evil shrouded her
finer perceptions—that subtle instinct that tells
of the approach of danger. Strangely enough,
it took e shape of a dread for and about young
Minot. She had heard his harsh language,
without knowin toward whom it was directed,
and how could s 6 tell but he had had some dis-

ute with her father? It troubled her to think {

ow moody and unlike himself he was-ehowv
different in his parting from his usual demeanor. *

“What can the trouble he?” she murmured
again and a ain to herself; “ there is assured! -'
something t e matter with Mr. Minot and wi ‘
my father. Heaven forbid that they should "
quarrel. He may have asked my father—"she,
blushed and aused. “No. that could notbe
before Mr. Le crest. Oh! I have it—Le Forest ,.
took him to task for the whipping and then '
came high words—that must have been the mat- » »-
ter—Le Forest lost his temper, and perhaps-so .
did Mr. Minot. I am so sorry if that was th
case—but, heigho—I’ll o to bed.” ‘ .

What time it was ay knew not; it seemed
to her that she had slept all night, when a "
grasp upon her arm and a. loud voice wak-
ened her. The nioonli ht was streamin in
and the rays of a sum lznight-lamp, that ,
outside the threshold of the door, served to illu-.
mine the hostly figure that sat on the ide‘ot
the bed. t was Aunt Hannah the fol sof an
old white shawl falling around her, her face,-

ale, and a look of excessive terror in her large ,_‘
rown eyes. _ 2

“Child, does thee know what time itisl’l cried.
her aunt through her chattering teeth. ' '

“ What time—why, aunt—how should It
What is the matter!” - 

 

    
   
 

 

88 John Maraton, Detective.

 

. “ Thee left me sitting in brother’s arm-chair.
Well, child, I sat till I heard the be put coal in
the furnace, and the fire was near y out in the
room. Then I must have fallen asleep. Hark!
what was that?"

"Nothing, aunt—you are frightened. I heard
no noise.” '

“ Now that is strange, for three times this
very night have I heard a noise like the going
off of a pistol close to me. I know not whether
I was awake or asleep.” ‘

“ The house is locked, isn’t it?” asked May,
sitting up in bed, filled herself with the same un-

, _. definable fear she had felt before retiring.
: j ’ “ Yes, every thing as I left it——but, May,
' ‘ where is thy father?"

“Abed and asleep.” said May.

‘;;’l3ut,‘child, would he have gone and left me
“P

"gage might not have noticed you, Aunt Han-

na

“ Ah I” and she shook her head, “ that is
not like brother; he would most surely have
awakened me.”

“ But—have you been to his room?”

“ And knocked, but got no answer.”

 , “IWhy didn’t you go in?” queried May, un-
i’i , _ easi .

j. '. “ 0 into my brother’s bedroom!” exclaimed
2?.» v Aunt Hannah much shocked.

“ Why yes, if I felt anv doubts as to his being
there of course Iwould,” replied May, hastily
dressing. “ I will be ready in a moment.” ‘

 

 

  
     
  
   
  
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

- the end of which, in the largest chamber in the
house, old Mr. Rogerly slept. May knocked at
'the door, then called “father,” several times.
i There was no answer. Timidly, tremblingly,
'she went iii—then ave a loud cry—the bed had

- not been touched. hat pleasant face, with the

' gray hair that had for many years pressed

those pillows, where was it?

“ Aunt Hannah, what time is it?” she asked,
graning her aunt’s shoulder with both hands.

 “ can’t tell thee, child; the clock on the

~ mantle-piece says a quarter of twelve, and it

' :has stopped."

“Stopped! An eight-day clock! and father
always winds it up with his own hands. Why

aunt!" , .
" It is true, child, the clock has stopped, and
for how long a time it has been so I can’t tell.”
“ 0h! Aunt Hannah! what shall we do?”
‘ “ Call Sam :3.”
They hurri to his room over- the kitchen.
"The boy was a hard sleeger; it was some time
before they 'could make im comprehend his
, own name. When the case was stated to him,
,. he said that perhaps some extra work had come
to the factory and he had stayed all night—or
some accide at had happened there.
“Oh! what shall I do?” cried May, wringing
her hands “he never did such athing before.”
.“ If on want. Miss May, I’ll take a run down
i ' to the actory,” he said.
“Oh! if you will?” v
. ,"‘ Certainly I=will." and the boy, now fully
awake, dressed and came out on the landing.
“I won’t need a lantern,” he said and forth-
with started.
“ We’ll go down-stairs,” said May, “ I couldn’t

The two women went through the passage. at,

 

  

rest up here.” Nor did she down there, but
walked the floor rapidly. ‘

Meantime the boy hurried toward the factory
in some of whose windows the lights still burne
He had met with nothing on his way calculated
to create any suspicion, but he was naturally
rather a dull boy. Arrived at the place, a dis~
tance of three-quarters of a mile, Just on the
outskirts of the town, he rap up the watch-
man, who came surlilv to the cor.

“ Where is Mr. Rogerly?" he asked.

“ How should I know?” respond
with an oath.

“ Why, he has been here, hasn’t he?”

“ Yes, left here about half after eleven; had a
good deal to say to the foreman. Why, what
have on come after him for?” "

“ e hasn’t been at home to-night."

“ What! you don’t say? Why, it’s half-{Jest
three,” and he turned round to the large c ock
that ticked slowly and heavily. “Well, that’s
mighty queer in a man of Mr. Rogerly’s habits,
who’s always punctual to a minute.”

“ I don’t know what to make of it.”

“ Nor I neither, I’m sure; perhaps the old
man’s taken with a fit. You d better watch

retty closely both sides of the road as you go
ome. I wish the foreman was here, but he’s
two miles off.

" Well, I'll go back; but Miss May, poor little
soul! I almost hate to see her."

Looking narrowly as he walked, feeling also
nervous and ap rehensive, the boy kept his eye
on the road. uddenl he espied something
near the fence of a corn eld. Going toward it he
he saw that it was Mr. Ro erly’s hat, and beside
it lay his silk handkerchie . Picking them both
up, he thrust the handkerchief into his hat, and
then ran ever step of the way home, impelled
by what fear 9 knew not.

Arriving there, he threw the hat on the table
and then cowered and whimpered as he seated
himself by the fire.

“ Ohl where did you find this?” shrieked May,
taking up the hat, turning as pale as a corpse.
“And his handkerchief 1” She drew it forth.
" M God! it is covered with blood 1” and reel-
ing ackward, with a ghastly light in her eyes,
she sunk senseless to the floor, the spots of crim-
son on her hands making her an almost terrify-
ing object. ,

The neighbors were called up, and immediate-
ly proceeded to search for the body of the sup

used murdered man. It was found at last he-

ind the brick which he had caused to he
brought for some re airs that were to be put
upon the factory, an brought home by sympa-
thizing friends. May had not yet recovered
from her swoon when the body was brought in,
and it was well for the poor girl she had not.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE MUEDEREB UNMASKED.

' IT was a frightful wound—through the back
part of the neck, up through the jaw, the tongue
being shot clear off. Young Minot, the teacher.
was in custody, on complaint of Paul Le Forest;
so that a double anguish tore the heart of poor
little Ma . Her father was not dead; but though
part of t e time‘conscious, no conversation was
allowed in his presence.

the man

 

 

 

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Young Minot, calm and perfectly self-pos-
sessed, awaited his trial with resignation. Rule
Le Forest was triumplmnt, never doubting his
father’s version of the affair. It seems that Le
Forest had accused young Minot of quarreling
with old Mr. Rogerly, because the latter refused
him the hand of his daughter. Further, the
pocketbook of the nearly murdered man was
found upon the person of young Minot, who
averred that he had picked it up that night, and
could give no further account of himself than
that he was walking about. The gun or pistol
with which the deed was done, or supposed to be
done, had not been found, and strict search was
being made for it.

At last, when old Mr. Rogerly was considered
out of immediate danger, the question was put
to him-did he know who was his would-he
assassin? His written reply was that he could
not tell, for the person fired from behind him,
and he knew nothing more. His clothes bore
marks of having been dragged some distance.

One day, some two months after the outrage,
May and her aunt went to visit youn Minot.
They found him in a small, (-omfortab e room,
engaged in drawing. His materials were scat-
tered about him. He rose with a pleasant face,
gave his hand to Me , smilingly, and offered
her and Aunt Hanna the only chairs in the
pontiflace, seating himself upon the bed.

“ ow is your father, Miss May?” was the
first question.

“ Better, they think, to-day,” said May.

“ How can thee endure this close confine—
ment?” asked Aunt Hannah.

“ Whnt cannot a man endure who has a clear
conscience?” asked the young man, smiling.

“Thee has too bright a taco to do such a
deed,” said Aunt Hannah, musingly.

“Who do you think has been here today?”
askep young Minot, turning to May.

She shook her head. _

“ The mad hunter,” replied the young man;
“ and his conversation took a strange turn. He
asked me if I remembered my father, and if he
looked like him. I didn’t know but what he
was going to make out a case of relationship.”

“And did he?” asked May.

“ Oh, no.”, replied Minot, smiling. “ I told
him all I remembered about my father, which
was in fect ver little, for my great-uncle took
me into his fami y when I was quite young, only
four or five.”

“That was strange,” said May, who was
thinking rapidly.

“ What!” he exclaimed.

“ Why, that he should ask you if you remem-
bered your father. Do you know that I have
thought once or twice that you resembled him 7”

“ That is flattery,” said the young man.

“ And there’s another—” she hesitated, but
encouraged by his lock of inquiry, went on.
“ Why, Mrs. Barclay. I don’t know how often
:he ,has—I mean you have, reminded me of

er. ’

' “ Ah! I had a sister—I never knew what he-
came of her. She—she was taken away by her
mother,” a burning blush overspread his face.
May pitied him with her whole tender heart.

“ This man, hunter, madman, whoever he
was, says that I shall be cleared.”

 

“Of course, you will,” said May, with en
thusiasm. “ But my poor father! Think, he
can never articulate again. The surgeon says
. 11

so.
“ Let us thank God that his valuable life is
s ared," said young Minot.
c are it was not I who did the murderous deed.”
“ He has declared so already,” said May.

At that very hour Rose Le Forest and her
mother sat in their little sewing-room o posite
the back garden, where they worked or the
sake of saving litter, as Mrs. LeForest called
her sewing.

R“ I thought I heard the hall door open,” said
ose.

“ Go and see,” returned her mother. The girl
Event out into the hall, and came back pale as

eath.

 

“ Ohl mother,” she cried, hoarsely, “we shall ‘

all he killed."

“ What do you mean?” and her mother rope
in haste.

“ That horrid mad hunter was in the hall. He
pointed his pistol at me, and said if I cried out
or even spoke. he would shoot me. Ohl l s
faint away, I know I shall."

“ What does he want?” whispered Mrs. Le
Forest, aghast.

“ Hush! he said if he heard a word above any~

body’s breath he would kill us all. He asked -

where my father was.”
“ Ohl heavens, Rose 1”

“Hush I tell you—I have locked‘the door,

but if he ears us, he will burst it in.”

“ Did you tell him where your father was?”

“ Yes I pointed to his chamber-door. He is
asleep. he was up late last night, and laid down
after dinner." ,

Leaving them to their nameless terror, let no
follow the hunter to the agent’s chamber. After
he had let in two other men, he proceeded steal-
thin to the chamber of Le Forest and opened
the door. Then finding hiding-pl

hand and grasped him roughly b the shoulder.
The sleeping man, as he opened y

be] him down. His position was a frightful
one—awakened from deep sleep toencounter the
burning gaze of an insane man, to feel one pow-
erful hand pressing his chest, and to see the
other grasping a pistol—no wonder the sweat
started on his blanching face. Memory and
conscience were at work, assistin in dee suing
the horror of his situation. suppl eating

eyes met the fiery pair fixed unwinkingly upon ‘ ‘

him.
“Let me go,” he feebly whispered, unable at
that moment even to call for be .
“ I will let you go—to old aster.

me why I didn't bring you.”
9‘ Murderl

master. Didn’t you know it min the school-“
master?”

“ Old Master says it was you—and I’d believe
him before I would you. Oh, I know who it

was that shot Mr. Rogerlyl It was the men he

   

" But he Will de- .

aces for his V
witnesses. he stood OVer Le Forest, pistol in .

his eyes, strove:
to s ing up. but the strong hand of the hunter“

I heard" -
him asking for you loudly last night. Even '
since you attemde murder, he has been asking ~

Who says I attempted murderl‘ ii
It was not me who did it! It was that schools, 3

 

 

 

 

.
,V.

  
   
  
   
    
  
 
    
 
    
 
  
  
   
   
    
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  

‘ . Eieece of paper told me, too.

28‘ John Marston. Detective. ‘

 

had cherished, who crept behind him and shot

him in the ‘back. I’ve been all about the spot,

and the bricks told me, the little stones told me,

and the big stone in the corner of the fence. A

Don’t deny it, Paul

Eorest. I have come here to make you con-
fess it. Confess it this moment—free that young
man whom you have falsely accused.”

The eye of the unwelcome visitor burned with
alight which made him shudder—lie struggled
faintly, but the deadly weapon held him in
check.

“ If it’s confession you want, I’m ready to
confess," he said, with that oily voice of his a
little hoarse. " Of course I shot old Rogerly.
Anyman would sa so, who was compelled to
by a. revolver. Sue a confession wouldn’t hold
in the law—and the jury wouldn’t take the word
of a madman. Please let me go, ood fellow.
Let me up a little, please. I would ike to go to
my desk and get you some money. ”

A sarcastic smile glanced over the hunter”:
face. Otherwise he did not seem to hear the
coaxing words.

“‘ I don’t understand how you took such good
aim, so far off, and in the dark,” he said.

“ It was as light as day,” refoined Le Forest,
quickl . “ I saw him plain y enough, but he
was a ittle too far off."

_ “You hear that—you hear what he says to
the madman whose testimony isn’t worth any-
thing?" The hunter, turning his head, appeared
to be talking with spirits—the entrapped man
did not suspect that two oflicers of the law over-
heard the damning assertion, which historment-
or, with such artifice, had drawn him into mak-

ing.

At this instant, while the hunter’s head was
turned, he made a sudden and desperate effort
to free himself, and get ossession of the pistol,
but the strong, thin han clutched his throat, and
the madman laughed a low, triumphant laugh.

“ Don’t stir, good friends, I’ll not hurt him;
I’ll keep my promise. I only want to show him

I ’ " this bit of paper—it's the wad of that murderous

shot you fired, and here’s the piece it was torn
from, and both pieces fit well this dpage of the
account-book, which we obtains yesterday
from your pocketbook. You remember I saw

‘ you tear it'out that morning. I only want to

‘ now one thing before you go to old Master to
have all your accounts righted. Is Terese dead
or alive?"

“ I’ll tell you all about her if you’ll let go of
me, and swear not to use that pistol.”

“ Sit up, then. I have these many years fol-
lowed you as a detective. I will not harm a
hair of your head. Old Master is ready to at—
tend to you. I’m willing to leave you to him.
Is Terese dead?” '

“ No, she is alive and in this village. Mrs.
Barclay is your daughter, and your wife is now

’, at her house. I wonder Terese did not go back
' to you, Marston. for she ran away from me be-
fore the prize was secure for which I had run so
much risk. She need not have dreaded to re—
turn to you, for she was as pure as when she left
your roof. The first hour in which we rested

 . after our flight, the bird turned and flew home ,

again. Ihave never seen her but once since
and that was not a month ago. The chooi1

 

master is your son. I happened to know of it,
and I was the means, secretly, of getting him
appointed to the school. So you mustn't be so
severe on me, my good sir. You see, I really
have not done you so much harm as you im—
agined. Come, let me go out the door. I want
to speak to my wife and daughter. I will return."

The old man did not answer. His hands had
sunk to his side; the pistol had dropped from
his nerveless grasp. The revelation which Le
Forest had made, stupeflcd him for the moment.
His whole soul was absorbed in the one idea of
his Terese, stainless and repentant—that dark-
ened, disordered soul, which had been groping
toward the light for years, was yet able to seize
upon this thought with speechless joy.

This was the moment of escape for Le Forest.
He stepped from the bed to the door; but his
hand had not touched the knob when two ofli-
cials confronted him.

“ I will not be taken alive!” he muttered, as
they drew forth the iguominious handcuffs—-
and stooping, quick as thought, he seized the
pistol which still lay upon the floor, covered his
heart and fired. The noise roused the mad
hunter from his dream.

“ What! is be gone? Old Master, Ithank thee
that I left venrreance in thy hand.”

Rafe came liome to find death in the house)

that day. To the shrieks and sobs of his mother
and sister he added the most pltiful ravin s of
despair. It wasa wretched household. or a
time it seemed as if hopelessly blighted. The
disgrace and desolation it had to endure was
killing. But Rafe was humbled and benefited
by the trial. The good which was in him,
penury and misfortune brought out, and his
mother and sister thereafter looked not in vain
to him for protection and support.

 

When the roses of June were in their fullest
bloom, there was a wedding at Mr. Rogerly’s.
Some of the brightness of life which illuminated
the way of May and Mr. Minot, lighted up even
the shadows which care or sickness had left on
others of the party. The pretty widow, with
her little girls, was among the most charming of
the guests. By her side was the bridegroom’s
mother, a. pale, serene-looking woman, dressed
in deep black. Mr. R0 erly suffered still from
the effects of his wound; int his strong constitu-
tion triumphed over it. Aunt Hannah was in
her element, with the bride’s cake and the
wedding—dinner.

The day that Mr. Minot—now Marston—was
taken into domestic artnership, he was also
made a partner in the usiness of Mr. Rogerly,
taking upon himself the active supenntendence
of the works.

One was missing from the animated group
about the marriage—feast—the mad hunter. The
exciting events of the last few months, and the
reaction produced by the revelations of Le
Forest, after years of such intense feeling, pros-
trated the old man upon a bed of Sickness. His
new-found wife and children watched ovar him
with the tenderetsolicitude; but body and mind
were too much shattered to ever recover their
tone; after a mouth of quiet, feeny sinking, he
passed away.

THE END.

 

ii.


 

ave-w...

 

BEADLE’S BQY’S LIBRARY.

Published Every Saturday. Each Issue Complete and Sold at the Uniform Moe of Five dents

 

1 Deerhunter, the Boy Scout of the Great North
Woods B Oil Coomes.

2 Buffalo B from Boyhood to Manhood. By Col.
P. In raham.

8 Kit rson. King of Guides. By Albert W.

Aiken »
4 Gordon Lillie. the Boy‘lnterpreter of the Paw-
nees. B Major H. B. Stoddard.
’ 5 Bruin A ams. Old Grizziy's Boy Pard. By 001.
P. Ingraham.
6 Deadwood Dick as a Boy. By Edward L.
Wheeler. _
7 Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. By 001. Prentiss
Ingraham.
8 The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle-
Herders. By Joseph E. Badger. Jr.
. 9 Rovingfloe. The History of 3. “Border Boy.”
By A. Post.
. l. 10 Texas Jack, the Mustang King. By Col. Prentiss
' 11 gfrlhugiéyi k ASL fSch Id 9
are . ar . oryo oo- ay.crapes
and ollege Capers. By Major H. B.
Stoddard.
12 Marlposa Marsh; or. The Golden Treasure of
Spring Steel. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.
I r‘ 13 Roving Ben. A Story of a Young American who
; Wanted to See the World. By John J. Mar-

' shall.
" 14 Spring Steel. King of the Bush. By J. E.

Badger. Jr.
. 15 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. By Ed-
, ward Willett.
~ 16 The Boy Wizard; or, The Silver Land Seekers.
* By Barry Ringgold.
17 Peter Pep§ergrasa the Greenhorn from Gotham.
Noah if

By 11 . , -
18 Adrift on the Prairie. and Amateur Hunters on
the Buffalo Range. By 011 Coomes.
19 The Fortune Hunter; or. Roving Joe as Miner,
I : Cowboy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post.
. . , 20 Trap‘per Tom the Wood Imfi; or, Old Toma-
j haw ’s Scalp-Hunt. B T.C arbaug .
l 21 Yellow Hair, the Boy hief of the Pawnees. By
- Col. Prentiss Ineraham.
22 The Snow Trail- or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-
and. By T. C. arba h. .
,‘ 23 id Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer. By Dr.
; l Frank Powell."

 

 3 Littleton Gun Club. By Cap Frederick
,4 Whittaker.

' i and Land of Col. Prentiss Ingraham. By Wm.
' . R. Eyster.

¥ 26 Red River Rovers; or. Life and Adventurein the

3 Northwest. By C. Dunnin Clark.

; 27 Plaza and Plain; or Wild dventnres of “Buck—
l; shin Sam," (Maj. Barn S. Hall.) By Col. P.
i Ingraham.

28 The Sword Prince. The Romantic Life of Col.
Monetary. B Capt. Frederick Whittaker.,

29 Snow-Shoe any or. New York Boys in the
Wilderness. By T. C. Harbaugh.

80 59,111} «(if Lkacy, the French Beast Charmer. By

. . ar .

81 Round the Camp Fire: or Snow Bound at
FreezeOut Cam . By Jose l1 E. Badger. Jr.

82 White Beaver. 819 Indian Medicine Chief. By
Col. Prentiss In raham.

33 The Boy Cru er; or. How 9. Pa and a Fool
Saved a Kin . By Capt. Fred. hittaker.

84 The Chess 0 the Great White Stag, and. Camp

' and Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark.

35 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or.Ti1:a
Monsters of the Esquimaux Borders. Dy h.
Starbuck.

 

we: M."

 

  

' 58 The Adventurous Life of Captain ,JackLthe Bsr- “d
24 Woods and Waters: or, The Exploits of the}

25 A Rolling Stone. Incidents in the Career on Sea '

am.
_68 Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters. By

 

86 The Dashing Dragoon' or, The Story of Gen. 1
George A. Custer. By Captain Fredreck Whit- , -»

taker.
87 Night-Hawk George. By Col. Prentiss Ingra-

ham.

38 The Boy Exiles of Siberia; or, The Watch-Dog
of Russia. By T. C. Harbaufih.

89 The Young Bear Hunters. y Morris Redwin .

40 Smart Sim, the Lad With a Level Head.
Edward Willett.

41 The Settler’s Son; or. Adventures in Wilderness
and Clearing. By Edward Ellis.

42 Wait Ferguson’s Cruise: A Tale of the Antarctic
Sea. By C. Dunning Clark.

43 Rifle and Revolver; The Little Gun Club on the
Buffalo Range. By Capt. Fred Whittaker.

44 The Lost Boy Whalers- or. In the Shadow of the
North Pole. By T. C. Harbau h.

45 Broncho Billy, the Saddle]? nce. By 001. P.
Ingraham.

46 Dick, the Stowaway: A Yankee Boy's Strange
Cruise. By‘Charles Morris.

47 The Colorado Boys; or, Lite on an Indigo Plan- '
tntion. By Joseph E. Badger. Jr.

48 The Pampas Hunters; or New York Boys in ' ‘
Buenos Ayres. T. C. arba h. . ’

49 The Adventurous lie of Nebras 3. Charlie,
“Boy Medicine Man" of the Pawnees. By
Prentiss Ingraham.

50 Jack, Harr and Tom, the Three Champion
Brothers. {Saga Fred Whittaker,

51 The Young n -Lubber; or. Prince Porter’s

    
  
   
  
    
    
   
    
   
 

First Cruise. By C. Dunning Clark. a
52 The Bo Detectives; or, The Yo Californi— w

ans in b anghai. By T. C. Harbaug . - v
53 Honest Harry' or. he Country Boy Adrift in

the City. By Charles Morris. .

54 California Joe, the Mysterious Plainsman. By
Col. Prentiss Ingl'r‘aham. -
55 Tip Teasel. the loater: or, Fortunes and Mia
fortunes on the Mississippi. A By Edward Willett. _
56 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods.
By Barry de Forrest.
Harry Somers, the Sailor Boy Magician. Bys.
W. Pearce.

ber Boy. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. . .
59 Lame Tim, the Mule Boy of the Mines. By- "‘C
Charles Morris. . v  
60 The Youn Trail Hunters;\or. New York Boys '
in Grizzly and. By . C. rhaugh. V ‘
61 The’ Tiger Hunters; or, The Colorado Boys in
Elephant-Land. By Joseph E. Bad er, Jr. _
62 Doctor Carver, the "Evil Spirit” 0 the Plains.
By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. ~
63 Black Horse Bill, the Bandit Wrecker. By‘ '
Roger Starbuck. .
64 Young Dick Talbot; or A Boy‘s Rout:th ‘:
Tumble Fight from New York to Califogia. .~ By “
A. W. Aiken. ‘
65 The Bo Pilot; or, The Island Wrecker. By
Col. P. ngraham. ‘ ' 
66 The Desert Rover; or. Stowaway Dick among
the Arabs. By Charles Morris. ‘
67 'Il‘exashcharlie, the Boy Ranger. By Col. Prentiu
ngra A ~ ‘

Captain “ Bruin ” Adams. v

69 The Young Nihilist; or. A Yankee Boy Among:
the Russians. By Charles Mo .

70 Pony. the Cowbo ; or The Young. Marshal's
an . By Major .B. standard Ex-scout. n

71 Ruff Robsart and His Bear; or. The Treiiot Ln.»

3 it" lim’mBlC“ “‘“T‘ln’émtl “with Lo

7“ 1e 06 e an 'or. e a wayso e m.
Coast. Bylaapt. enckWhittaker.. 

. e» t

 

 

 

 

 

BEADLE’S noY's LIBRARY.

 

78 The Young Moose-Hunters; or, Trail and Camp-
Flre in the New Brunswick Woods. By William
. arming.

74 The Boy Coral-Fishers: or, The Sea Cavern
Scourge. By Roger Starbuck.

75 Revolver Billy, the Boy Ranger of Texas. By
Col. Prentiss Ingraham.

76 The Condor-Killers: or. Wild Adventures at the
Equator. By T. C. Harbaugh.

77 Lud Lionheels, the Young Tiger-Fighter. By
Roger Starbuck.

78 Flatboat Fred; or, The Voyage of the Experi-
ment. By Edward Willett.

.- 79 Boone. the Hunter; or, The Backwoods Brothers.
By Captain F. Whittaker.

80 Kentucky Ben, the Long Rifle of the Cascades.
By R. Starbuck.

81 The Kit Carson Club; or, The Young Hawkeyes
in the Northwest. By T. C. Harbaugh. '

82 Little Buck, the Boy Guide; or. The Gold “ Eye "
.0! Montana. By Barry Ringgold.

88 Pony Bob. the Reckless Rider of the Rockies. By
001. P. Ingraham.

84 Captain Fly-by-Night; or, The Colorado Boys on
the War-Path. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.

85 gaptain Ralph, the Young Explorer. By C. D.

ark.

86 Little Dan Rocks; or, The Mountain Kid‘s Mis-
sion. By Morris Redwing.

87 The Menagerie Hunters; or, Fanny Hobart, the
Animal Queen. By Maj. H. Grenvrlle.
88 The Bo Tramps; or, Life Among the Gipsits.

~ , By.J. . Hoffman.

80 'Lon hore Lige' or. ow aRough Boy Won His
WaygsBy C. D. Clark. -

90 Roving Rifle, Custer‘s Little Sc'out. By T. C.
Harbaugh.

91 {Brogan Josh, the Wizard Rifle. By Roger Star-
uc . .
92 Hurricane Kit; or. Old Lightning on the Ramp-
age. By A. F. Bolt.
98 J um 11} Jake, the Colorado Circus Boy. By B.
Bain n e.
94 SamSpence, the Broadhorn Boy. By Ed. Willett.
95 Moscow to Siberia; or. A Yankee Boy to the
Rescue. By Charles Morris.
96 Fi hting Fred; or The Castaways of Grizzl
Cfmp. By T. c H’arbaugh. y
97 Cruise of the Flyawav: or, Yankee Boys in Cey-
lon. By C. Dunning Clark.
, 98 The Boy Vigilantes; or, King Cole and His Band.
By Major H. B. Stoddard.
99 The White Tigers; or, Silver Rifle. the Girl 'l‘rackJ
, erot Lake Superior. By Capt. Chas Howard.
. -'100 The Snow-Shoe Trall' or. The Forest Desper-
adoaa. By St. George'Rathbohe.
101 Mariano,~the Ottawa Girl; or, The Mysterious
, Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
102 The Flyawa Afloat; or, Yankee Boys Round
the World. y C. Dunning Clark. ,
108 Pat Mulloney’s Adventures or. Silver Tongue,
the Dacotsh Queen. By C. L. Edwards.
104 The Boy Pros ctor; or, The Secret of the Sierra
Ravine. By oger Starbuck.
105 Minonee, the wood Witch; or, The Squatter’s
Secret. By Edwin Emerson.
106 The Boy Cruisers; or, Joe and Jap‘s Big Find.
. By Edward Willett.
10? The Border Rovers: or. Lost on the Overland
- Trail. ByJ._Mllton Hodman.

 

108 Alaska, the Wolf-Queen. By Captain Howard

Lincoln.

109 Christian Jim, the White Man's Friend. By Ed-
ward S. Ellis.

110 Plucky Joe, the Boy Avenger. By J. M. Hoffman.

111 The Border Gunmaker; or, The Hunted Maiden.
By James L. Bowen.

112 Left-Handed Pete, the Do ible-Knife.
E. Badger, Jr.

113 The River Rifles; or. The Fate of the Flatboat.
By Capt. J. F. C. Adams.

114 Alone on the Plains; or, The She-Eagle‘s Venge-
ance. By Edward Willett. -

By J os.

.115 Silver Horn, and His Rifle Firedeath. By Roger

Starbuck. .

116 Exploits of Hezekiah Smith, the Backwoodsman.
By Emerson Rodman.

117 The Young Mustangers; or, Dick Merry‘s Ran-
gers. By C. Dunning Clark.

118 lelidTraps; or, 'lhe Boy Rivals. By Barry Ring-
go . r

119 Center Shot, the White Crow. By T. C. Har-
baugh.

120 A Hot Trail; or. Clark Cloverly Among the Tar-
tars. By Charles Morris.

121 Hunter Pal-d Ben: or, The Wakash's Blind Lead.
By Roger Star-buck.
The Esquimaux Queen; or. The Mystery of the
Lone Hut. By G. Waldo Browne. .

123 Tim, the Boy Acrobat; or, Life in the Circus
Ring. By Charles Morris.

124 ueen Bessie, the Border Girl.
' homes.

125 Tom Tabor, the Boy Fugitive; or, The Young
Lynch Gang Wolves. By Barry Ringgold.

126 Mink Coat, the Death-Shot; or. The Spring of
the Tiger. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

127 The Deer Hunter; or. Life in the Ottawa. Coun
try. By John J. Marshall.

128 Wolf-Ca ; or, the Night-Hawks of the Fire-
Lands. y Capt. Chas. Howard.

129 Silver‘szgur; or. The Mountain Heroine. By Ed-
ward illett.

130 .lIiefitsea, Queen of the Plains. By Percy B. St.

0 n r .

By Henry J.

131 Wista'h, the Child Spy. By George Gleason.‘

132 The Island Trafiper: or. The Young White-But-
falo Hunters. y Charles Howard.

133 The Forest Specter; or, The Young Hunter’s
Foe. By Edward Willett.

134 Wild Nat, the Trooper; or, The Cedar Swamp
Brigade. By Wm. B. Eyster.

185 The Silver Bugle: or, The Indian Maiden of St.
Croix. By Lieut. Col. Hazeltine.

136 The Prairie Trapper or, The Child of the
Brigade. By 0. mm ng Clark.

187 The Antelo 9 Boy; 0". Smoholler, the Medicine—
Man. By eo.L. Aiken.

138 Long Shot; or, The Dwarf Guide.
Comstock.

139 Colonel Crockett, the Bear King. By C. E.
Lasalle.

By Captain

140 Old Pegs. the Mountaineer; or, The Trapper
Rivals. By Lewzs W. Carson.

141 The Giant Hunter; or, The Mad Sconrge of the
Kickapoos. By Barry Hazard. p _

142 Black Panther. the Half—Blood; or, The Slaves
of the Silver Mines. By J. E. Badger, Jr.

143 Carson the Guide; or. The Perils of the Fron-

 

tier. By Lieut. J. H. Randolph.

 

. mama, -

“‘V‘ ‘ BEE-finest?“ Im-

 

l
,1
J
v,

 

- a

_ -  _‘

Era-"3.x Lav:

 

 

V, ‘ ,muuihp-

 

 

 

BEADLE'S BOY’S LIBRARY.

 

 

144 Kent, the Ranger; or; The Fuzitives of the Bor-
der. By Edward S. Ellis. -

145 Bill Robbins. Hunter; or, The Man in Green. By
Edward Willett.

146 The Half-Breed Rival; or, The Tangled Trail.
By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.

147 The Masked Avenger; or, Death on the Trail.
By 00]. P. Ingrahani.

148 Nat. the Trapper and Indian F‘vhter. B l
J. Prescott. ' lb y PM

119 The Elk Demon- or, The Giant B 0th .

T. C. Harbaugh. ' r em By
150 The Bo Mustang-Hunter; or. Eulalle. the
Beautifu Almzou. By Frederick Whittaker.

151 Frank Yates. the Young Trap er; or, Mountain
Kate‘s Warning. By Joseph . Badger, Jr.

152 Wild Raven, the s out; or. Blanche, the Over-
land Maiden. By Oll Coomeo.

153 Lynx-Co. ; or Four Tra ers Amonwtne S' . .
By Paul ibbs’. pp ° w“

151 The Champion Texan Rider; or. Red Buffalo
and the Hercules Hunter. By H..rry St. George.

155 Dusky Dick’s mom; or. Tobe Castor, the Old
Scout. By J as.  Badger. Jr.

156 Frank Bell. the‘ Boy S ; or. The M star of
Crystal Lake. By Oil ngmes. y y

157 Nick Doyle, the Gold—Hunter. By P. H. Myers.

158 Kidnapped Dick; or, The Fate of the Fire-Fly.
By J. Stanley Henderson.

159 Sam's Lonz Tr :il; or, The Twin Scouts. By W.
J. Hamilton. ‘

1630 Hank Triplnt‘s Vow; or. The Old Guide’s Wrong
irznl. By Harry Hazard.

161 The Mad Skipper; or. The Cruise of the Monon-
gahela. By Roger Sturbuck.

152 The Trapper Kinz; or. 0:d Bear-Paw. the Yan-
kee Scout. By Maj. Max Martino.

163 Simon Kenton, Hunter; or. The Renegade’s
Doom. By Emerson Rodman.

164 The BoyChief; or, Frank Bell’s Compact. By
011 Coomes.

1G5 The Trader Traitor; or, Old Bark the Marksman.
By J. Stanley Henderson.

166 Old Jupe‘s Clew; or, The Dark Detective. )3
Mrs. Orrin James y y

167 The You Trailer-or The Black Lea e’s Plot.
By w. Jnfiamllton‘. ' g“ ~

168 TheS ecter Spv' or The Wizard Canoe. B
Maj. fizwls W. Cal-son. y

169 Lank Lute, the Old Colorado Hunter. By E.

’. Archer.

170 The White Wolf' or, Followin a Tr 'i. B
EdwardWillett. ’ g m y

171 The Swam Guide; or. Canebrake Mose and his
Dog. By \ . N. McNeil.

172 The Yankee Peddler; or, Jabez Hawk. the Spy.
By C. Dunning Clark.

173 The Scout and His Young Chum. By Warren
St. John. ‘

17d Blacksmith Tom’s Mask- or, The Rene ode
Rival. By Geo. D. Gilbert: 3

175 The Buckskin Rider; or, The White Scourge. By
Guy Greenwood.

176 The S uatter's surprise; or, Frontier Life at
Squire ker‘s. By Mrs. H. J. Thomas.

177 Four Fellow Scouts; or The Unseen Hand. By

‘J. Stanley Henderson.

178 Old Kit and His Commiss- 6r The Lon Trail.
By Jon. E. Badger, Jr. ' ’ g

7209 Buck Burt’s Pluck; or. The Scouts of the Scioto.

 

179 Uncle Grill‘s Disguise: or. Tom Drain, the Young
Ranger. By Hurry Hazard. -

180 The Marked Miner; or. Jolly Jan the Dutch
Trailer. By Lieut. Col. Hazeltine.

181 The Wild Huntress; or. Old Grizzly the Bear-
Tamer. By Capt. Bruin Adams.

182 The Dwarf Decoy; or, The White Steed Bidet.
By Moro 0. Rolfe.

183 Job Dean's Tac'ics: or The Captain‘s Fair
Rescuer. By Ingoldshy North.

184 Yankee Eph's Dilemma; or, the Scheming Suitor
Foiled. By J. R. Worcester.

185 The Wily Witch’s Ward. By Edwin E. Ew‘n.

186 Frank, the. Furrier: or. The Yankee Magical
Medicine Arrow. By J. Stanley Henderson. _

187 Digna, the Fair Mountuineer. By Capt. F. Whit-'
a er. I

188 Jack’s Snare; or, The Kent Boys' Plot. By Mrs.
Ann E. Porter.

189 Sam. the Swamp Scout. A Romance of 1779.
By W. J. Hamilton.

190 The Dashing Trooper; or. The Half-Breed‘s
ReVenge. By Frederick Dewey. ' -V

191 The Boy Brave; or. Stone Castle’s Shrewd
Schemer. By James L. Bowen. -

192 Sandy Bill, of Texas; or. The White Apache‘s
Doom. By Edward Willett. .

193 Harry \Vlnkle‘s Lone Chase; or, the Haunted ‘
Hunter. By Wm. R. Eyster. *

194 Cl"‘eper Cato, the Shadow Swamp Trailer. ‘By
E. Dewey. ,

195 The Ranger Detective; or. The Scalpless Hunter.
By Harry Hazard. . I. .

196 Gypsy Mug. the Mountain Witch; or, The Mys- ‘
terious Mute. By C. D. Clark. v

197 The Branded Captain; or, The Silent Slayer. By
W. J. Hamilton. - , ‘

198 Old Crossfire’s Crisis; or.‘ Frank Nesbit. the’
Young Trailer. By Capt. Charles Howard. 3

199 Zebra Zack, the Texan. By W. J. Hamilton. .' I“

200 The Nameless Hunter; or. the Dscotah Scourge.
By George W. Robinson. j

201 The Yankee Captives. By Edward Willett.

202 Teddy‘s Long Trail. By Edward S. Ellis. .

208 Old Hank. the Hermit; or. The Capture, of the
Cave. By Edward W. Azcher. .  ;

204 Goosehead’s Best Shot. ByJos. E. Badger, Jr. >

205.The Dutchman's Dread: or. Gottlleb and his.
Hunter Pard. By Capt. Charles Howard.

206 Kit Burt‘s Mask; or, Nick the Scout. By w. J." ‘
Hamilton - .

£07 Eagle-Eyed Tim' or. The Crafty Captain‘s Plot.
By c. Dunning diark. .

208 The Village Sport; or, The Young Mechanic's
Muster. y James L. Bowen. .

  
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
    
  
     
 
 
  

3.

By Edward Willett.

210 The Tell-Tale Bullet; or, The Outlaws’ Fate. By
J. Stanley Henderson. ‘

211 The Boy Surveyor; or, Buy. the Daring Rider.
By W. J. Ham' ton. ’ . a

212 Yankee Drover Swipes: or, The Young Mustang 
Rider. By Seelin Robins. , ‘

213 Silver City Tom; or, Blue Belt's Barter. By ‘
James L. wen. . V _ I
214 Nick. the Detective' or. The Border Vagabond”

D00 ByEdwinllimr erson. v - . 

 

‘“ :r fiend-3;. ’ . 

BEADLE’S BOY’S IzIBRARY.

 

5315 Mustang Rider Roy: or, The Brigands of Texas.
‘ By Albert W. Aiken.

216 The Dakota Dutchman; or. Sharp Eye’s Brave
Band. By Maj. Max Martine.

217 Yankee Josh. the Rover; or, Two Adventurers
in the Tropics. By B. H. Belkuap, M. D.

218 New York Ned in California: or, The Brothers of
the League. By W. J. Hamilton.

219 Kentucky Kate’s Shot; or, Border FOes' Frays.
By Edward Willett.

220 ’Frisco Frank's Rival; or. The Gold Cave of
Death Valley. By Paul J. Prescott.

221 Doctor Bag. Detective; or, Trailer Tom's Tact.
By Lewis Jay Swift.

222 Sly Sam’s Snare; or. The Boy Hunter's Vow.
By Louis Legrand, M. D.

223 Old Nancy’s Ward' or, The Rustic Rifle Ran-
gers. By Lieut. Col. Hazeltine.

221i Rattlegate, the Nahob; a. Story of New York in
Early imes. By Scott R. Sherwood.

225 Night-Hawk Bill; or, The New York Sportsmen’s
Ciew. By W. J. Hamilton.

226 The Masked Maniac; or. The Old Man’s Mission.
By Marc 0. Rolfe.

227 Barney‘s Bold Brush; or, Three Youths in Idaho.
By James L Bowen.

228’ The Deadwood SportS' or. Diamond Dick‘s De-
livex'ance. By Lieut.  G. Lansing.

299 Hans Schmidt. J11; or, The Disguised Yankee.
By W. J. Hamilton. ,

230 Lone Star’s Sure Shot; or, The One-Armed Rival.
By Harry Hazard. .

231 Mark Morgan‘s Mask; or, The Girl Avenger. By
Capt. Charles Howard. '

2&2 Billy Broom’s First Cruise: or. Tom Pintle, the
V Pilot. BY H. Minor Klapp.

283 The Girl Rifle-Shot. By W. J. Hamilton.

234 Old Kyle's Long Tramp; or, Zeke, the Renegade.
" By Henry J. ’lhomas.
' 235 Old Bill Syce’s Pledge; 6r, The Texan Unmasked.
By Edward. Willelt.

236 The On-the-Wing Detective; or. Tr

cking a New
‘ York Bank Robber. By Ed. S. Ellis.

237 The Do] hin’s Young Skip er; or, Will Wing,
the Pear Pirate. By Roger ‘tarhuck.

238 Josh’s Bo Pards; or. The Mysterious Sky Rani
gar. By . G. Lansing.

239 Lee Dakin‘s Disguise; or, The Madman‘s Re-
venge. yMaroo. Rolfe.

240 Daring Dick‘s Race; or. The Yankee Peddler's
Surprise. By Arthur L. Meserve.

241 Uncle Ephe’s Boys: or, Archy Gordon‘s Grit.
'By J. Stanley Henderson.

24:: ’Cyclist Bob Shared; or, The Champion‘s Rival.
By Capt. R. M. Hawthorne.

243 Flash-Liam Joe; or. Brave, the Canine Scout.
. By Charles P. Isley.

244 Bob Baker‘s Lent Lea): or Old Reuben"; Re-
venge. By ’1‘. Benton hields. U. S. A.

'245 North Woods Nat;

or, The Young Mountain
\Captain. By W. J. Hamilton. V

 

216 The Girl Chief' or, Doll ’s Droll Dis ise. B
J. M. Merrill. ’ y g“ »y‘

247 Denver Dick, the Rattler: or. The Miners of
Deadwood Gulch. By Harry Hazard.

248 Black Jim‘s Doom; or, Billy Bowlegs‘s Revenge.
By Lieut-Col. Hazeltine.

249 Morgan. the Sea Rover; or. The Shrewd Scotch-
man’s Scheme. By John S. Wamer.

250 Zach‘s Ghost Tram or, The Haunted House. By
George Applegate.

251 Kyd’s Bold Game; or, the Death Trail Mystery.
By Paul Bibbs. r

252 Sancho Sam’s Shot; or. Fort Blnklry‘s Specter
Riders. By-Gcorge Gleason.

253 Crafty Crazy Slack; or, The French Fugitive.
By Harry Hazard. .

254 The Fighting Quaker; or. The Droll Darky‘s
Dismay. By Edward S. Ellis.

255 The Ranger’s First Cruise: or, The Yankee Tar
Abroad. By John S. Warner.

256 Bob Gage's Crew: or, The Boys of Logger-Camp.
By John Neal.

25? Tommy‘s Fast Pacer: or. Searching for “ Uncle
Josiah." By W. J. Hamilton. v

258 Doc Bell’s Pluck: or, The Frenchman‘s Fate.
By Capt. Charles Howard.

259 Rocky Mountain Burt; or, Harry. the Futrier‘s
Son. By Edward Wil’ett.

260 Reckless Ralph‘s Risk; or. The Tell-Tale Clew.
By James L. Bowen.

261.Gold Nugget Dick; or, Two Boys’ Good Luck.
By Tom P. Morgan.

262 Ira’s Big Bonanza: or, Mysterious Crazy Tom.
By Harry Hazard.

263 Josh M lrsten. Detective; or. The Crafty Agent’s
Crime. By Mary A. Denison.

264 Uncle Jerry, the maker; or. the Schoolmaster‘s
Trial. By John eal. »
Ready Jay 4.
265 The Sripylaer‘s Mate: or, The Cruise of the Fire-
Fly. By {a Cavendis .
.Ready May 1. I
256 The Girl Cowboy Captain: or, The Skinners of
the Carolina Swamps. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.
Ready May 18.
267 Eph. the Mimic Spy; or, The Frenchman‘s Doom.
By W. J. Hamilton.
Ready May 25.
268 Ralph's Last Tramp; or, The Woodman’s Recre-
ant Rival. By Edward 8. Ellis.
Ready June 1.

269 Sol Steele’s Grudge; or, Harry Ewing‘s Role.
B Edward Willett.
early J une 8.

270 Jack, the Coast Detective; or. The Disguised
Captain‘s Clerk. By Roger Starbuck.
Ready June 15.

annw‘s Bar‘s LIBRARY is for sale by' all News-
dealers, flve cents per copy, or sent by mail on re
oeipt of six cents each. 1

Emu: AND Anus. Publishers,
98 William Street. New York.