Copyrighted 1878, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

 

 

Complete in
this Number.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Witiiam Street, New York.

PRICE
10 CENTS.

No. 45.

 

 

LORD LISLES DAUGHTER.

BY C. M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER I.
THE COTTAGE IN THE LANE.

AN artist might have sketched Deepdale as the
model and type of an English village. It nes-
tled amidst the Devonshire hills, trying to hide
itself under the spreading shade Of tall trees.
The bonny Deeplow woods half inclosed it; smil-
ing cornfields, green meadows, and pleasant

ardens gave it a quiet, varied charm. The
Becp! broad stream, the River Floss, ran by it;
far off in the distance lay the chain of blue hills
that sloped down to the sea.

They were a simple, kind]
who dwelt in Deepdale—far
the world in knowledge.

The weather and the crops were their two
chief subjects of conversation and anxiety.
Strangers seldom came near the village; the
railway had not broken upon its tranquil calm.
There were many such quiet, sunny nooks in old
England years ago, but they are rare now.

The houses were scattered; there was no regu-
lar street; a group of cottages stood under the
tall poplar trees; another in the midst of flower
gardens; little villas were dotted here and there,
half hidden by luxuriant foliage.

Perhaps the most picturesque spot in Deepdale
was Meadow Lane, one of those broad green
lanes only seen in England; the hedges filled
with wild roses and eglantine; hawthorn trees
perfuming the clear, summer air, and wild flow-
ers growing in rich profusion.

A little cottage stood at the end of the lane.
Claude Lorraine would have made a grand pic-
ture of it. A little cottage, with bright win-
dows encircled by guelder roses and woodbines;
and the white jasmine flowers shone like pale
stars. A group of tall chestnut trees stood near,
and a pretty brook ran singing by.

On this evening, when our story opens, a
young lady arrived at Deepdale. She came
trom some neighboring town, in a shabby,
worn-out fly, bringing with her a large box and
a little child. The driver, obeying the lady’s
directions, inquired for Mrs. Rivers, of Rose-
mary Cottage; and some of the village people,
attracted and half-dazzled by the fly, shabby as
it was, showed the way to the cottage in
Meadow Lane. But there were places where
the brook widened, and the carriage could not
pass. The lady quickly solved the difficulty;
she bade the Beier go to the village inn, an
send the box on to the cottage, and she herself
took the child in her arms.

‘Tell me,” she said, gently, ‘how long you
can wait. Give me as much time as you can.”

ney: a be back by eleven, if possible,” he
replied.

y Then I will be at the inn by ten,” she said,
turning from him, and clasping the child in her
arms. She walked quickly down the green lane;
then she sat down upon the trunk of an old tree,
and gazed around her. :

The child in the lady’s arms stirred, and she
bent over it, kissing the little face with a wist-

race, the people
hind the rest of

 

 

ful love pitiful to see; then she placed the child
for a few minutes standing by her side.

“This will be my darling’s home,” she said to
herself; ‘‘and I could wish for no fairer one.”

Pensively she gazed upon the child; then she
rose, took up her precious treasure, and walked
on to the cottage, and gently rapped at the
door. It was opened by a clean, kindly-looking
woman, who cried out with delight when she
saw who stood there.

“T never believed it,” she said, “Can it
really be you, Miss Margaret? I thought the
news too good to be true.”

“Tt was quite true, nurse. I could not leave
my darling in any care but yours.”

rs. Rivers took the child from the lady’s
arms, and placed a large chair for her.

“Thave not long to stay,” said the fair youn;
Visitor ; “let me keep baby in my arms while
can.

‘‘That you shall,” replied Mrs Rivers, gently ;
“Gt is hard enough for you. Ah, Miss Marga-
ret! Icall you ‘Miss’ still. I cannot remem-
ber that you are a married lady, with a baby
of your own. It is not long since I nursed

ou.

“Not so very long,” was the reply; ‘‘ but I
have lived many lives since then.”

As the lady spoke a look of pain passed over
her lovely features.

‘* All my other troubles seem like play, nurse,”
she continued, ‘‘in comparison with the parting
from my little child.”

A sudden mist of tears gathered in her eyes as
she spoke.

“Calm yourself,” said the nurse. ‘I will
make you some tea, and then you shall tell me
your story.”

While Mrs. Rivers busied herself in preparing
tea, the lady sat with the child in her arms.
She laid her fair young face on the little golden
head, murmuring sweet words of love, never
ei aa by the one who heard them.

The western sunbeams came in at the open
window; but they brought no message of hope
for her, whose heart was sad even unto death.

She tried to drink the tea kind hands brought
her; but the homely cakes, the golden honey,
and ripe fruit, Mrs. Rivers offered her in vain.

_ ‘Now, my dear,” said the nurse, when the
simple meal ended, ‘come out into the garden.
‘You shall sit under the laburnum tree while you
tell me all about it—where your husband has
Renae you are going—what is the mystery.

‘ell me, for you know you can trust me.”

As she spoke, the nurse placed a chair outside
the porch, and then seater: herself by the lady’s
side; and the child, as though knowing how
soon those tender arms must loose their hold,
lay silent and still,

‘“‘T have not much to tell,” the lady began.
“You left my father’s house when he failed; he
did not live long after that. My mother took
me to London, and put me to school there. She
died when I reached my fifteenth year, and I

 

 

was left quite alone. I wrote to you sometimes;
but with that one exception there was no hu-
man being who took any interest in me. My
father’s friends, who courted me when he was
rich, forgot my existence, even.

“Just before my mother’s death, she placed
me as governess-pupil in a school near London.
In return for the lessons I gave, I was taught
many accomplishments. In my nineteenth
year, I left there to take my first situation
as governess—it was considered a very good
one. I had the charge of Colonel Seaton’s two
little children, who resides at Hurst Hall, in
Norfolk.

“T was happy there; the Colonel and Mrs.
Seaton were very kind tome. Ah, nurse! I am
trying to tell you the story; but how can I? I
could not ie the glorious colors of this even-
ing sky; I could not put to music the oe aed
the bird; nor can I describe the change that
came over my life, when he who is now my hus-
band began to love me.

“‘T was but a child when my father failed and
died. After that, my life seemed one long, dull,
gray-colored dream. Of the pleasures, the in-
nocent happiness of young girls, I knew noth-
ing. I had never even cared whether my face
were fair or not; but one evening—ah, me, how
vividly that scene returns!—one evening, I had
done something that did not please Mrs. Seaton,
and she spoke angrily to me. When the chil-
dren had gone to bed, and my time was my
own, I went out into the garden. I had been
asked to train some choice rose-trees, and as I
bent over the roses, the tears fell from my eyes
upon._the flowers.

“ Not tears such as I shed. now, full of bitter-
ness, but hopeless tears, that had in them no
aching sorrow—nothing but a desolate weari-
ness. Suddenly, standing before me, I saw a
gentleman— a young and handsome man. He
spoke to me, saying he had come some long dis-
tance to see Colonel Seaton.

“T told him Colonel and Mrs. Seaton would
both be in at eight o’clock, and if he particu-
larly wished to see them, he had better wait, or
call then. He decided upon waiting. Then he
looked at me, nurse, with such kind, ba eyes,
and asked me if I were in trouble, that I had
been weeping so bitterly.

““*T had no trouble,’ I replied, ‘but I was
tired of my life.’

“* He stood and talked tome, saying such brave,
noble words, I can never forget them. And as
he spoke, the sun seemed to shine more brightly,
the flowers gave forth a sweeter fragrance, hi
voice made music in my heart—music that has
never died out since. m that hour my life
changed; it was no longer gray and dull. [I liv-
ed in a rose-colored dream—a golden light had
fallen over me, and dazzled my eyes.

“Nurse, I cannot tell you my husband’s
name. I shall keep no secret from you but
Loca wt promised him, and I must keep my
word.

 
. and, in my sorrow, I have sought

    

2

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

A look of great anxiety came over Mrs.
Rivers’ face, but she made no comment.
“Captain Arthur—I may call him that—re-
mained at Hurst Hall for some weeks. He told
me he loved me, and I—oh, dear heaven! what
had I done that such happiness should be mine?
—he asked me to be his wife; but our marriage
was to be kept quite secret. I will tell you why.
My husband, like myself, has no parents. They
died when he was quite a child, and he was
opted by an uncle, who educated him, bought
commission, and promised to look well to his
future prospects. I must not tell you his uncle’s
name either, nurse. England knows it well.
He is a nobleman of high birth, and still higher
repute. He has two sons; the eldest, of course.
succeed him; the youngest is in the roya
navy. This uncle has always been kind, with
this one exception—he would not.listen to the
idea of any marriage. Captain Arthur must
wait, he said; and, as he had no money himself,
he must marry an heiress; and threatened, that
if thwarted in this respect, he should withdraw
all support and friendship from him.
“So our marriage was a private one. I left
my situation one fine morning in June, and
drove straight to a church—one of the largest
and oldest in London. Captain Arthur met me
there; we were married, and then he took me
home. Our home was a pretty villa amongst
the Highgate Hills. As much happiness fell to
my share in that one short year as some people
enjoy in a lifetime. Our secret was never dis-
covered. I was known as Mrs. Howard—my
mother’s maiden name. At the year’s end, just
after my little child was born, my husband’s
regiment was ordered to India. The doctor for-
bade. me going with him—and we parted. It
was arranged that I should join him when baby
would be strong enough and old enough to stand
the voyage. But they tell me, nurse, that she
would not live there, where the sun scorches
and burns. I should not leave her yet; but my
husband is very ill. The last three mails have
brought me sad news from him; he is very ill,
and pines for me. What can I do? My heart
is torn between my husband and my child. The
doctor, who is my old friend, says she would die
before she had been in India a week. My Ar-
thur may die, unless I can go to nurse him; and
I thought of many plans, but there is no one to
whom I can trust my child but you, my faith-
ful friend. I have no relations in the world;
ou. I leave
England to-morrow. Will you take charge of
my child for three years. I will reward you
handsomely at the end of that time, when I
shall return, and make some further arrange-
ments. What do you say, nurse? Will you un-
dertake the trust?

CHAPTER II.
A MOTHER’S. GOOD-BY.

THERE was a moment of unbroken silence
when the lady ceased speaking, and the woman
by her side answered gravely, ‘‘I accept the
charge, my dear. I will take care of your child
as though she were my own. God bless and
preserve you, Miss Margaret! I hope Captain
Arthur is good and true?

“Good!” said the clear voice. ‘I have never
seen any one like him, nurse. He is kind, ten-
der, and loving. One word from him means
more than the vow of another. He is the soul
of honor and truth.”

The pale, sweet face brightened as she spoke.

“You, too, have a little daughter,” she con-
tinued. ‘‘ Where is she? Will you let me see
her?”

“T have a pretty child,” said Mrs, Rivers;
‘“and, Miss Margaret, I named her after you
but we call her Rita,” My poor husband us
to say Margaret was too long for every-day. use.
She is gone to one of my neighbors. I will fetch
her.”

In a few minutes the woman returned, lead-
ing by the hand a beautiful child of four years
old—a child Murillo would have been charmed
with; dark in features and eyes, with black,
shining hair clustering in thick waves upon her
pretty shoulders; lips as ripe and red as cher
ries, and little white teeth that gleamed like

arls.

The lady cried out in admiration when she
saw her, and a look of gratified vanity stole
over the lovely, childish face.

“ Ah,” said the nurse, “my little Rita is very

retty; but I look upon beauty as a ‘fatal
ee What has it done for you, Miss Mar-

et, my dear?—and there never was a sweeter
‘ace than yours. Your little one is not like
ou.”
me No,” replied the lady. ‘‘ My hair and eyes
are dark; her little curls are like ale gold; her
eyes are blue as a summer ayy do not know
whether others would form the same opinion as
I; but, to me, she has an angel’s face.

‘She then raised her own child in her arms.
The little girl was nearly three years old, and a
greater contrast.to the dawle-foe d Rita could
not have been found, She was small, but every
little limb was most exquisitely shaped. The

head was one-that Raphael would have sketched
for a child-angel, running over with golden
curls; a fair, spiritual face, bearing even then

 

an impress of high-bred refinement; delicate
white arms and hands, fair as a lily, and ex-
quisitely shaped. As the lady held the child,
she kissed the sweet face with a passionate love
pitiful to see.

‘““We are three Margarets,” she said, with a
smile. ‘You must call my darling ‘Daisy,’
nurse—she looks like a pretty pale flower—
‘Daisy Howard; and some time I will surprise
her by giving her a name far prettier than that
—her own. Rita, you will be kind to Daisy,
will you not?”

The two children played upon the grass to-
gether, while the lady, in rapid, nervous words,
continued her instructions.

“T have brought you forty pounds, nurse,”
she said. ‘‘ As soon as I reach India, I will send

ou more. Spare no expense over my child.

t her be daintily dressed. and cared for. I
have had a portrait taken of her—three, in fact.
One ig for her papa, one for myself; and to-
night, or to-morrow, before leaving, I will send
you the other.”

There was a sharp ring of pain in the lady’s
voice, as she continued: ‘‘I have a locket for
her. It contains her father’s hair and mine,
with our initials—M. and A.—entwined. I shall
leave her this ring. My husband gave it to me
the night before he went. It_is of rare pearls;
and the motto inside it says, ‘ No love out of this
ring.’ And, oh, nurse,” ihe continued, burstin,
into a wild passion of weeping, ‘‘take care o:
her! Do not let her forget me. Morning and
night, let her fold her little hands, and pray for
the loving mother so far away.”

‘‘ That she shall do,” said the nurse, gently,

Acne will soon pass,” said the sad

young mother. ‘ But I know, now, what peo-
ple suffer when they come to die. Death can
hold no deeper sorrow than this.”

“You will see her again,” said Mrs. Rivers,
gently, ‘‘and she will soon learn to be happy. a
iy Pena without me!” sighed thelady. ‘“ But

time presses. Let me have her to myself, nurse,
for one half-hour. I must leave you, before
ten ”

She quitted the pretty fragrant garden, where
her feet were never more to tread, and followed
the nurse into a little bedroom. A white bed,
with white hangings, stood there, and the lady
knelt by it, holding the child in her arms.

“Take care of her, ye heavenly guardians!”
she cried. ‘It rends my heart to leave her.
My darling,” she continued, raising the little
sweet face to her own, ‘‘shall you forget me?
Let my kisses lie warm on your lips. Look at
me. t my face sink into your heart. I shall
come to you in your dreams. In my dreams, I
shall feel the clasp of your tender hands—the
warm breath upon my cheek. I shall hear by
day and by night the music of your pretty
voice, and the sound of your footsteps. My
heart stays with you. I call upon heaven to
guard my little child while I am away!”

Her warm tears rained upon the wee golden
head, and then she began to murmur sweet,
caressing words, such as only loving mothers
use. The child’s eyes closed, and she laid it
down upon the white bed.

3 Just then the nurse came once more to the
oor.

“Tt is growing late, my dear,” she said.

‘My baby is asleep,” replied the lady; ‘I
will leave her now.”

She bent over the little face, and for the last
time pressed her quivering lips fervently upon it.

a ood-by,, my darling—good-by, my pretty
little child!” she moaned, as she quitted the
room. ‘Do not speak to me, nurse; the bitter-
ness of death is upon me—my heart is break-

in, 2)
itn Guid, womanly patience, Mrs, Rivers
stood until the storm of weeping passed over,
and the pale, wild face grew still. They spoke
no word while the elder woman wrapped the
thin shawl round the childish figure. 7

‘Shall I go with you, my dear, to the inn?”
she asked, gently. Z ;

a No; do not leave the children,” replied the
nay: ‘*T shall be better alone.”

e bent her head on the nurse’s shoulder,
then kissed her face, with lips so white and cold,
they startled her old friend. She said nothing;
her sorrow was too deep for words.

“Tell me what ship you sail in?” asked Mrs.
Rivers. ‘Our doctor has all the grand papers,
and he will know when it reaches fndia,

“Tt is called the Ocean Queen,” replied the
lady; “‘it sailsto-morrow. I shall write to you
by every mail, nurse, and you must do the same
to me; and in three years’ time, should provi-
dence will, I shall return, and she will not have
forgotten me.”

“She will not forget you, my dear; she will
see your face every night in her dreams,” said
Mrs. Rivers. ‘‘God speed you, and send you
back to us in safety.”

The lady lingered for a few minutes near the
cottage-door, longing to look once more at the
sleeping child; but, as she stood, the church-
cloe. ahithad. the hour of ten, and she turned
with rapid steps to walk down the lane, She
could weep alone there, and call her baby’s
name. There was no more need to repress the
bitter sorrow—the sighs and tears that could not
be controlled.

| Markham remained in

 

The last memory that lived with the sad young
mother was of the star-lit sky and the fragrant
greenlane. She walked on rapidly; and having
reached the little inn, where 'the carriage was
waiting for her, she immediately took her de-
parture.

_ On the following day, the postman brought a
little packet to Rosemary Cottage. Mrs. Rivers
opened it, and cried out with delight at the
pretty picture it contained. . ‘‘ Daisy’s portrait,”
was written; ‘‘sent by her mother, June 16th,
18s—.” The picture of a sweetly pretty little
face, with blue eyes, and a beautiful head, run-
ning over with golden curls. There was a long
letter, containing many directions, one of which
was that the golden curls should not be cut, but
should be allowed to grow.

Mrs. Rivers took the little portrait, and, reach-
ing the Bible from the shelf, placed it there with
the letter. Nothing warned her, as she did so,
that, by this simple act, she was in some measure
shaping the destiny of three lives. Both letter
and picture lay there for many years; they were
not seen goon until the night when the fate of
Daisy and Rita trembled in the balance.

It was a strange story, but one hears of stran-
per every day. Sixteen years ago, Margaret

oward, as she called herself, was the petted,
indulged heiress of Stephen Arle, a rich mer-
chant, who lived in one of the southern counties
of ioe Susan Rivers was her nurse, and
very dearly did she love the pretty child of
whom she had charge.

During all these years, Susan Rivers never
lost sight of her mistress and little Margaret.
She went occasionally to see them, and was not
happy or contented unless she heard, at stated
times, from them. But Susan married soon
after Mrs. Arle died, and went away to Deep-
dale. She married her cousin, a handsome,
dark-eyed sailor, who had loved her for many
years.

Margaret wrote to tell her old nurse she was
married,.and again when her baby was born;
but Susan Rivers had cares and sorrows of her
own. Her husband died, and she mourned long
for him. He left a little fortune behind him—
pe sufficient to keep his wife and child in com-

ort.

When the nurse heard again from Margaret,
it was to ask if she would take charge of her
child, the result of which has been detailed.

When Captain Arthur’s wife set sail in the
Ocean Queen, no one in the world knew to whom
she had confided her little daughter, except Mrs.
Markham, a widow woman, who lived as ser-
vant in her house, Mrs. Markham was sorry
to leave the Benue young mistress, who
had been so kind to her; but she was Foie to
join her brother in America. She left En aid
the day after the Ocean Queen sailed for India.
The tragical story of Lord Lisle’s daughter
turned upon this simple incident. Had Mrs.
mgland, it would never
have been written.

The Captain’s young wife thought there would
be plenty of time when she reached India for
telling her husband all about Nurse Rivers and
the Pree, home at Deepdale, where she had left
her little child.

The sea holds many secrets; one of them is,
how the Ocean Queen was lost. It sailed from
England with more than two hundred souls on
board, and a valuable cargo. It was wrecked
in the vast Pacific Ocean—no one knew where
or why. The good ship Trident picked up the
board still bearing the proud name of Cipedn
Queen; but the secret of the mighty deep was
never told. None knew what cruel storms and
driving winds had sent the vessel to its ruin. No
one heard the agonized cries for help that died
on the vast solitary ocean.

One of the last who perished was a lady with
a sweet, sad face, turned in mute supplication
tothe darkling sky; one whose last memory was
of a brave countenance she was never more to
see; of a childish voice she was never more to
hear; of a little golden head never more to be
pillowed on her breast; of a sunny garden where
so eiely she had sat with the child in her arms;
of the fra; t green land and the star-lit night
when she had wept aloud for the little one who
was never to call her mother again.

It was long before the loss of the Ocean Queen
was known in England or in India. To Captain
Arthur Wyverne, lying ill under the burnin;
sun, longing for the wife whose i Brecnce woul
bring him new life, it proved ost a deatih-
blow. But sorrow and despair were unayailin:
now. The sea kept its own secret; the wind an
waves chanted a requiem over those who had
perished with the ill-fated vessel.

 

CHAPTER III.
DAISY.

THE news reached Deepdale at last. The day
came when the good nurse’s friend, the doctor,
called upon her and showed her the paragraph
in the paper that told how the Ocean Queen
was lost, and in what latitude the Trident found
some portion of the wreck floating on the ocean.

It seemed incredible to Mrs. Rivers that one
whom she had tenderly nursed and loved should
have met with so tragicala fate; thatthe bright,
hopeful life should end in its springtide o;

 

 

a a AE

 
-.

 

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER. 3

 

 

beauty. She took little Daisy in her arms, and
promised she would take her mother’s place,
and the little one smiled at her kisses and tears.
all unconscious of the loss no earthly love could
ever repair.

Months rolled on, and no tidings came to Mrs.
Rivers. No one wrote about the child; no one
claimed it. From over the Indian seas there
came no anxious words from an anxious father.
Months became years, and the silence was still
unbroken. She could not write to Daisy’s
father, for she knew nothing of his name or ad-
dress. At length Mrs. Rivers felt sure that one
of two things had happened. Either the mar-
riage had not been a legal one, and the Captain
neither wished or intended to claim his child, or
he was dead, and no one else knew of it.

When two years had passed away, the good
widow gave up all thoughts of hearing from
any one, or of having to give up the child
she loved dearly as her own. She never
spoke to little Daisy of the sad young mother
who had brought her to Deepdale. She never
named the brave soldier-father, far away under
the hot Indian skies. Daisy, who never forgot
the word, called the nurse “* Mamma,” and was
brought up as one of Susan Rivers’ own children.
At times she asked herself was this silence wise,
and one look at the child’s happy face con-
vinced her it was so. Why disturb the sweet,

happy content by speaking of hopes and dreams *

that might never be realized? Daisy was hap-

 

school herself, where she had received a plain,
sensible education. She spoke well and gram-
matically. Quick to learn, she had caught up
the refined tone and accent of her mistress.
Listening to Rita and Daisy, one felt sure they
had been accustomed to speak with intelligent
ig There was nothing broad or provincial.

oth were gifted with musical voices—Rita’s,
rich, clear, and ringing; Daisy’s, sweet as the
murmur of the summer wind.

The house left to Mrs. Rivers was known as
“ Rooks’ Nest;” so called from the fact that,
near the cottage, stood a fine group of trees,
wherein the rooks, for many long years} ha
built their nests. The new tenant was looked
upon as a most respectable woman—not admis-
sible amongst the “ gentry ” of Queen’s Lynne,
but certainly much superior to the ‘‘ poorer
class.” The widow had quite enough to do in
managing her household; it was sometimes hard
work to pay her way and provide all that was
wanted for the two young girls.

The years passed over, and no word ever came
of little Daisy’s friends. The two girls went to
school; they were both quick, and learned rap-
idly; but there was a great difference in their
motives. Daisy loved study for its own sake.
Rita looked upon it as a means to an end.

They did not resemble each other in any way,
these two who believed themselves to be sisters.
In describing Rita, people always called her
‘beautiful;” in speaking of Daisy, one invaria-

 

 

 

 

“T used to dream, when I was quite a little
girl, about that same face,” said Daisy, ‘‘ years
ago, before we left Deepdale; ‘“‘and I dream of
it still. It grows more vague and indistinct,
though, and seems to smile more sadly every
time the dream comes.”

““Why did you never tell me of it before?”

“T cannot tell. I heard you say’so ot'ten that
dreams were all nonsense,” she replied; ‘ but L
must have seen the picture of such a face some
time.”

It was quite possible that the child still
dreamed of her mother. She was nearly three
years old when that mother left her, to find
death in the deep sea. The dream might re-
turn; the image or memory of the face might
still remain in the child’s mind, returning more
vividly in her sleeping than in her waking
hours.

The question made Nurse Rivers again ask
herself whether she ought to tell the young girl
the true story of her life. ‘‘ Not yet,” she said
—‘‘not yet! There will be tears enough, and
sorrow enough, in the days tocome. I will not
awaken her yet.”

When Daisy was sixteen, an offer was made
to her that pleased her adopted mother. The
lady superintendent of a large school in Queen’s
Lynne, struck with her ladylike demeanor, mod~
est manner, and quick intelligence, offered her
a situation as junior teacher in her school. Tn:
place of salary, she was to receive iessons in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘I WILL MAKE YOU SO HAPPY, MY DARLING,” HE SAID.—Page 4.

y, loving Mrs. Rivers as her mother, and the

eautiful, vivacious Rita as her sister.

So Daisy grew—all unconscious of her own
story. They lived in the little cottage at Deep-
dale until Daisy was seven years old. Then
some little accession of fortune came to the
widow. An old uncle died, leaving her a small
house and a few hundred pounds; and they left
Deepdale to go to Queen’s Lynne, on the Nor-
folk coast, where the waver was situated.

It was a great change from the sunny village,
nestling in the Devonshire hills, to the bleak,
bare coast and the deep, surging sea. The chil-
dren disliked it at first; they missed the fra-
grant garden, the green meadows, and fair flow-
ers. But the sea-shore had its charms—the long,
yellow sands—the wonder of shell and weed—
the restless waves that rolled in and out.

There was another great advantage that Mrs.
Rivers had not overlooked. At Queen’s Lynne
there were schools, where, at a moderate rate,
it was possible to procure a really good and
sound education for her children. She wished
them both to be well educated and lady-like.
Whatever might be Daisy’s future, she ought to
receive the best training she could afford her;
then, if ever she were claimed by those who had
aright to her, she could take her place among
them without shame. As for Rita, she gave
promise of such magnificent beauty, that her
mother began to form ambitious hopes and
plans for ‘ther.

Mrs. Rivers had been for years at a good

 

bly characterized her as ‘‘sweet.”
fair, spiritual face, with calm, clear brows, and
tender violet eyes, full of truth and purity; her

ure, sensitive lips had a smile sweet as a sun-
beats her golden hair rippled over white dim-

oe shoulders; there was an air of graceful,

shigh-bred refinement about her that did not be-

long to the more beautiful Rita.
There was nothing worldly in Daisy. She
loved her adopted mother, quite believing she

She had a '

|

|

|

music, drawing, and French. Simple, innocent
Daisy thought herself in fairyland. Rita scorn-
fully declared she would not have gone if Miss
Toffles had offered her a hundred a year.
“Our ways in life will never be the same,
Daisy,” said the young beauty. ‘‘ You have nc
ambition.”

So Daisy went to Miss Toffles, thereby, in
some measure, sealing her own fate. The school
was some three miles distant, and she was al-~

was her own. She was ae a of her brilliant | lowed to go home only at stated intervals.

sister, and perfectly satis:
life. She had no longing for rich dresses and
rare jewels; sho wished for books and music.
She never felt jealous or envious when the Lynn
Gazette told of gay balls and fetes in which she
had no share, The world, ‘as yet, had not
touched her—its warm, passionate breath had
never quickened her pulse, or flushed her face.

There was one thing about her that good Mrs.
Rivers would fain have seen altered—that was,
a quiet gravity, that at times almost amounted
to sadness. At times, too, Daisy startled her
nurse.

ed with her station of

“Mother!” she said one morning, suddenly; |
“have I ever seen in my life a lady with a |

beautiful though sad face, and mournful, loving
eyes? I dream so often of such a face, I must
have seen it.”

Mrs. Rivers was more startled than she cared
to own.

“T cannot tell, my dear,” she replied.
“Dreams are all nonsense.”

 

There she quickly learned all that Miss Toffles
could teach. hen Daisy reached her nine-
teenth year, she was both educated:and accom-
plished, and Mrs. Rivers looked with proud sat-
isfaction upon the girl whom she loved dearly
as her‘own child.

CHAPTER IV.
RITA.

One® lovely evening, toward the end of Au~
gust, a young girl walked slowly down the long
stretch of yellow’sand. Far out in the distance
lay the broad blue sea. The waves rose with a
gentle murmur, and fell with a musical ripple;
the sky was all aflame with beautiful ‘colors.
But neither the beauty of color or sound made
any impression upon the young girl: ‘Never
once were her eyes turned to the sky or the sea.
—never once did she pause and listen to the faint
music of wind and waves.

Yet that countenance should have belonged ta

 
 

ae

 

 

 

4 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

| Some one is sure to try and steal you from me
| while I am away.”

‘one capable of appreciating both. It is. seldom
that, under our cold northern sky, a face of
such wondrous loveliness is seen. “It belonged
rather to the daughters of sunny Spain.

It was a face that drew all eyes and charmed
all hearts—so bright and glowing, so piquant
and charming. Such beauty might have been
‘the dowry of a queen. Nature, in her ¢aprice,
had lavished it upon Mrs. Rivers’ only child.
The slenden} giriigh figure was graceful and dig-
nified; but Margaret
beauty, the high-bred air of refinement that

. characterized her sister Daisy.

The two girls were as dissimilar in mind as in
person. Rita was proud to an inordinate de-
gree of her beauty. A vain longing for riches
and grandeur consumed her. She longed for all
that wealth can procure—for rich dresses and
costly jewels. ould she never attend balls
and parties? Ah! if she were but rich!—if she
could but go among the gay and fashionable!
‘There was no one in looks to compare with her.
What was the use of such a face and such a

e if she were to live always unknown at
oe k’s Nest?’ If she could but once gain ad-
amittance into the great world, these would
soon lie at her feet! Rich noblemen often mar-
ried for beauty; so, at least, romances said.
Who could tell what might be in store for her?
Perhaps wealth—titled honors? She might even
live to be one of the queens of that gay world
where she longed to shine!

All these thoughts rushed through the vain,
worldly heart of Rita as she strolled that_sum-
mer evening along the sands. Margaret Rivers
jhad fire, passion, force, and a certain kind of
cleverness; but of truth and high principle, of
true nobility of soul, she had none.

Day by day she sat in the little garden that
looked down the high road, longing, with all
the force of her vain, passionate heart, for some-
thing to happen which should enable her to
gratify her wishes. People looked at the hand-
some, restless face, and wondered at its expres-
sion.

Mrs. Rivers did not understand her own child.
She looked wistfully sometimes at the proud
girl, and thought how her life was wasted in

e solitude of ‘Rooks’ Nest.” But of the
dreams and aspirations—the hopes and longin;
that filled her daughter’s heart—she knew noth-
ing.

% change came at last for Margaret Rivers—
not love—at least, not love in its highest, holiest
sense of the word; but there came a break in
the monotony of her life.

One morning, as she was walking from her
home to Queen’s Lynne, she met a handsome

young man, with one of the few young girls she
ew. All three went to Queen’s Lynne to-
gether; and, during that walk, Rita learned
sufficient to give her a great interest in all that
concerned Ralph Ashton. He was a first-mate;
and, although young, there was no one on the
coast so skillful or so trustworthy as he. He
told strange stories of foreign countries that he
had visited; of gold easily earned and lavishly
spent; of wealth that he might accumulate if
he only cared to do so.

Then Rita looked at him. Rich—he might be
xich, if he had any motive for saving and mak-
ing money.

‘I would give,” she said firmly, ‘‘ anything in
this world for money. I am tired of living here
by the restless, noisy sea. I long to see life as
-others see it. I should like to wear sweeping
dresses and gleaming jewels.”

He interrupted her eagerly.

“So you ought to do—so you will,” he said.
*¢ Ail thatis fairest and brightest in this world
or tobe laid at your feet. Ah, if it were
but mine!”

Rita smiled, but the words sunk deeply into
her heart. She met Ralph Ashton again and
‘again—sometimes on the shady high road, and
‘sometimes by the sea-shore. She heeded little
the passionate love he had for her, but she
thought much of his future. If he was so skill-
ful and clever; if the secrets of deep seas were
mown to him, and he could trade oes them, it
"was plan that in time he might rich, and
give her her heart’s desire. It was true some

le spoke strangely of him, and hinted at

cargoes run in during the dead of night,
am oe that ph Ashton’s mone
would never do him a —_ But Rita heed-
ed that as little as she did the fierce, passionate
love that had mastered him, and brought him a
slave to her feet.

No one word did she ever say to her mother
or Daisy relative to this strange lover, with his
dark, handsome face and musical voice. She
felt, instinctively, that Daisy would not like
him, and she had once heard her own mother

of him as an ddventurer. She met him

- not because she liked him, but because she like

sthe flattery of his love. It was pleasant to sit
on the shore, while he told her of the time when
they should go together to bright, far-off lands,
where she would te looked upon as a queen—
how he would work for her, foil for her, slave
for her until every wish of her heart was grati-

fied.

And when he, loving her with all the strength
of his wild nature, ed her to be his wife, she
did not promise at first, but she did not refuse.

ivers lacked, with all her |

 

She wanted time to consider; and as the monot-
onous weeks passed on, and nothing happened,
she began to think that marrying iaiph Ash-
ton was the wisest thing she could do. He
ene to take her far away from these parts.
Whether he believed himself that he could ac-
complish all he promised to do, no one can say;
but she believed it, because she wished it.

Ralph Ashton was to be pitied. He might
have occasionally aided in some smuggling ex-
pedition, but, in his love for Rita, he was sin-
cere and honest. And when, one summer even-
ing, after much pleading, the haughty lips
smiled, and said ‘‘ Yes,” genuine tears fell from
me D will mak hi di

will make you so happy, my darling,” he
said; ‘‘every wish of your heart shall Be eat:
fied. You love me, Rita, do you not?”

“Yes,” she said, gently; ‘‘I love you.” But,
even as she spoke, her thoughts were busy with
the future, and the one ae uestion never
satisfactorily answered, ‘‘ Could she have done
better?’ And while Ralph poured out his love
in words that must have touched another heart,
she went over again all the old arguments and
meeedne that had decided her upon accepting

im.

It was arranged between them that nothing
should be said at present to Mrs. Rivers. The
marriage could not take plage for the next year
and a half. In one month Ralph was going on
a voyage—one that would bring in plenty of
money; it was not worth while mentioning the
engagement until that voyage was over.

ut you will be true to me, Rita?” said he.
‘“Remember, you hold my life and soul in your
hands.”

‘‘T will be true,” she said, calmly.

He was absent after that for three days; but
all Rita’s misgivings were set at rest on his re-
turn. He had brought her a ‘ wedding pres-
ent,” he called it. ow much of his hard earn-
ings had been spent on it, he knew best. They
met as usual on the sands, and he put into her
hands a small morocco case. Rita opened it,
and, with a cry of ee saw a pair of dia-
mond ear-rings, that shone with a light that
dazzled her eyes. A diamond ring
them, and Ralph placed it on her finger.

“That is our betrothal ring,” he said; “and
the time will come when you shall wear as
many diamonds as you like. Let me place these
ear-drops in your ears.”

The diamonds were not brighter or more full
of fire than the dark eyes raised in mute wonder
and startled admiration to his face.

‘‘Oh, Ralph!” she said; ‘“‘how lovely, how
costly! I never thought I should have a real
diamond of my own.

She was so pleased, and looked so beautiful in
her joy, that Ralph Ashton would gladly have
aig with all he had -in the world for such a
ook. The gue had well-nigh emptied his
purse; still, he thought not, cared not.

She never gave one thought to any sacrifice
he might have made to procure so costly a
present for her; or of the love that had actu-
ated him; she only aor in her own bright,
vivid beauty, and how the jewels would in-
erease it.

Ralph Ashton had but another fortnight to
remain in England; and one evening, when the
tide was out, and the sun setting, he went to
meet Rita on the sands, As the time approached
for his departure, something like fear and doubt
took possession of his mind.

He began to wonder if Rita would be true to
him oe his absence. She who loved wealth,
and longed for grandeur—would she be true if a
lover should come with gold and fortune? A
fierce half-doubt took hold of him, and blanched
his dark face. For many months they had met
on the sands, and he had told her of his love in
words that would have burned their way to
another heart; but he did not remember that
she had ever blushed, or that her proud face had
ever softened for him. ‘tHe would see her this
evening,” he said to himself; ‘‘and bind her to
him by a vow so solemn, that she, who feared
little, should|fear to break it.” For two whole
days he had not seen her: Mrs. Rivers lay ill,
and her pugs could not leave the house; but
to-night she had promised to come, and he knew
she would keep her word.

CHAPTER V.
A LOVER.
THE evening had come, and Ralph Ashton
roceeded to the sea-shore to meet pfs haughty

aunty he so passionately loved, and to find
her, if, an to a vow of constancy, from
which she should never swerve, The tide was
out, and the sun was setting behind a red bank
of cloud.

Rita saw her lover approaching; she noted
the anxious, depressed look on the face usually
so bright and hopeful.

ist dad great difficulty in getting away,” she
said; ‘‘my mother is still very far from well;
but you wanted me, and I am here. Tell me
quickly what it is—my time must be short.”

They sat down upon two large stones, and the
eaves rolled in dreamily, noiselessly, at their

eet.

“T am not happy, Rita,” said he. ‘I wish I
could stay near you, you are so enchanting.

y near

 

very thought
be

“There is not much to fear,” she replied, with
a smile and a sigh.

“Even should it be so,” he continued, ‘‘ you
would be constant to me, would you not, Rita?’

There was not a quiver on the proud lips that
said, calmly, ‘‘Of course I should, Ralph;” and
eed eyes, still bent on the waves, never sought

S.

“Tell me so, in another tone of voice,” he
cried; ‘‘look at me, as though you loved me. It
isa terrible thing to win the whole of a man’s
heart, as you have won the whole of mine. It
would be dangerous to deceive me, Rita; my
whole life and love lie at your feet. I, who fear
nothing—the wildest storm never daunted me—
and yet I tremble at one word or look of yours.
You are my own, and I am yours; deal gently
with me—tell me you love me.”

“You know it, Ralph,” she said more gently,
for the passion of his words alarmed her; but he
listened in vain for the true ring in that musical
voice—it was not there.

“T try to believe it,” he said; “if I were to
doubt it, I should go mad. I could not live
without you, Rita; the world would be a dreary
bla: ere you to die, my darling, I could
not survive you. If you deceived me—”

‘‘ What should you do?” she asked. |

“T would follow you through the wide world,”
he said; ‘‘and when I found you, as truly as the
sun sets, I would kill you, Rita, and thus avenge
myself.”

after an she remembered his words; in
the most terrible hour of her life they came
back to her, and she knew he meant what he
had said.

“Do not talk in that wild way, Ralph,” she
said; ‘‘ you alarm me.” ;

In one moment the fierce look had left his
face, and he was himself again.

“Forgive me, Rita,” he said, humbly; “ the

drives me to despair. You will
rue to me—will you not, darling? When
you are my wife, I shall be a good man. _Imust
do something for the kind heaven that gives me
my treasure. It is not only my heart, but my
soul, that you hold in your hands. Deal gently
with me. 1 have staked all my life on one
throw.”

‘““When do you go?” she asked. His unusual
seriousness dismayed her. She was there to
listen to praises, not threats.

“In ten days,” he said, looking almost wist-

‘fully in that wondrous face; but no change, no

cloud came over it; “and you have promised
me, Rita, we shall be married on the first week

of my return?” "
“T have promised,” she said, ‘‘and I will keep
a ae :
e looked over the wide sea, and again to the
shining sky. ;
“Rita,” he said, suddenly, ‘‘I shall bind you

to me by a vow. You are mine before heaven.
Swear ‘to me that you will never care for
another, and that, until you die, you will be
faithful to me.” >

She would have hesitated, but there was a
look in his face that compelled her to obedience.
The bloom faded from her countenance as she
repeated after him words so solemn—her whole
soul was subdued by their strength. :

“There,” said Ralph Ashton, releasing her
hands; ‘‘I am quite satisfied. Neither you nor
any other woman breathing dare break such an
oath as that.”

Long after Ralph Ashton left her, Margaret
Rivers sat dreaming by the sea—not of the
fierce, true love she had won—not of the strong,
passionate heart that. lay in her hand—not of
the soul she might help to save, but of the old,
tormenting doubt, ‘‘ Had sho done the best she
could?” For the first time that evening, she
realized what she had done. Ralph Aslitcn’s
hold upon her was for life. He would never let
her go. Had she done tho best she could? True,
he made money—he would one day, perhaps, be
rich in a certain kind of way; but, after all, he
was not a gentleman. He had oe her jewels;
but common sense and reason forbade her ever
to think he could repeat the gift. All the visions
and dreams he had won her with seemed unreal
now. Over and over again she asked herself if,
with her glorious dower of beauty, she had done
her best. ‘ ;

No warning comes in the mysterious voice of
the sea, or in the music of the summer night, to
tell her that on this very evening the crisis of
her life had begun.

She sat watching the waves until the tide
began to roll in more quickly, and the light
faded in the western sky. Then Rita, rousing
herself from her dreams, went slowly home.
“ Rooks’ Nest” is some distance from Queen’s.
Lynne, and the evening had grown dark before
she reached home.

All visions were forgotten when she stood
once more in her mother’s house. Mrs. Rivers
had long been ailing. For some days the doctor
had been Riese r, but did not say she was
in any immediate danger. When Rita left her
that evening to meet her lover, one of her neigh-
bors offered to sit with her while the young gil
was out, This same woman met her now at
door, with a pale, scared face,

 

 
4

 

LORD .LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

5 +

 

 

 

‘Miss Rita,” she cried—‘‘ where have you
been? Your mother has been taken so ill, I
thought you would never see her a; ee

And when Rita stood by her mother’s bed-
side, and saw the fatal change that had come
over the kindly, homely face, tears of genuine
sorrow filled her eyes. . :

“Your mother is very ill,” said the doctor,
gently: ‘‘the immediate danger seems to have
passed, but she must be carefully watched all
night: and if the least change takes place, send
for me.”

There were many offers of assistance, but
Rita saw her mother wished to be left alone
with her. In her cool, grand way, she bade
“good-night” to those who would fain have
lingered. She arranged the sick-room, shaded
the lamp so that the light should not fall on her
mother’s face, prepared cooling drinks, and then
took her seat by her dying mother’s side.

* Rita,” said the faint, changed voice,” ‘“‘is it
too late to send for Daisy? I wanttoseeher. I
shall not live until the sun rises to-morrow. I
feel death-cold at my heart, and I must see
Daisy before I die.” a‘

‘““T will do my best,” said Rita, gently; ‘‘ but
you will not die yet, mother.”

“T know, child,” said the sick woman; ‘‘T can
feel that the end of my life has come. I shall
have seen your father again before to-morrow
dawns, Rita. A doctor’s words signify nothing ;
oe cannot know. I feel it, and I must see

alsy.

But midnight had struck before a messenger
could be found to go for Daisy. It was a long
walk there, and Rita knew the summer morn-
ing would dawn before her sister could reach
home. She told her mother so; and Susan Riv-
ers, turning her pallid face to the wall, moaned
aloud.

“Are we gaits alone, Rita?” asked the sick
woman, in a low, faint voice.

“Quite alone, mother.” said the young girl.
The moonbeams peeped in at the window,
throwing long lines of silver light on the floor;
the deep, solemn hush of the night was un-
broken, save by the murmur of the wind and
the distant breaking of the waves. Margaret
Rivers never ae that night—its solemn si-
lence and dim light.

‘“‘T have a secret, Rita,” said the faint voice;
““T have held it many years. I must see Daisy
before I die, and tell it to her. If she does not
come, I must tell it to you; and you must hold
it in charge, sacredly, as I have done.”

The long night wore on, and Daisy did not
come,

“Rita,” said the fore: sane “unlock that
little box for me, and take out the parcel that
lies there.”

Rita obeyed; her mother’s trembling fingers
could not unfasten the string; she opened it—
and there lay a ring of pearls, a locket, with
fair and dark hair entwined; the initial “M”
and ‘“‘ A” in the center; with them lay a packet
of letters, written in a fair, delicate hand.

“Those are Daisy’s,” said Susan; “give them
toher. Bend down, Rita, lower still, while I tell

ou the secret I have kept for fifteen years.
Daisy is not my child, Rita; she is not your
own sister, as you have ever believed her to be.”

She paused, for Rita cried out in astonish-
ment.

‘Are you dreaming, mother?” she said.

“No,” replied Mrs. Rivers; ‘‘these things
pom my story is no dream. Look in the regis-

r at St. John’s, in Deepdale; there you will
find I have only one child—Margaret, my only
daughter. Daisy is no child of mine.’

“Who is she?” asked Rita, in utter amaze-

ment.

“That is the story I must tell wee and you
must repeat every word to her, if—if I do not
see her again.”

“T have never spoken much to you of my
early life, Rita,” continued her mother; ‘‘and my
silence has been for Daisy’s sake. My nts
were respectable west-country people, who sent
me to school, and did their best for me. When
they died, I went out to service. Inever had
but one place, and that was at Mr. Arle’s—a
rich merchant, who lived in Hampshire. He
had one daughter, Miss Margaret Arle; and,
although I was but sixteen, the entire charge of
her was intrusted to me.”

Mrs. Rivers then proceeded to tell her daugh-
ter all the particulars relative to the bankruptcy
and death of Miss Arle’s father; of the aoe
lady’s marriage; and the leaving of her chil
Be charge, as already olded to the
reade’

r.

_,,5he was,” concluded her mother, “but a
little child when we left Deepdale, and came to
Queen’s Lynne. For my dead mistress’s sake, I
have kept the secret. o one ever dreams that
Daisy is other than my own child—no one sus-

ts it. I tell you now, Rita; for I shall see
er mother in another world, and she will ask
me if I have done my best.”

CHAPTER VI.
TEMPTATION.

THERE was silence for some minutes, and Mrs,
River’s voice had grown faint and exhausted.
Rita sat lost in bewildered surprise.

“And what am I to do, mother?” she asked.

“Give these to Daisy,” she replied; ‘‘ this
locket and ring, with the letters. Tell her the
story I have told you. Tell her I have no clue
to her father’s name, save that he was called
Captain Arthur, and that his regiment was in
India, in 18—. Perhaps he died there. If
ever Daisy wins friends, they will make inqui-
ries for her; but if she finds the marriage was
not a le one, tell her I charge her, for her
dead mother’s sake, to let the story die, so that
no taint may be upon Margaret Arle’s name.
You will give her these messages faithfully,
Rita? Promise me!”

“Twill not omit one word,” replied her daugh-
ter, breathlessly. “

“For you,” said the dying woman, ‘I have
no fear. This little house will always be your
own. You will have money sufficient to sup-
ce you. Had heaven so willed it, I should
ike to have lived long enough to have held your
children in my arms, I have been very proud
of your beauty, child; but things look so differ-
ent in the strong light of eternity. I have often
thought you proud and vain. Ah, Rita! you
will fie some day where I am lying now—re-
member, it is all vanity!

Do not fix your heart
on the world’s honors and _ riches. , me, that
pain! I shall not see Daisy again; kiss her for
me, and tell her how well I love her.”

Hven as she uttered the words, an awful, gray
allor settled on her face; and Rita went hasti-
y to summon aid. But no human help could
avail for Mrs. Rivers—the fiat had gone forth.
The doctor was summoned; friends came, and
stood near; the faithful heart was fast nearing

 

its rest. She did not speak again.

her, no look of recognition shone in the dim
eyes; they were closed to all earthly things.

Before Mrs. Rivers died—before Daisy came
home—Rita gathered the contents of the little
oer together, and placed them carefully in

er own box.

“There will be time enough for telling her
that strange story,” she thought.

And Daisy, all unconscious, knelt by her sup-
posed mother’s side, and soothed her last mo-
ments with gentle, loving care. She closed the
kind eyes that had always looked tenderly on
her; and when she knew that death had claimed
his own, she wept bitter tears of sorrow. Yet,
as she gazed upon the white, cold face, she felt,
_ some way, it was not part of herself. that lay
there.

Friends and neighbors comforted the two
orphan girls, now left utterly alone. Daisy felt
as though her heart would break, and wondered
at the strange, dreamy look on Rita’s face.
There was not much time for ees ners
tions had to be made for the e! Poor
Mrs. Rivers’ only friend in Deepdale, an old
widow lady, Mrs. Ferne, took me her abode at
the cottage, where mourning and ar-
rangements for the funeral deepened the gloom
of the young girls.

Rita said, to herself, that there was no oppor-
tunity of telling Daisy the story until after the
funeral. Asshe watched her adopted sister, a
feeling of envy crept into her heart. For the
first time, she was struck by the difference be-
tween Daisy and herself. She noted the air of
high-bred refinement; the spiritual expression
of the sweet, pure face; the little hands, so
white and goer formed; the eran
symmetry of the slight, girlish fi . uld it
be possible that this girl, whom she had always
looked down upon as her younger and inferior
sister, might turn out to be the child of a rich
and noble father? Hither she was that, or her
very birth was a shame and disgrace. Which
could it be?

Her mother had entertained cruel doubts;
could they have been just ones? In the dead si-
lence of the night, Rita rose, and unlocked the
box containing her trust. She read Margaret
Arle’s letters over and over again. Ah! there
could be no doubt, she spoke so proudly of her
husband: it had been a real marriage, Rita felt
sure, and no mock one. Whoever Captain
Arthur might be, Daisy was his legitimate
child. What if he were a man of high ition
as well as birth? Then Daisy would be a
lady—would enter, by right, that gay world
Rita thought paradise. She would be rich and
happy. y had fate and fortime favored
her? Ah! would that Daisy had been Mrs.
Rivers’ child, and she the Captain’s daughter!

Then, with the letters in her hand, she fell in-
to awaking dream. If it had been so, she would
never rest until she had discovered him—she
would search for him until he were found. Then
she would win his love. He would surely be
oro with, and proud of, her magnificent

uty. Then all she had longed for would be
hers. She saw herself superbly dressed, with
ee jewels, with lovers sighing around

er—with the gay, the t, and the noble all
offering her homage. e vain, worldly heart
was dazzled with the picture; but the cold real-

ity came, and chilled her—all this was for Daisy,
and not for herself,

With a deep sigh, she relocked the box, and
went back to the little room where Daisy slept.

 

The moon shone brightly; one of its silvery
beams touched Daisv’s face, lingering almost
| lovingly on the clear, calm brow, and the deli-

In the taint |
morning light, when Daisy came and bent over |

 

cate, spiritual features. Rita bent over her.
silently wondering—until wonder became jealous
pain—what the future held in store ior the
sleeping girl. Suddenly, across her face there
came a strange expression, as of a wild, deep
thought: it lingered there, filling the dark eyes
with gloom.

She held out her hands in horror, as though
trying to drive it from her, but it would not g0-

““Not now,” she whispered to herself. “TI
will not think of it now. I have to kiss my
mother’s face again.”

Yet the thought had a weird fascination for
her. She could not sleep, she could nct rest;
ideas crowded upon her almost against ber will;
plans and arrangements suggested themselves
to her. Early morn found Margaret Rivers
pale and absorbed.

The sun rose, and the day was the one a
pointed for Mrs. Rivers’ funeral. The two gir.
went together to the daikened room where she
lay, and took their last farewell of her. Warm
tears fell from Daisy’s eyes upon the cold form
she had always dearly loved; but no tears
dimmed the dark eyes that had so strange an
expression. * * % * ¥

he funeral was over; friends and neighbors
had all withdrawn, Mrs. Ferne alone rema:ning.
Daisy was preparing to return to Miss Tcffles”™
on the following morning, and still the secret
was not told, the trust was not fulfilled; and the
younger girl wondered why the elder one
shunned her, and what it was that clouded
Rita’s face with scmething deeper than scrrow-
She little dreamed of the fierce warfare going
on in that vain, passionate heart; she little knew
that good and evil were See a hard battle;
that her own destiny and Rita’s hung trembling
in the balance.

That night, while Daisy slept, Rita watched,
a apie the battle that decided the course of

r life.
raged, and evil was fast triumphing over good.

he had never told the story; for on the night
she gazed with jealous envy on Daisy as she iay
sleeping, a thought came to her, which i1:red
its way into her heart, and would not leev« : er.
Daisy knew nothing of the secret. No cre in
the wide world knew it but herself. There vas
no proof except such as she held in her hands.
Why not put herself in Daisy’s place, and call
herself Captain Arthur’s daughter? Who would
know? The only two who could detect the im-
ar mother and her own—were

th dead.

At first, the thought that glanced through her ;

mind shocked her; it was too base a betrayal of
her mother’s trust. But gently and subtly it
stole back, and nestled there, a welcome guest.

Still she did not dare, while her mother lay
unburied there, to arrange her plans. When
she stood, as it were, alone in the world, she
made up her mind.

It was a fierce battle; there was something of
good in the vain, worldly, ambitious nature,
and her better self cried out at the base design;
but the good was conquered on that summer
night when she stood at the window watching
the quiet stars. The temptation was too strong
—she yielded—and the great battle was lost.

There seemed no obstacle, not even one diffi-»
culty to overcome—thanks to the fate that had
called her Mares and had given to Daisy the
same name. rgaret Rivers was, accordin;
to the register, the only child Mrs. Rivers hed
There could be no difficulty in that. Every one
would readily believe Daisy to be that child.
Who could say she was not? Her mother had
known few people at Deepdale, and they were
never likely to hear of the circumstances again.
Possession, in this case, was more than nine
points of the law. She had the ring, the sore
the letters, and, above all, the story. She need
not alter one word of it. She had but to put
herself in Daisy’s place.. She thought over
everything connected with the history of Mar-
garet Arle and child, and could not find one
weak point.

- r all,” she said to herself, as the voice:
of conscience tried to make itself heard—‘‘ what
does it matter? If ever vere Arthur comes
to light, he will find a daughter to be proud of,
and I shall make a better lady than Daisy ever
could... To deprive him of a child would be very
different; to substitute one grown-up girl for
another cannot matter much.

It was after midnight when Rita went to
Daisy, and calling her gently, roused her from
sleep.. The young ie nm opened her eyes in
uaden, and Rita shrunk from the pure, clear

glance.
“Don’t be angry, Daisy; I could not help

waking you. You are gomg back to-morrow,

pe I ,want to tell you sayaentie before you re-

Daisy looked up in some surprise.

“What is it, dear?’ she asked, gently. ‘“‘ Are
you in trouble, or have you a secret?”

Rita flushed as she exclaimed, hoarsely, “It

is a secret; one that concerns myself.”

 

For many long hours the battle had.
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER, VII.
FAIR AND FALSE.

**A srorET?” said Daisy, raisin,
‘truthful. eyes to Rita’s face. “I
we had one in our home.”

“Tt is a secret,” continued the elder girl,
“‘that the world would never suspect. I, the
one concerned, never dreamed of it. Daisy,
a ou believe that I was not Mrs. Rivers’ own
child?

“Not our mother’s own child!” said Daisy,
incredulously; ‘it is impossible—it cannot
true!” ; :

“Tt is a fact!” said Rita. ‘The night before
<my poor nurse died, she sent every one away
from the room, and told me the story.”

“Who are you, then?” cried Daisy. ‘‘ Why,
Rita, I cannot believe it—you must be my own
sister—you are dreaming!”

“Nay; it is no dream,” said Rita. ‘See,
-here are the proofs. Yet I shall always be your
sister, and love you very much. I shall always
do my best for you.”

“The faint reflection elite e in the rich
-musical tones was not lost upon Daisy. Some-
thing like pain flitted over her features, and
-shadowed the tender eyes.

“Tell me all about it, Rita,” she said, implor-

ingly. “How can it be? Why, my mother
always seemed to love you better than me.”

“No,” said Rita, in alarm; ‘that could not
‘be! Did it never strike you how much more
anxious she seemed over your education than
‘over mine? There is little to tell; the story is'a
‘very simple one. “Your mother, when quite a
young girl, was my mother’s nurse. It seems
that my mother’s parents were once very rich
People, ut lost, they had. Her father died,
and she herself, after receiving an excellent
training, went out as governess, The place
where she went was called Hurst Hall, I be-
lieve. While there, some gentleman fell in love
with her, and married her. But, Daisy, the
marriage was a secret one. He was brought up
by rich, aristocratic relations, who would not
hear of such a thing; so he married my mother,
Margaret Arle, unknown to every one.”

= ‘But who was he?” interrupted Daisy.

“Ah! would that I could tell you!” was the
ealm reply. ‘‘My mother trusted yours, but
she never told her that. All she said of my
father was, that he was an officer in the army.
She called him ‘Captain Arthur.’ Captain
Arthur went to India, leaving my mother in
England. But he had a serious illness there;
he sent imploring my mother to go out to him.
The doctor’said the journey would cost my life.
My poor mother, therefore, resolved to leave
me behind in her’old nurse’s care. She took me
to Deepdale, our old home, and left me in your
mother’s charge.”

_ How strange!” said Daisy; ‘it seems like a
romance, or a fairy tale.”

“The strangest part has to come,” continued
Rita. ‘‘My mother went in a ship cailed the
Ocean Queen; it was lost at sea; and from the
day she left me, until this present time, no word
has ever been heard of or from any friend or
relation—no one ‘seems to be aware of my exist-
ence. My father has never written—has never
claimed me; either he is dead, or he does not
know where I am. I shall never believe that
he has left me here, and willfully abandoned me.
Your mother told me all this on the night she
died; she gave me the locket, the ring, and the
letters. How strange it is, Daisy! I do not
even know my own name. My mother called
herself ‘Howard.’ I shall take that name. I
am ‘Margaret Howard,’ but I never mean to
rest until I have found my father or his rela-
tions.”

“Then we shall be parted?” said Daisy, sadly.

“That does not follow. When I find noble
3 wealthy relations, I shall not forget you,

her clear,
d not think

No thought of wrong, no suspicion that the
artfully-told story was a false one, came to the
pure-minded Daisy ; nothing warned her the
story she heard with wonder was her own; that
her rightful place'was usurped by one who had
no right to it; that her name her os her
identity, even, was stolen from her by thé
proud, ambitious girl she had loved as her own

sister.
They talked until the gray dawn of morning
estole into the little room; Daisy innocently sug-
en plans by which Rita could discover her
ther’s name; Rita wrapt in glowing dreams
of what the fubure mi Be ki or her.

Daisy returned on the morning following to
school. Rita remained at the cottage with old
Mrs. Fernée. She had’ décided’ upon ‘certain
— but did not intend to carry them out un-

il Ralph Ashton had left the country.

He was the one dark spot in the bright future.

Already she had thrown off her allegiance to

him in her own mind; she had freed herself |
from a promise that, with her new prospects, !

 

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

was simply hateful to her. If all went as she
dreamed and hoped, high-born gentlemen would
sue for her hand. With her glorious dower of
beauty, with wealth and position, it would be
folly, she said to herself, to think of marrying a
man like Ralph. She gave no thought to_hi
strong, passionate love—of the life she held in
her hands; but no word of all this did she say
to her lover when he came to bid her farewell.

On that evening, as far as human influence
went, Rita’s destiny was settled. There was no
longer any need for meeting her lover clandes-
tinely. She told him to call at the cottage, and
say ‘ good-by” to her there. When he stood at
the door, and Mrs. Ferne wondered who it was,
Rita, in her calm, grand way, said, ‘‘ It was an
old friend going to sea, and he had called to say
good-by.” “She went out to him in the little
garden, where the June roses were blooming,
and the tall, white lilies showed their golden
hearts.

Ralph Ashton never forgot that scene in the
quiet evening gloaming; he never forgot the ex-
pression on that proud, beautiful face, as he
aoa in words so’ passionate they seemed to
thrill the quiet evening air. He held her hands
in his strong erasp, and made her again take
the oath that he believed would bind her to him
forever ; and, under the light of the evening
sky, she uttered the words that for her had
ceased to have any meaning; she made the vow
with her lips that in her heart she intended to
break. Not one word did she say to Ralph
Ashton of the story told by Mrs. Rivers, of her
own version of it. When he returned in three
years’ time, he would hear that she had left
Rooks’ Nest, and she did not intend or mean
him to trace her. She believed he would forget
her, or give’ up all pursuit of her as hopeless.
Even should he discover her, she thought the
change in her position would awe him and con-
vince him of the impassable barrier between
them,

‘There was no change on the calm, proud face
upraised to his own, as the young sailor spoke
those words that would have touched another
heart, While he patos of their future, the happi-
ness in store for them, of his passionate love and
devotion, she was thinking and hoping they
would never stand side by side again.

She dare not utter one of the era hts that
filled her mind; the dark, handsome face that
gazed so lovingly into her own could have worn
a look that would have terrified her. She was
brave enough, but she dare not rouse Ralph
Ashton to passion or anger. She felt, as they
stood there, that he was her master—she dare
not defy, but she might elude him.

“In three years!” Ralph said. ‘‘Oh, Rita,
how shall I live through them? There will be
no one moment in which I shall not think of
you, and long for the sound of your voice, or
one glance of your face. In three years I shall
find you when the flowers are blooming just as
they bloom now; and no sun will be so bright
to me as the smile you will welcome me with,
when I come to claim you.”

If Ralph Ashton could have foreseen how and
where he would find her, he would have died
before the blow came. To the last hour of his
life he remembered every detail of that scene;
the distant) chiming of the waves, the music
voice that whispered false words, the magical
charms of the girl he loved, the fragrance of the
roses, and the mellow evening light.

The gloaming passed, and the gray tints of
night grew deeper.

** Let me sit with you one hour longer, Rita,”

pleaded Ralph; and she asked him into the cot-
tage.
“You must give me a keepsake,” he said,
when’ Mrs. Ferne plainly hinted. that it was
growing late; ‘anything that you have touched
and cared for yourself.” j

“ Give him something that will do him good,
Rita,” said the old woman. ‘‘ He is a young
man, and he is going down into the deep seas.
It will do him no harm to remember who keeps
him safe in the midst of dangers.”

Ralph smiled at the words, but she continued,
earnestly: ‘‘ You have two Bibles, Rita. One,
there, your pee mother used every day. There
a ying on the shelf, there—give him

Rita silently took the book from the upper
shelf, where it had lain for many long years,
and placed it in Ralph’s hand,

“ Read it when you are on the seas,” she said,
gravely. -

He took it from her without a word or com-
ment. She was all unconscious that, at Deep-
dale, Mrs. Rivers had placed little Daisy’s por-
trait and her mother’s last letter there—the let-
ter which spoke of the child’s golden curls, and
directed again that she should called Daisy;
all unconscious that between the leaves lay the
portrait of a fair, paagesn child, while under-
neath it, in her mother’s own handwriting, were
the two words, ‘‘ Daisy Howard.”

In the strongest armor there is generally one
weak point. Rita had made good her story,
serenely unconscious of the only piece of evi-
dence that could ever betray her, and that evi-
dence she had placed in the hands of the man
she intended to dune and elude.

Ralph thought little of thé He would

 

 

_ have preferred the ribbon she wore in her hair,,
| or the flower that she carried in herhands. He
| took the book home with him, and laid it in his
sea-chest. He was many miles away from old
England when he saw it again, and found what
it contained,

Even that vain, ambitious heart was touched
with his sorrow when the time came for him to
leave her. He clasped her in his arms, and
kissed the face that lured him on to ruin and
death. Tears dimmed the eyes that had seldom
wept before. For long hours after he had
quitted her, his warm kisses seemed to burn her
lips and brows, She was touched at his sorrow,
wondered at the depth of his love, but never
dreamed of being true to him. When his tall
figure disehpested down the high road, she felt
released. e had faded from her life, she
thought, and would trouble her no more.

Two days afterward, Daisy came home with
strange intelligence. Gne of the pupils at Miss
Toffles’ academy, the daughter and heiress of
John Denham, of Landsmeer, was going abroad,
and nothing would satisfy her but taking with
her, as companion, the fair, gentle girl whom
every one loved. Mrs, Denham came over to
Queen’s Lynne, and urgently pressed Daisy to
accede to her daughter’s wish. Daisy had no
chigetion her only difficulty was in leaving
Rita. The change from the dull schoolroom to.
such a life of gayety and pleasure as Laura Den-
ham mapped out, was delightful enough. She
liked Mrs. Denham’s high-bred, graceful man-
ner, so. different to the starched propriety of
Miss Toffles; she asked Mrs. Denham to wait a
few days for her decision, as all must depend
upon Rita.

Far from opposing the plan, Rita thought it
the best event that could have happened. Daisy
at home, ee have been in her way; bu
Daisy, abroad, could not interfere with Meas ar-
rangements. By all means, let her go.

‘Tt would be folly to remain here for my
sake,” said Rita. ‘‘I shall not be here long my-
self. In a few more weeks, I intend to take
some active steps for discovering my father’s
name and whereabouts. If I find him, this will
be no home for me.”

“T shall love it,” said Daisy, gently.

“ Quite right,” replied Rita. ‘‘It is your own;
but it is not mine.”

The younger girlsaid nothing; she felt pained
and wounded. Already there seemed to be a
boundless difference between them. Rita as-
sumed a haughty, patronizing manner, that
grieved the other’s tender, sensitive heart.

In less than two mionths after Mrs. Rivers’
death, Daisy had left. England, and Rita was
wondering what should be her first step. Ralph
was far on his voyage, and the only proof-of the
identitar of Captain Arthur’s daughter was with
him.

Daisy was happy.
maining on the Continent for three years, and
during that time she was to. be the friend and
companion of their only child.

The June roses were blooming when Ralph
bade farewell to the girl he loved so deeply and.
dearly. She began then to arrange her plans;
but. before the roses had faded, fate had taken.
the threads into her own hand. There was no
need for the beautiful, ambitious girl to scheme
and arrange; the father whom she intended to
seek was; seeking her, and the tragedy of her
life began.

The Denhams intended re-

 

CHAPTER VIII.
A MISALLIANCE,

TuE Lisles, of Lisle Court, stood foremost in
the ranks of English nobility. They had served
their country well, both in Senate and in the
battle-field. "Time had been when the English
Court had no greater favorites than the Lords
of Lisle. Far back as the reign of Stephen,
one found their name in the annals of history—
a Lisle fought for Matilda, and never quite
yielded allegiance to King Stephen. A Lisle
janee the Crusades, and was well loved by the

ion-hearted King. Huldebrand Lisle fell at
Bannockburn, and Bertram helped to win the
victory of Poictiers, Vyvienne died on Flod-
den Field, and Hubert figured as one of Henry
the Righth’s best counselors, The doomed race
of the Royal Stuarts had no truer, friends than
the Lisles, of Lisle Court, The bed-chamber
where ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie” slept remains
untouched. When the last Stuart. ceased to
reign, their interest in public life seemed to end.
Lord* Archibald Lisle, during the rei of
George the Second, gave up his seat in Parlia-
ment, and devoted himself to the care of his
estate. In all England there stands no fairer
domain than Lisle Court. It lies in the fertile
midland counties—in the quiet, green heart of
the land, Wide streams flow through it; dark,
belted woods shade and shelter it; rich mead-
ows and golden, corn-fields surround it. In the
far distance, Glenn Forest gives to the calx
scenery the picturesque aspect not common in
old England. oe,

The Hall itself is a grand old building, com-
prising every style of architecture in vogue
since the reign of Stephen—gable ends, deep
oriel windows, towers, and turrets. The broac
portico still stands where Lord Douglas Lisle

 

 

 

ee
#$—.

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER. 7

 

knelt, with his fair young wife, to welcome the
“Merrie Monarch.” Ancient and modern time
seem strangely mingled at Lisle Court.

Cheerful, modern rooms, with long French
windows, look over the garden, where tall foun-
tains play among fragrant flowers. Every
modern luxury is there, every late improve-
ment, every new design that can add either to
pleasure, luxury or comfort. One sees, also,
state-rooms, untouched since royal faces smiled
there,

In the long Scan inpaeetel hang portraits of
all the Lords of Lisle—not one is missing. Fair-
faced, haughty dames are there also. Sybilla
Lisle, whose sweet, modest grace, and tender,
spiritual face, charmed the ‘Merrie Monarch,’
is by the side of her loyal husband.

Lord Ronald Lisle, the last Baron, married
young he had two sons, bright, handsome boys,
and then his wife died.. He loved her memory
too well ever to take a second wife. From the
time of her death, he devoted himself to his
children. He was a proud, fastidious man—
proud to excess of his name and lineage, hon-
estly believing the Lisles second to none. The
bare idea of a mesalliance was hateful to him.
Poor relations he considered one of the greatest
inflictions that could befall any family. When
his sister married Lionel Wyverne, the younger
son of a poor baronet, his anger knew no
bounds. Lionel Wyverne, whose only fortune
consisted in a handsome, aristocratic face and

 

some two hundred per annum, struggled for a |
few years-with poverty and a delicate wife; he

died then, tired of the world and its coldness. |
Lord Lisle had no resource save to fetch his
sister and her only child, Arthur, to Lisle Court.
He adopted his nephew, treating him in every
respect as one of hisownchildren. He educated
him with his sons; and when his college career
ended, purchased for him a commission in a
“crack” regiment. When Captain. Arthur
Wyverne came to his uncle, and told him he |
had fallen in love with, and wanted to marry
a pretty, penniless governess, Lord Lisle
laughed in contemptuous anger. He was deaf
to the young man’s pleading and earnest sup-
plication. He grew white with anger when
Captain Wyverne persisted, and declared his
inviolable resolution to marry Margaret Arle.
Lord Lisle asked him if he knéw at what cost.

“ Not only,” he said, “‘ will I refuse to see you
again, and withdraw from you all countenance
and support, but your mother, too, must suffer
for you. If you persist in this absurd folly, she
must leave Lisle Court, and you know what
suffering that would inflict upon her. Let me
hear no more of it, Arthur; boyish fancies are
soon forgotten.”

Captain Wyverne paused then, For himself,
he could have endured anything; but the
thought of his delicate mother, sent adrift from
the home she valued so much, where every lux-
ury was at her command, quelled him. She |

 

had suffered enough; for no love or fancy could
he give her what he believed would be a death-
ow.

He said no more to Lord Lisle. After some
weeks of anxious debate, he compromised the
matter by a private marriage, as already de-
tailed.

Captain Wyverne was the more tenacious
over his secret, as his mother, to whom Lord
Lisle repeated the whole conversation daily.
almost hourly, implored of him never to offen
his uncle.

“Tt would kill me, Arthur,” she said, ‘‘to
leave Lisle Court now! I have grown accus-
tomed to luxury! I could never renew the old
struggle with genteel povery and limited
means!”

Then he looked upon her pale, delicate face.
He knew she spoke truly; so Captain Wyverne
guarded his secret as he guarded his life. He
impressed the importance of secrecy so strongly
upon his wife, that, as we have seen, even
the nurse she entrusted with her child, she never
breathed his name.

One brief year, as the reader is aware, and
then a dark cloud fell over the happy home.
Contain Wyverne’s regiment was ordered to
India, and neither wife nor child were strong
enough to accompany him.

He never forgot the agony of that parting
hour, how his wife clung round him, the warm
tears falling on his face, He never forgot the

 

NEWS OF THE LOST ONE.—FPage 8,

arting words, in which she told him how dear- |
y she loved him, and thanked him for his kind- |
ness and his love. He wept, as men seldom |
weep, when he kissed, for the last time, the fair,
sweet face he was never to see again.

Margaret laid the little one in hisarms. He
could not see down the long vista of years. He
never dreamed that the cold, cruel sea would
hide from him forever the loving wife, whose
kisses and tears were warm upon his face. He
could not foresee how treachery, ambition, and
vanity would, for long years, make the little
daughter he loved a stranger to him.

Then came his illness, and his urgent request
that his wife would join him in far-off India.
How anxiously he awaited her arrival, may be
well imagined. But, instead, there came to
him, on his sick-bed, the fatal tidings. The
vessel was lost, and all on board had perished
with her,

In after years, he never knew how he had
lived through the misery of that time. At first,
he hoped that something might have prevente
his wife from going in the doomed ship. But in
the printed list of the dead, he saw her:name.
“Margaret Howard.” The papers mentione
her as a beautiful young lady, going to join her
husband in India. There could be no doubt
about it; she was lost, and the tender face he
had longed to see would never smile on him

 

again.
For many long weeks Captain Wyverne for-

 

got his sorrow in insensibility. When health
and reason returned, his first thought was of his
child—Margaret’s. child. What had become of
her? The little one had evidently been left be-
hind, for there was no mention of her in the

assengers’ list. With whom had she been left?

ow should he find her? During the long,
weary hours of convalescence, the young officer
lay pondering these questions. Surely, in Eng-
land, there must be some clue?, Some one there
must know the whereabouts of Margaret’s child.
He wrote to Mrs. Markham, in whose house his
wife had lodged, but the letter was never.
answered,

He could not recover; mind and heart were
both tortured. At length, he succeeded in ob-
taining a few months’ leave of absence, and re-
turned home.

His mother, when she gazed upon his face, did
not know her own son. The white, haggard
features, and dim, saddened eyes, told of more
than physical suffering. .

Once more in England, he commenced a life-
long search for his lost child. How could he
beet find out to whom Margaret had intrusted

er?

On the first day of his return, he went to the
house where she had lodged. Then he found
out Mrs. Markham had gone to America; but
no one could tell him where, or to what part of!
that vast country. One of the neighbors, who
remembered the lady and tie chiid, told him

 

they both left the house a week before Mrs.
Markham went away; so that, evidently, the
child had not been left with her. By dint.of
great expense and trouble in advertising, the
cabman was found who had driven the lady and
the little one to the station. He remembered
every detail, but he could not say where she
was going; he had not remarked the direction
upon the box. It seemed to Captain Wyverne
that every trace of little Margaret. was lost.

 

 

CHAPTER IX.
A TURN OF FORTUNE.

CAPTAIN WYVERNE did not search alone for
his lost child; he employed the. keenest, clever-
est detective in England to assist; he advertised
in all the papers, briefly stating the circum-
stances, and offering a handsome reward for
any one who could tell him where the child had
been placed. But a silence like the cold, long
silence of death seemed to have fallen over little
Margaret.. Mrs, Rivers, in her quiet home at
Deepdale, never saw any papers; not one of the
many advertisements ever came under her
notice,

Driven almost to despair, Captain Wyverne
told the secret to his terrified mother. Her
wonder and astonishment were great; she quite
believed, poor lady, that her. son had forgotten.
his ‘‘foolish love-affair ;”'and now, he told her,
not only had he been married and lost his beaz-~

 

 
 

: telling my uncle now. Haye no fear, mother;

- ‘were present at the magnificent funeral he had

8 ee ee

 

 

 

tiful young wife, but he was over in England
Peery: to find the child so strangely lost.
er first cry was one of earnest supplication
that he would keep the secret from Lord Lisle.
“Of course I shall, mother,” he replied.
‘‘ Would to heaven I had told him before, and
had taken my darling with me! It is I who
have murdered her by my cowardice and cruelty
in hurrying her over to India. There is no use

help me to find my child.”

ut Mrs. Wyverne could guess nothing;
“Margaret,” she said, ‘‘must have left the
child with some one;” but she could not tell how
that some one was to be discovered. Strange
to say, she had read some of the advertisements,
and had wondered who it was that so earnestly
sought a lost child. The name, Margaret
Howard, was new to her; least of all did she
dream that the poor lady lost in the Ocean
Queen was her son’s wife.

All over England the advertisements were
read, and many comments were made upon
them. They told so pathetic a story, that
ner were anxious to join in the search for the
c

“A lady—Mrs. Margaret Howard, of 11,
Linden Street, Regent’s Park—sailed in the
Ocean Queen, to join her husband, who was
then dangerously ill, in India. Before leaving,
she placed a little girl out to nurse; the father
is now in England, anxiously seeking informa-
tion as to the child’s whereabouts, as its mother
was lost at sea; and no clue, even, can be found
of the person who has charge of it.”

In many a happy English home this adver-
tisement was read; the dates were carefully in-
serted, but no reply ever came. The six months’
leave of absence ended, and Captain Wyverne
returned to India, broken-hearted at the loss of
his child.

He did not abandon the search; every year he
sent remittances to the detective, who had the
business in hand; his mother, too, promised to
do her best.

Twelve years passed, and never once during
the course of them did one iota of intelligence
gladden his heart.

4 | grew at length to believe that she was
e

Life had no pleasures for him. He never
ceased to mourn for the loving, gentle wife who
slept beneath the waves—he never ceased to re-

roach himself for having sent for her. By so

oing, he had lost both his treasures. He
thought of her unceasingly, picturing to himself
how she looked; what she would be like, if she.
still lived; had she Margaret’s sweet face and
soft, dark hair? ;

At length a change came in his fortunes. An
accident happened, that created a sensation in
the great world. Lord Lisle and his two sons,
who had gone on the Continent together, were
drowned in the Lake of Como. Noone knew
exactly how the accident had happened. There
had been a sudden gust of wind—a sudden up-
heaving of the deep, blue waters. Those who
waited for them on shore saw the gentlemen
struggle for some time with the waves. The
pboatmen saved themselves, but the English
** milords,” none of them good swimmers, sunk,
and were lost, in spite of all the efforts made to
save them.

It was more than a nine days’ wonder. People
could not forget it. The father, still a hand-
some man, in the prime of life, lost with his

sons, two fine, promising young men! The
tragedy seemed, Sor a few days, to spread a
gloom through all England.

The papers were loud in praise of the deceased
nobleman. The title and estate devolved, they
said, upon Captain Arthur Wyverne, now servy-
ing in India. He, the nephew and next of kin
to the dead lord, was his heir-at-law.

The news came to him, but it brought nothing
but sadness. He had loved the Coes y-
hearted cousins, with whom his childhood had
been spent. He felt a grateful liking for Lord
Lisle, aespite the one grand quarrel and its con-

ences. He would far rather they had lived,
and he remained Captain Wyverne. His inter-
est in all that concerned ‘the world ‘seemed
dead. He might have’ returned to England
years ago, but he did not care to do so. He
might have gained position and rank, but he
eared nothing for it—all energy and hope
seemed to have died in him.

But whether he liked it or not, Lord Lisle was
obliged to hasten home, He had many painful
duties to perform. He went to Italy himself,
and superintended the’ removal of the three
bodies to England. The whole country-side

arranged. He complied with every injunction
found in his uncle’s will—that will which men-
tioned so proudly and lovingly the two brave
sons who now slept with him. Legacies were
paid to old servants and dear friends. All this
was done before Lord Lisle paused, and realized
to himself the great change in his life.

The first question he asked them startled the
lawyers—‘“ 0 was his heir?—for he never in-
tended ma: Bit

They told him Philip Lisle, a second cousin of
the late lord’s—a young man still at Oxford.

 

Lord Lisle desired that he should come to Lisle

Court at once. He wished him for the future to

reside there.

|

cried Philip. ‘‘ People cannot. lose each other
long in a small country like England. What is

‘But, my dear Arthur,” remonstrated Mrs. to be done next?”

Wyverne, now the proud, happy mistress of the
Court, ‘‘ you are young still. You will surely
marry. There are many fair and noble ladies
in eas who would gladly call themselves
Lady Lisle.”

““T shall never marry, mother,” he replied,
with a grave smile; ‘‘my heart and my love lie
buried with Margaret. I died with her, in one
sense. Life has been all dark to me since.”

‘¢ You should try to forget that dismal peta
said his mother, anxiously. ‘‘ Something is due
to your rank in life; something is due to me.

Am I never to hold a child of yours in my arms, | ( 1
leaving him alone with Mrs. Markham. He

or know the happiness of loving your wife?”

“Hush, mother,” he said, gently; ‘‘ you tor-
ture me. My wife is apes, where the restless
waves chant her requiem. My child is lost. Oh!
if it should please heaven that I may one day
find her, I shall live again!”

She opposed his wish no longer; and Phili
Lisle, the heir of Lisle Court, came to dwell
with his kinsman.

He wasa bright, handsome youth, with a clear,
true Saxon face and fair hair, honest, laughing
eyes, andasmile of singular sweetness. His dis-
Panton was charming, and open as his face.

al and true, honorable and chivalrous, he
detested all things false and mean; he would
have preferred death to dishonor, torture to dis-
grace.

Lord Lisle soon loved his young kinsman, He
trusted him, relied upon him, and, above all, he

liked telling Philip the story of his ‘‘ two pearls.”

It seemed to him impossible that Lord Lisle’s
daughter should be lost, and the unhappy father
loved the very sound of the young voice that

rophesied he would one day see his child again.

y Philip’s advice, the advertisements were re-
sumed, the reward doubled, and something like
hope woke once more in Lord Lisle’s heart.

* * * * * *

One morning in May, as Philip Lisle stood de-
bating whether he should ride or walk over to
Rushton Hall, the old butler came hurriedly up
to him.

“Lord Lisle wishes to see you at once, sir,”
said the old man. ‘‘He is in the library, and
begged you would not lose a moment.”

ilip turned hastily away; at the door of the
library he stood for some few seconds, lost in
wonder at the scene. Lord Lisle lay back in his
chair, white and trembling; Mrs. Wyverne
stood near him, a look of great excitement on
her face, and tears shining in her eyes. A
strange man, with a clever, shrewd counten-
ance, whom Philip had never seen before, ceased
speaking as he entered the room.

“My dear uncle,” cried Philip—who invaria-
bly addressed Lord Lisle by that title—‘t what
is the matter? Are you ill?”

Philip,” said Lord Lisle, earnestly, with
quivering lips, ‘‘thank God for me! My daugh-
ter is found.”
eee eried the young man. ‘‘Is it possi-

e

‘“We have traced her,” said the stranger.
‘“* We know now where she was left, We can-
not say if she is still there.”

“This is Mr. Braye, the detective officer,” said
Lord Lisle, turning to Philip. ‘‘ Tell Mr. Lisle
all you have told to me,” he added, to him.

‘It is not much, sir,” said the man; ‘but
little as it is, it means that Miss Lisle is found.
Last week, a woman waited upon me, saying
she had read the advertisement, and could ic
the information required. Her name was Mrs
Markham. Seventeen years ago, she lived at
No. 11 Linden Street, Regent’s Park. Apart-
ments in her house were engaged by a gentle-
man calling himself Mr. Howard, who was

oing to India, and leaving his wife and child in

ndon. Mrs. Howard remained with her until
urgent letters from India summoned her
to join her husband. Mrs. Howard begged her,
Mrs. Markham, to undertake the charge of her
little girl during her absence. She was obliged
to decline, as arrangements had been made
for her to join her brother in America. Mrs.
Howard then resolved to leave the little one with
some one who had been her own nurse, and the
name of the woman was ‘Susan Rivers.’ She
lived at Deepdale, in Devonshire. Mrs. Mark-
ham, with her own hands, wrote the address on
the box containing the child’s clothes. . Mrs.
Howard left her house, and took the child to

ee

“T told the woman to come again in a week's
time. I wished to spare Lord Lisle the pain of
suspense. By that night’s mail I started for
eae a ;

“Tt is a little place, quite out of the world,
looking as though it had been asleep for many
years—quiet, calm, and unknown. ‘There I
made all possible inquiries, and found that Susan
Rivers had lived in Rosemary Cottage; that she
had two children, called Daisy and Margaret,
one of whom was her own child; the other is
su dd to have been what the village people
call a ‘nurse child.’ Many years ago, this same
Susan Rivers left Deepdale, and went to a place
called Queen’s Lynne, in Norfolk, She may be
living there now.”

“T always guessed it would be so, uncle,”

 

‘““The woman, Mrs. Markham, is here, my
lord,” said the detective. ‘She only returned
from America three weeks since, and applied to
me at once when she saw the advertisement.”

“T will see her now,” said Lord Lisle; ‘“ let
her come in.”

A deadly pallor came over his grave, patient
face when he saw her. It seemed to him some-
thng like receiving a message from his lost
wife. The woman greeted him respectfully,
oe some minutes passed before he could speak
to her.

At Lord Lisle’s wish, they all withdrew,

wanted to ask a thousand questions about those
few last months when his ‘‘two pearls” had
lived without him; he wanted every detail of
those last hours when Margaret parted with the

| little child she loved so dearly, for his sake.

As he listened, the present faded from him.
He stood once more with his wife’s loving arms
clasped round his neck; her sweet face, wet
with tears, raised to his. It was no shame to
his manhood that, when the woman had told all
she knew, he laid his face upon his hands, and
wept bitterly.

“‘T remember so well,” continued Mrs. Mark-
ham, ‘‘that the poor young lady told me there
was no time and no need for writing to you, my
lord; that when she saw you, she could tell you
all about Nurse Rivers. Of course, she could
not foresee what was to happen. She had no
thought of finding her death in the cold seas.”

“Tf T recover my child, Mrs. Markham,” said
aoe Lisle, ‘I will make you a rich woman for

ife.

‘““What is to be done next, uncle?” asked
Philip, as he re-entered the library.

“You must start for Queen’s Lynne at once,”
said Lord Lisle. ‘I cannot go, Philip; m
nerves are all unstrung. Take Mr. Braye with

ou, and—stay—our family lawyer should go,

oo. Send at once for Mr. Kent. If all goes
well, let me know soon; if there should be an-
other disappointment, it would kill me.”

4 same evening, three gentlemen started
for Queen’s Li e; and his mother, who re-
mained with Com Lisle, almost feared for his
reason, his suspense and anxiety were so great.

“T have often wished for oblivion before,” he
said. ‘I wish for it again. Oh, mother, would
to heaven I could sleep until my eyes open, an
see Margaret’s child!”

CHAPTER X.
A STAKE WORTH PLAYING FOR.

Ir was the close of a warm summer's _after-
noon when the three gentlemen reached Queen's
Lynne. They had talked during the whole of
their journey of the ates circumstances Un-
der which Lord Lisle’s daughter had for s°
many years been lost.

The lawyer, Mr. Kent, told of another case
he had known, wherein the circumstances were
somewhat similar, and the loss of the young
heiress during many years led to a law-suit that
even yet was not ended,

Philip listened, and replied; but his thoughts
were with the unknown cousin they were g010&
to seek. What would she be like? For Lord
Lisle’s sake, he hoped she would resemble the
dead wife he mourned so deeply. If she should
be vulgar or uneducated, what would his uncle
do? Lord Lisle himself was one of the best-bred
and most refined men in England. How could
pe ete a coarse, vulgar girl, always near

im?

Philip Lisle had a warm and sincere affection
for the kinsman who had acted so liberally to-
ward him. He had grown. interested in the
tragical dor eatory that had thrown so deep a
shadow over Lord Lisle’s life. He felt nervous
and uneasy as they drew near the end of their
journey; a hundred misgivings seized him. He
would rather return to Lord Lisle, and tell him
his daughter lay dead, than take back with him
some coarse, vulgar girl, who would, be a con-
stant source of pain and sorrow to all connected
with her.

When the train agphed at Queen’s Lynne,
his companions saw that Philip Lisle’s hand-
some face had grown pale; he was silent and
thoughtful, feeling more nervous than he had
ever done in his life. _

Their first enterprise was to secure a good
dinner at the ‘‘ Albion Hotel,” after which the
three gentlemen started together in quest of
the woman who had charge of Lond Lisle’s
daughter. :

For a long time they were unsuccessful. The
name of Susan Rivers did not a r to be
known at all, and a shade of uneasiness passed
over the detective’s face. An inquiry at the

ostoffice re-assured them; Susan Rivers had
ived at a place called Rooks’ Nest. She was
dead and buried, but her daughter still lived at
the cottage.

They walked in silence to the place, each one
thinking more of the anxious father at home,
than of the young girl they were going tosee,

Philip Lisle never forgot that night; the
splendor of the evening sky; the fragrance of

 

 
 

Y

 

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

 

 

 

the purple heather; the distant chiming of the
waves, and the solemn quiet of the summer
night. The sunbeams still played over the sea.
Suddenly turning the corner of the road, they
saw before them a pre cottage, surrounded
by_a fair and pleasant flower-garden.

: “This is Rooks’ Nest,” said Mr? Kent to Philip

isle.

‘““T suppose so,” he replied. ‘‘ The misery or
happiness of Lord Lisle’s life depends one
we find here.”

The three gentlemen looked agitated as they
stood awaiting the opening of the door. In an-
swer to their summons, an elderly woman ap-

ared, who dropped a deep courtesy, and
looked in much wonder at the unusual number
of visitors.

Mr. Kent, stepping forward, took upon him-
self the office of spokesman.

“We are here for the purpose of making in-
uiries,” he said. ‘‘We have been told that
Susan Rivers, whom we came to see, is dead,

but eae ae daughter lives here still. Can we
see her?

With confused wonder, the old lady admitted

the gentlemen, and opened the door of the best
parlor.

‘a It'll be Rita you’re wanting to see,” she
said.

But before there was time for any reply,
what they thought a vision came into the room
—a tall beautiful girl, with a magnificent face
and queenly figure—a face so wondrous in its
dark, prow Sate that those who saw it never
forgot it. Philip Lisle’s heart almost stood still.
Ah, dear heaven! could it be—was this Lord
Lisle’s lost darling?

The moment had come—the moment for
which Rita had longed and waited. She met
it bravely; the color faded from her cheek and
lips, but no word or sign betrayed her fear or
suspense,

ith one graceful gesture, she waved Mrs.
Ferne from the room; then, closing the door,
she stood facing the three, whose errand she
had divined.

“May I ask,” said Mr. Kent, ‘‘if you are the
daughter of the poor woman so lately dead—
Susan Rivers?”

There was no faltering of the musical voice;
the beautiful lips were not blistered by the
cruel lie that rippled over them.

“No,” she said, clearly; ‘‘I am not the daugh-
ter of Susan Rivers—she was my nurse.”

Philip Lisle made one step toward her, but
the lawyer impatiently signed to him to be
silent.

“May I ask who it is we have the pleasure of
addressing?” he continued.

“Would that I cowd answer you,” she said.
“T have no other name than the one my poor
mother bore—‘‘ Margaret.” Untii six weeks
since, when Susan Rivers died, I believed my-
self to be what every one thought me—her own
child. On the night of her death, she told me
my true story, and gave me the proofs. I in-
tend to devote my life to one purpose—finding
the father who has ceased to remember me.”

“We are here, making inquiries that relate
doubtless to the same story,” said Mr. Kent.
“Will you repeat Susan Rivers’ words to us,
and show us the proofs?”

She went to a box that lay upon the little ta-
ble, and took from it a key.

“T will return in one minute,” she said, quit-
_— the room.

hen she closed the door, the three gentle-
men looked at each other in stupefied wonder.

“She is beautiful and dignified!” said Philip
Lisle. ‘‘My uncle will be wild with delight.”

“Do not. judge too quickly,” said the detec-
tive; “let us hear first what the young lady has
to say.

No trattied actress could have played her part
better than the young girl, who re-entered the
room holding a small parcel in her hand. Philip
Lisle placed a chair for her; she took it w
graceful nonchalance, never once raising her
magnificent eyes to his face.

“The story I have to tell is a short one,” she
said. ‘‘I know my mother only by the name of
Margaret Howard. Years ago, when she was
Miss Arle, Susan Rivers waited upon her. Her
father lost his fortune, and my mother became
agoverness. Of the particulars of her private
marriage with my father, I know nothing. My
nurse and foster-mother told me that she did
not know my father’s name, and had no clue to
it save that he was called Captain Arthur, and
went with his regiment to India. ‘

“My mother took me when I was quite a
child to Dee e. She was going to India. My
father lay ill there; and Nurse Rivers promised
to take charge of me fora certain time, and
bring me up. with her own child.”

The clear voice faltered then, and the beauti-
ful lips trembled.

‘My mother was lost at sea,” she continued,
sadly; ‘‘and from that day to this no word has
been heard of father or friend, 1 have been
neglected or forgotten. My poor nurse did her
best for me, and she never told me until the
night she died.”

‘And then—” continued Mr. Kent; for the
plaintive voice ceased.

“Then she gave me these proofs,” said the

 

| young girl—‘‘the letter my mother wrote, a
ring Captain Arthur gave her, and a locket
containing the hair of both my parents.”

She tot the ring and the letter from the
box as she spoke, and Philip Lisle looked atten-
tively at them. The lawyer read the letter
through in silence. What doubt could he rea-
sonably entertain. :

“Why did your nurse never tell you this be-
fore?” he inquired. ‘Her silence seems strange.”

“Strange and cruel,” said the young girl;
“yet she meant it kindly. She thought it bet-
ter to let me live in happy ignorance. Another
reason was, that in her heart, I believe, she dis-
trusted Captain Arthur.”

“Why?” said Philip Lisle, hastily. s

Then, for the first time, she raised her dark,
lustrous eyes to him; their beauty struck him
with wonder.

“Because he left me alone, neglected, and un-
eared for; because, neither by: word, letter, or
message, has he ever sought me. My father left
me to live or die, as I might.”

There was a ring of passion in her voice as
she spoke. i

“Hush, child!” said Mr. Kent; ‘‘ your father
has spent a lifetime in searching for you! He
has spent a fortune in the search for cighteen
years! The loss of his child has clouded anu
darkened his life! His hair is white with sor-
row, and all for you! You spoke in ignorauce.
As you value heaven, never utter one word
against your father!”

She grew very pale as he spoke; and Philip
Lisle saw a strange quiver pass over her coun-
tenance.

‘My father?” she said, softly. ‘‘Is it possible
that he remembers me and loves me?”

“You have to hear his story,” continued Mr.
Kent: ‘‘No one has spoken to you of the chi-
valrous love he had for the friendless girl he
married—of the life-long agony her death and
your loss has been!”

“But tell me,” she cried, ‘‘ who is he? Re-
member, my father is nothing to me but an

‘| empty name.”

r. Kent looked anxiously at his confreres.

“There can be no doubt,” he said. ‘I can
see no flaw in this evidence.”

“No,” said the detective officer, gravely ;
“there is no doubt.”

“Then,” said Mr. Kent, ‘‘ the words must not
come from a stranger’s a » Mr. Lisle, will you
tell this young lady who her father is?”

Philip came forward. He took the trembling
hands in his own, and bent over the beautiful,
drooping figure.

of en your father married your mother
Margaret Arle,” he said, gently, ‘‘he was Cap-
tain Arthur Wyverne, a brave officer, and a no-
ble gentleman. He is now Lord Lisle, of Lisle
Court, and you are his only child.”

Lord Lisle! Ah! the e was worth playing
for. Her wildest dreams had not been brighter
than this. <A thrill of grateful vanity made the
worldly, ambitious heart beat more quickly.

“JT thank God,” said_Philip, solemnly, “ that
you are found at last. Your father has wearied
for you; I left him half dead with suspense.
He will never recover until he sees you.”

For one moment her strong nerves gave way.
and she wept convulsively. The strain ha
been great; she had repeated her little story—
rehearsed it over and over again—and a half
doubt had lingered in her mind as to whether it
were plausible. She knew that sooner or later
the keen sense of the law would analyze it.
Something that she had not foreseen might turn
up, and then her brilliant castle would fall in
ruins. But there was no doubt in the kindly
faces that surrounded her, Even the lawyer’s
eyes grew dim as he listened to the passionate
weeping.

“Nay,” he said, gently; “‘-you must not give
way. Be courageous, for your father’s sake.”

‘““ My courage seldom fails,” she replied, rais-
ing her head ee,

n after years, P. a Lisle remembered the
instinct that prompte' him to say, ‘‘ Where is
your foster-sister, Susan Rivers’ own child?”

“She has gone abroad,” replied Rita, ‘TI
told her my story before she left England. She
knows nothing more of it than I know myself.
Her mother never named it to her.”

“Then her evidence will be of little use,” said
Mr. Kent. ‘‘ Our case is complete, without any
addition. And now, Miss Lisle,” he said, turn-
ing to the young girl, ‘“‘we must not lose one
minute. I can imagine the effect this excite-
ment will produce upon Lord Lisle. Have you
any friends here, or any arrangements you
would like to make?”

“No,” she replied; ‘‘I have no friends, and I
have no plans.”

“Could you arrange to start for Lisle Court
to-morrow morning?” he asked.

She said there was nothing to detain her.

“Lord Lisle is both rich and generous,” said
Philip. “If there are any friends or depend-
ants you would like to provide for, do as you
will.” *

“The old woman who lives here has been
very good to me since Susan Rivers died,” she
replied. ‘‘ It would perhaps be as well that she
should continue to live here, and keep on the
little home, for my foster-sister Daisy’s sake.”

 

 

“That is well and kindly thought of,” said.
Mr. Kent. cos

Mrs. Ferne was called in, and almost lost ‘her-
senses between surprise and pleasure. eer

“T guessed it, gentlemen,” she‘cried. ‘‘ Over
and over again, I have said Miss Rita was more:
like a queen than poor Susan’s child.’ Hot-house,
flowers do not grow in hedge-rows.”

CHAPTER. XT.
ACTING THE PART. )

THERE was no rest or sleep that night for the:
young girl, whose plan succeeded beyond her-
most sanguine expectations. No doubt had
been thrown aha, her word; no suspicion came
to the skillful lawyer, the trained detective, or
the handsomo cousin, who appeared to know
the world so well. As she stood alone in ‘her
room that night, her heart thrilled with tri-
umph. Fate itself seemed to have played into
her hands. All she had ever wished for—rank,
wealth, a eee now in her grasp. Her
good fortune bewildered her.

Yet, as she stood ‘there, in the very hour of
her triumph, solemn words, spoken long ago by
her dead mother, came back to her. Did an
ovil deed ever prosper long? Did not retribu-
tion, sooner or later, overtake those who be-
trayed a sacred trust, and usurped rights be-~
‘onging to another?

“Could evil prosper?” again and again she:
asked herself the question—her beautiful face:
becoming graver with every repetition,

‘In my case, it will!” she said, proudly. “TI
have conquered circumstances, and will conquer.
evil, and make it my good.’’

Far into the night she sat with Mrs. Ferne,.
telling the details of the story she had made her -
own,

‘“‘And now it turns out,” she said, ‘‘that my
father is a rich nobleman, and not only anxious:
to see me, but ready to give his whole fortune
for the ee of finding me.”

‘I always thought it,” said Mrs. Ferne,
“You were never like poor Susan, or Daisy,
either.”

““T have one charge to leave with you,” said.
Margaret, after a few minutes of deep silence.
‘Do you remember that evening, soon after my
poor nurse’s death, a young man came here to
to say ‘Good-by’ to me, before he went to sea?
Should you know him if you were to see hira
again?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Ferne.
forget his dark face.” ;

“He will come again,” said Margaret. ‘It;
may be in three years’ time—perhaps sooner.
‘When he comes, tell him my story—tell him
that my own father has claimed me, and that it;
will be better for him to forget me, as he will
never see me again. No matter what he says
no matter what he offers you—neither tell him
my name, or where I am. I will reward you
handsomely if you manage this well.”

Mrs. Ferne understood perfectly.

‘He shall never know your real name, or-
where you live, from me,” she said. ‘‘ Make
your mind easy about that. He cannot know
them from any one else.”

Margaret thought, as she stood in her room
that night, watching the ah stars shining in —
the quiet night-sky, that the future lay milials
before her. Ralph Ashton had been‘her only
fear. Perhaps he might never return; even
should he come to seek her, the wonderful
change in her fortune would convince him that
all further acquaintance was impossible. The
cold, arsbitions heart felt no pang of regret at
the true lovo she was throwing away.

Philip Lisle looked at his cousin with critical
attention om tho following morning, as they
were starting on their journey. There was
nothing unladylike in the ‘long black dress and ~
sweeping mantilla. The superb beauty of the
southern face shono out brightly from amidst
the clouds of black.

He looked to see if she wept on leaving the
humbic home that had sheltered her for so long;
but thero was no trace of tears in those dar
lustrous eyes.

it was a wonderful journey for Rita. She
liked the deferential homage of her three 2om-
panions, who treated her as though she had been.
a |e pmees She liked the admiration her beau-
tiful face excited. She liked being called ‘‘ Miss
Lisle,” and hearing of her father’s prestige, and.
the grandeur of his race.

The day was drawing near its close when they
reached the Hall. The evening gloaming was
quiet and calm; a gray shadow seemed to rest
upon tic world; the flowers were all sleeping,
and the birds had gone to rest.

A bright flush rose to Margaret’s face as they
caught sight of the Hall rising proudly from
among luxuriant trees.

‘That is Lisle Court,” said Philip, to his
cousin. ‘‘ There is not a fairer, prouder home
in England. Lord Lisle awaits you there im-
patiently.”

That evening was long remembered by those:
who lived at the Hall. Lord Lisle wished his
daughter to be received with all the honors due.
toher. The servants in livery were ranged in

“T could never

the hall, ready to welcome their young mistress.
. Wyverne sat in the long drawing-room, im,
 

 

rapped gently.

. “How beautiful you are!” he said, ey.

+ state and grandeur; but he himself was
ard itated for any public aera

« Mother,” said Lord Lisle, ‘‘I cannot greet
my daughter here. I shall remain in my study.
Bring her to me, and leave us alone.”

He sat there while the sun set in the golden
west, and the y gloaming spread over the
land. He heard, at length, the carriage-wheels;
and knew that, in a few minutes, he should see
Margaret’s child again.

There was a murmur of excitement as the
carriage stopped at the Hall door. Those who
wai there saw a, tall, stately lady descend.
There was no faltering in her proud bearing;
there was no emotion on the beautiful face as
they bent before her in lowly greeting.

. Wyverne step) forward, and clasped
the graceful figure in her arms.

“Let me be the first to welcome you home,”
she said. ‘‘I am your father’s mother, Marga-
ret, and you must learn to love me.”

“You are ete Nine t Margaret said, gently:
then, turning to Philip Lisle, she asked, ‘‘ Where
is my father? Let me see him soon.”

Mrs. Wyverne took her hand, and led her
through a long suite of magnificent rooms.
They reached the library door at last, and she

*“Come in!” said a low, hoarse voice, unlike
any she had ever heard.

‘Go in alone, dear child,” said Mrs. Wy-
verne. ‘Try and calm your father—he is not
strong.”

Rita opened the door, The room was very
long, and dim in the gray evening light; but at
the upper end she saw a figure with outstretched,
frenibtiacs arms.

In fancy, she had often rehearsed that scene.
The reality had come at length.

She walked aoe up the long room, and
threw herself into the clasp of those loving

arms,

‘“ My father,” she said, gently, ‘‘ I have found
you at last?”

But he had no such calm words for her; his
agitation was pitiful to see. Deep sobs seemed
to shake his strong heart; tears dropped from
his eyes; he clas her in his arms, as though
even death should not part them again.

‘““My darling,” he said psoas ittle pearl—
my Margaret's child! Thank eaven, I have
found you!—thank heaven, I hold you in my
arms again!”

He released her then, and looked at her.

“You have not your mother’s sweet face, and
calm, tender eyes. You are beautiful, like some
of the ladies of our race, who shone fairest
among the fair! Speak to me again, darling!
Let me hear if you have your mother’s voice?’

“T fear you will be disappointed in me,” she
said. ‘‘I am not like my mother; Susan Rivers |
told me so, She was fair and gentle; I am |
dark, like you.”

“She had dark hair,” said Lord Lisle; ‘ not
black, like yours—dark and soft, like the wing
of some rare bird. Oh, Margaret! I have never
seen you since you were a little babe, and I held

you in my arms. What years of happiness I

ve lost!—but not through my fault—not m,
fault. My heart has longed for you, darling—
have thirsted for one look at your face—I would
have given my life to find you—but all longing
seemed vain.’

She knelt by his side, and spoke gentle words,
that soothed him, of the happiness in store for
them—of the long years they might yet spend
together; and no remorse startled her for the
false words that were pecsing her lips.

Time seemed to fly; but Lord Lisle was roused
from his trance of delight by a gentle rap at the
door.

‘Come in, mother,” he said; ‘‘I must not be
selfish; let me share my happiness. Is elena
there? Come in, Philip; I have much to thar
you for. Come and bid my beloved child thrice
welcome home.”

They vied with each other who should be
kindest and most attentive, until, at length,
Mrs. Wyverne started up, saying, ‘‘ How to-
tally unused we are to young ladies! Margaret
has never had time to remove her . bonnet.
Come with me, dear child; I will show you the
rooms your father has arranged for you. We
found you a maid yesterday—one I think you
will like.”

Lord Lisle clasped his daughter in his arms
again. ;

‘‘T shall feel anxious every moment you are
out of my sight,” he said. ‘‘Make , Mar-

‘et.

The two ladies quitted the room together.
Then Lord Lisle, turning to his nephew, said.
“How beautiful she is, See dignified
and graceful! Her voice is like music. Who
can have taught her such manners? Her accent
is refined as my own. I amas much surprised
as pleased.” 3 ,

“She is very beautiful,” said Philip; ‘“ but
she does not resemble you at all. Her nurse
was a superior woman, and ap AT'S to have
strained me nerve to give both girls a good
education. iss Lisle’s foster-sister has gone
abroad as governess to some youn, lady.”

“She must return, then,” said Lord Lisle.
“T will do to her as her good and generous mo-

 

| ther did to my child. She shall be Margaret’s |

sister still—in more than name.”

_That evening, Lord Lisle seemed to regain all
his lost strength and energy. His mother looked
on him with eyes full of happy tears.

_After dinner, a solemn council was held in the
library. While it lasted, Lord Lisle held Rita’s
hand in his.

She showed him the proofs of her story—the
letters written by Margaret Wyverne, her mo-
ther, to Susan. Rivers, her nurse—letters that
spoke so lovingly of the dear husband who lay

| ill, and the little child she was so grieved to leave

behind her.
She showed the quaint ring, with its legend,
“No love out of this ring”—the locket where

Lord Lisle’s hair was entwined with that of his |

wife,

“These are all my treasures,” she said. ‘My
mother left nothing more.”

“They are quite enough to establish your
identity,” said Mr, Kent, who, at Lord Lisle’s
urgent request, remained for the evening.

ord Lisle held them in his hands, ow viv-
idly he remembered the day he had placed that
ring on his wife’s finger, and her pretty, happy
pride when he gave her the locket.

“ Margaret,” he said, ‘‘I will give you what-
ever you ask, if you will give me this locket and
ring. Your mother’s face rises before me as I
gaze upon them, You shall have diamonds a
queen might envy, if you will give me these.”

She looked at him with a bright smile,

“They are yours,” she said, gently, ‘“‘even as
Iam yours—because they belonged to my mo-
ther. No diamonds, however valuable, could
pay for them.”

‘hen a scene took place which gratified Rita’s
ambition. Lord Lisle assembled his servants
and dependants, and formally introduced their
young mistress; telling, in brief, clear words,

he story of her loss and recovery. Mrs, Mark-

ham was there, and a half fear, half dread
passed through Rita’s mind, as Lord Lisle said,
with a smile, ‘‘My daughter has altered since
you saw her last, and, Mrs. Markham, is there
any feature you recognize?”

“None, my lord,” she replied. ‘‘I remember
her mother’s face vividly, but I cannot recall
Miss Lisle’s.”

It was an evening of triumph, unmarred by
one drawback.

Lord Lisle talked much to Margaret of her
foster-sister. He was charmed with her replies,
although he wondered much that she showed no
great pleasure when he avowed his intention of
adopting her.

“You must aoa this heavy mourning to-
morrow,” said rd Lisle. ‘‘My mother has
taken care to provide you with a trousseau. I
shall add jewelry to your taste.”

When the darkness and silence of night had
fallen over the Hall, while Lord Lisle dreamed
of his dead wife and living child, Margaret said
to herself, ‘‘It was a brilliant play, and I have
acted my part well.”

CHAPTER XII.

TREASURED WORDS.

A MONTH passed, and Margaret found herself
with every wish of her heart gratified. She
had longed for rich dresses wherewith to adorn
the wondrous beauty that had been so fatal a
dower. She hadthemnowinabundance. Mrs.
Wyverne herself selected a trousseau that might
have suited a princess. Lord Lisle wished that
neither expense nor trouble should be spared.
She had longed for jewels; her father gave her
the celebrated ‘‘Lisle Diamonds”—considered
Py connoisseurs as some of the finest stones in

ngland. He lavished presents upon her—deli-
cate, glowing pearls ; opals of rare and beauti-
ful hues; rich rubies, ‘flashing red ;” emeralds
with a rare, golden light in their green depths.
There were times when she shut herself in her
room alone with her treasures; she took them
from their velvet beds, and aisees them on her
neck and arms; and as she did so, and the won-
drous diamonds flashed like points of flame, she
smiled contemptuously over the earrings Ralph
had given her, and she at once thought so mag-
nificent.

A French waiting-maid, who understood her
business, and knew how to make the most of
Rita’s dark, glowing beauty, had been engaged
to attend her. La Lisle purchased a magnifi-
cent horse especially for her, and she was in a
very short time taught to ride; everything that
love, luxury, or comfort could suggest was
always at her command to the very moment.

On the day following her arrival, Lord Lisle
himself took her over the Hall, showing her the
state-rooms, the picture gallery, the magnificent
modern apartments, the treasures of art, the
statues brought from Italy, the gold and silver
plate—in itself worth a king’s ransom.

He was proud of the beautiful girl who swept
through these gorgeous rooms; she said _nothing
of the wonder they excited in her, That, she
thought, would show a want of good taste. But
when they came to the picture-gallery, and
Lord Lisle raised the heavy velvet hangings,
she stood for a few minutes in mute surprise.

“Tt is a grand old place—my father!” she
said, proudly.

40 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

“Anda d old race to whom it belongs,”
he replied. ‘‘I know of no family whose anna:
are so stainless as our own. Our men have ever
been brave, our women pure. No Lisle ever
yet brought even the shadow of shame or dis-
grace upon his name. The deepest regret of
my life is that your mother did not live to take
her place here.

ae ave you no portrait of my mother?” asked

ita.
“Yes,” replied Lord Lisle. ‘‘I shall take it

| to Italy with me, and have a larger one painted

from it to hang up here. There will be no
sweeter, fairer face in the gallery than that of
Margaret Lisle!”

They went on through the long corridors,
until they reached the eastern wing of the Hall.

‘There are some nice rooms here,” said Lord
Lisle, ‘‘but they have not been used of late
years. Dame Sybella Lisle died here, and her
portrait hangs still in her room. We will go to
see it. It is considered a fine work of art.’

But when they stood before it, Rita, for one
half moment, lost her self-command, her lips
grew white, and a dark shadow dimmed her
eyes as she gazed upon it. 5

The face was pure and fair, with a refined
spiritual expression on the delicate features ; the
brow was clear and pure; the violet eyes lus-
trous and tender; bright golden hair rippled
over a white neck; the sweet lips were parted
with a smile; it was the very face of Daisy—
Daisy whom she had betrayed, robbed of her
birthright, and deceived!

‘“‘T must have the picture removed. It should
be in the gallery, not here!”

‘“* Are these rooms ever used?” asked Rita.

“Not often,” replied Lord Lisle. “A gem
like this should not hang here unnoticed. It is
one of the finest pictures we have. I must at-
tend to the removal.” if

Even as he spoke, Rita was thinking how it
could best be destroyed. Daisy’s face resembled
it so perfectly, that every one must observe the
likeness. Rapidly as lightning the thought
passed through her mind.

“Grant me a favor, dearpapa!” she said. ‘I
like this picture; will you allow me to have it
in my own room?”

Only too pleased to comply with any request
that came from his darling child, Lord Lisle
consented. Before night, the portrait of Lady
Sybella Lisle was hung in her room, ‘

“You like your home, then, Margaret?” said
Lord Lisle, as shee stood upon the broad ter-
race overlooking the fragrant flower-garden.

“Yes,” she replied, gently. ‘ My only regret
is that I did not know it years ago.”

“Tt has not been mine very long,” said Lord
Lisle. ‘‘You should understand that Lisle
Court and the title are both entailed. At
my death they go to Philip. He will he
Lord Lisle.” He did not see the dismayed ex-
pression that crossed her face, but continued:

‘The estates of Helsmeir, in Scotland, and
Endsleigh in Yorkshire, aremy own, They are
not entailed. At my death they will be yours;
but Lisle Court goes to Philip, together with
all the fair, broad domain that surrounds it.”

She made no reply but the words were never
forgotten,

Lord Lisle watched his daughter attentively.
Her beauty and dignity charmed him. She
never betrayed any ungainliness of manner Or
awkwardness. There was nothing in her that
told how the early years of her Tite had been
spent. Her accent was good—she ke well—
she was quick and apt in imitation; but there
was a something wanting. She had wit and re-
partee; but Lord Lisle saw plainly that, at
times, in conversation she was lost. She could
not speak of books—she had read but little—or
of pictures. She knew little of art or music.
She did not know the names of the eeeing
statesmen; and occasionally Lord Lisle detecte
a flush of annoyance on her beautiful face when
she felt her own deficiencies.

He talked long and earnestly to Mrs. Wy-
verne; and between them a plan was arranged
which they thought would settle all difficulties.

Lord Lisle went in search of his daughter.
He found her in the garden, sitting under the
spreading shade of a large cedar tree.

“Rita,” he said, gently, sitting on the grass
by her side; ‘‘we must have a Nong conversa-
tion. How old are you?”

“Just eighteen!” she replied.

Then Lord Lisle, with paternal fondness,
clasped her hands in his.

‘You must not be hurt or vexed at what I
am going to say, my darling,” he began; “and,
above all, do not think I am dissatisfied with
you. Iam more proud of you than of anything
else in the world. But there are a few little de-
ficiencies we must try to remedy. It is usual
for a young lady Re our rank and position to
be presented at Court, and make her debut in
the grand world.”

“Yes,” she said, brightly; ‘“ grandmamma
has been telling me all about it. I am impatient
for the time to come.” ;

“You must learn to wait,” he replied, with a
smile. ‘It is on this subject I want to speak to
xo You are only eighteen. I should like you

‘0 devote two entire years to fitting yourself for
your place in the world.”

ais

 
LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

14

 

He saw the keen look of Seer and
hastened to add, ‘‘ They shall happy years.
my darling. I will take you abroad. @ wi
go-to France and to Italy. We will take with
us some clever and accomplished lady, who will
give you what my mother calls finishing touches.
You must learn the names of great authors, and
read their works. You must see the finest pic-
tures in Italy, and learn all about the artists
who painted them. You must study the great
world, its code of manners, its forms and eti-
quette, before you go into it.”

“T understand,” she said, sadly.

“Nay,” said Lord Lisle; ‘‘it is a matter for
smiles, not sighs. I venture to predict, Rita,
that in two years’ time, when we return, you
will create a sensation not easily forgotten.
You might do so now, but I prefer this time of
probation. What do you say#—are you will-

In: ”

Byes,” she replied; ‘‘and grateful. I see
how necessary it is.”,

‘“‘Did you ever learn anything of music or
singing?” asked Lord Lisle.

“No,” she replied. ‘‘ My foster-sister, Daisy,

Ries

sings.’

‘Ah, well,” said Lord Lisle, ‘‘ we must never
dream of blaming poor Susan; it was quite nat-
ural that she should do the best for her own
child. She has received a better education than
you?”

“Yes,” was the false answer. ‘ Mrs. Rivers

was everything that was kind to me; but she
treated Daisy differently.”

Tho words rung out clear and soft on the |

bright summer air, and no one was there to say
how cruel and false they were.

“That reminds me,” said Lord Lisle. ‘‘I am
very anxious, Rita, that your_ foster-sister
should come to live with you. I owe to her
mother a debt of gratitude that nothing can
pay. I want to do as she did—make her child
my own.” 2

No light or happiness came into the beautiful
face Lord Lisle watched so lovingly.

‘Of course you loved her very dearly?” he
continued.

_‘ Yes,” she replied, calmly. ‘‘I loved poor
little Daisy ;” but the tone of voice in which she
spoke had no ring of music—no enthusiasm.

“Is she plain or stupid?’ asked Lord Lisle,
anxiously.

“Neither,” she replied, more earnestly. “I
think her pretty. She is very fair and gentle;
fond of reading and drawing. Oh, papa, they
were kind to me, but I was not happy there.
should like to forget that past, and Daisy would
remind me of it.’

Lord Lisle looked hurt and disappointed.
With her keen, shrewd instinct, she saw and
noted it.

“Do not misunderstand me, dear papa,” she
said. ‘Like yourself, I feel all that I owe to
Daisy’s mother. I would cheerfully give Daisy
all I ‘have, but I—do not laugh at me—I want to

be alone with you a little longer. She is clever;
she sings sweetly; perhaps you might love her
better than Se own poor little Rita.”

She looked so beautiful, so loving and charm-
ing, that Lord Lisle clasped her in his arms, and
laughed heartily.

“Jealous!” he said. ‘‘ You are positively
jealous, Rita! Well, your quiet shall not be
disturbed yet. ‘You tell me Daisy is with her
friends at Florence. We may see her there, and
then we can arrange. I must leave you now.
I am going over to Grafton Hall. Tell me?
May I consider the matter settled? Are you
willing to go abroad?”

“T shall like it above all things,” she said,
gayly. ‘I shall soon learn all about the great
world, papa.”

Lord Lisle left her sitting under the grand
old cedar tree. As he went down the broad
path, he turned to look once more at her. She
was smiling at him, and he thought in all the
world there was nothing so bright or beautiful
as his daughter’s face. When he disappeared
from among the green trees, the smile died
away, the brightness all faded. A look of care
and anxiety came over the dark eyes.

‘‘T must do something,” she said. ‘She must
not come here! No human evidence can ever
be brought against me; but that face will strike
every one! She must not come until I am safe!
—until I am Philip Lisle’s wife! Nothing can

 

matter then!”

Y

 

LORD LISLE WITNESSES RITA’S GRIEF.—Page 12.

| While the birds sung, and the fair flowers
| bloomed—while the sun shone, and the soft
summer air whispered of love, peace, and hap-
| piness, she sat thinking, scheming, and invent-

ing.

She had succeeded beyoud her wildest hopes.
| Her fraud had been a complete success. There
; came to her no remorseful memory of the dying
| mother, whose trust she had betrayed; no com-
| punction or sorrow for the gentle girl from
| hee she had stolen home, love, and everything
| else.
| She sat through the summer morning, busy
| with two thoughts. One was how to keep Daisy
| from Lisle Court; the other, how to win the
| heart of Philip Lisle. The whole ambition of
| her soul was centered in that one idea—she must

be Lady Lisle—Lady Margaret Lisle! As she
| murmured the name to herself, a smile apes
| over her lips, for she thought of Ralph Ashton,
| and the vow he had forced her to take. She
| thought of him without love—without anything
| but poate The fierce, passionate love he
| had lavished upon her was forgotten or unheed-
| ed. She disliked even to think of that miserable

past. She was to be Lady Lisle!
| Lord Lisle did not delay in making arrange-
| ments; before the end of the week he had se-
| cured the assistance of a clever, accomplished
| lady, the widow of one of his fellow-officers, a
| high-bred, refined woman, who gladly under-
| took the charge of his daughter.
| Mrs. Marche seemed instinctively to under-

 

 

stand all that was required of her. She was to
help the young lady Secaap a polish and grace
of manner that as yet she had not. She was to
teach those little mysteries of etiquette that cam
only be learned from those accustomed to good
society. Far as lay in her power, she was to
cultivate her mind and intellect.

Mrs. Wyverne remained at Lisle Court.
Philip Lisle thought it probable that he might
join his uncle in Italy when he went there.

ey were to go to Paris first, and remain there
ayear. During that year masters of all kinds
were to instruct Miss Lisle. She resolved to de-
vote herself to study, and acquiring the polish
of high life.

 

CHAPTER XIIL
A HEART’S AWAKENING,

The year passed rapidly enough. At its close,
Margaret was barely recognizable. All that
cultivation could do for her was done. AIL
trace of the cottage education had disappeared ;
the musical voice pas. become clear and distinct
as a silver bell; all little eccentricities of speech
and manner had disappeared ; her language,
even, had become remarkable for its elegant
simplicity and force.

The half-conscious manner had disappeared,
and a graceful dignity had taken its place.
Margaret had spared no pains. She read, and,
above all, listened to the conversation of clever

and talented men. She was so quick, so aptin
all imitation, that nothing escaped her. The
names of great men and great works were no
longer a dead letter to her; she could convers’:
intelligently and well. Her wonderful beaut:
had been carefully cultivated also. Few would
have recognized in the queenly girl, whose mag-
nificent face drew all eyes, the rustic beauty
who had listened so eagerly to Ralph Ashton’:
praises.

Lord Lisle was more than satisfied with that
one year’s training.

News came often from England. Mrs. Wy-
verne found plenty to do in managing the Hall.
Philip was hier engaged in the care of the es-
tate. Lord Lisle wrote, pressing him to join
them at Rome, and spent some months with
them.

“Do come, Philip,” he wrote.
to see what progress Rita has made.
know what you think of her.”

They went to Naples, and from there Lord
Lisle wrote a most kind letter to Daisy, pressing
her to pay them a visit.

“T want you to live with us,” he said; ‘to
be as one of my own children; to be Rita’s
sister, as you have always been. Come, and
stay with us for some months first, and then we
can decide about the future.”

And Daisy, in reply, said that in two months
the term for which she had engaged herself to
the Denhams would expire, and then she would
gladly rejoin her sister. Philip's letter reached-

“T want you
I voueae

 
 

 

THE FIRESIDE: LIBRARY.

 

Naples the same morning, saying he should ‘be
ith them during that week.

He came one beautiful evening, when the we
was cloudless, and the waters of the bay, half
blue, half golden, ae and broke musically
upon the shore. Lord Lisle had gone out, and

. Marche was engaged when he arrived. He
-was ushered into a room that seemed to be all
aut and flowers. He saw there a dignified
an

eautiful woman, who received him with |

exquisite grace. He cried out, in amazement,
“Miss Lisle, how you have altered! I did not
know you.”

Nor could he cease from wondering. His
eyes wandered from the peerless face to the
magnificent dress. In his ears the musical voice

lingered like a spell. Could this be the young |
irl he had found in the little cottage at Queen’s |

ynne? Rita saw, and noted his surprise. It

was to her the most flattering compliment he |

could have paid. She remembered her first in-
terview with him, when he had seemed to her
something quite different from the common race
of men. ishandsome face and high-bred man-
“ner, his careless ease and debonnaire style, had
charmed and amazed her. She had seen no one
dike him. And now this man, who had appeared
to her like a king, grew confused in her pres-
ence. They had changed places.

Philip received the warmest welcome from |

Lord Lisle.

“You will stay with us, of course,” he said.
“Do not talk of hotels; we shall be quite a
happy family. Do just as you like, but do not
think: of leaving us.’

When they were alone, Lord Lisle turned to
Ais kinsman.

‘‘Philip,” he said, gravely, ‘‘tell me the
exact truth; what do you ti of Margaret
now?”

‘My dear uncle,” he replied, ‘you might
just as well ask me to write a poem, or paint a
ae In a few words, she is the most per-

ectly beautiful girl I ever saw; the change in
her is so marvelous. I see no fault or blemish,
and my whole heart rejoices in your happi-
ness.”

Lord Lisle looked delighted,

“T shall take her home next year, and intro-
duce her,” he said.
place in the great world.”

“She will adorn it,” said Philip. ‘‘ How
about her foster-sister? Have you seen her
et?”

“She will join us in a few weeks, I expect,”
replied Lord Lisle; ‘‘we shall all return to
England together. You must go with me to
Garci’s studio to-morrow, and see the copy he is
making of my dear wife’s portrait.”

“Miss Lisle does not in the least resemble
any of the ladies of our race,” said the young
aman.

“No, not much. But, Philip, related as we
are, why do you persist in ey daughter
Miss Lisle. Surely she may be ‘ Margaret’ for

ou.
wen My dear uncle,” replied the young man, his
face flushing, ‘‘ I shall require desperate courage
to make the attempt. Believe me, at present,
I dare not. I can imagine the flash of those
black eyes, if I venture to call their owner
* Margaret.’”

Lord Lisle laughed with quiet amusement.
Rita’s dignity and hauteur had often pleased
and surprised him; and now, to see that they

roduced the same effect upon his gay and
Pencenme young kinsman, pleased him still
more.

A new life began for Rita—a new revelation
came to her under that noe sky. She
thad played at love with Ralph Ashton. She
had always thought of it as a means to an end.
In her own mind, she laughed at all pathetic
stories. Riches, honor, title, with her all ranked
before love. She thought but little of it. She
had no sweet, girlish dreams of something to
ome which should brighten her life and change
it. But her heart was eet had planned
to herself a marriage with Philip Lisle, but love
had no part in the plan.

Her heart was waking from its long dream of |

-vanity and coldness. Philip’s face haunted her.
She could not forget it. is voice sounded ever
dn her ears—so gay, so generous, chivalrous, and
noble. Who was like him? No false or mean
-word ever stained his lips—no selfish thought
ever came near him. He was not handsome as
an Apollo, or gifted with the keenest intellect;
but his kindly, comely face had all the charm of
truth and nobility. One felt instinctively, on
looking at him, that he was a man in whose
hands honor and life might safely be trusted;
and, withal, he hada high-bred, degage manner
— fascinated and won all who approached

The time came to Rita when the name of
Philip Lisle sounded like sweetest music in her
ears—earth held none sweeter; when to be near
him, to hear him talk, to feel his dieting
glance upon her, was the keenest pleasure eart!
‘could give her—keener far than the hap-

that she found in wealth and honor. She

to study him, to lay herself out to please
him; the proud face softened for him; the
haughty lips gave him smiles and words no
other ever received. It was a wonderful love—

“‘T long to see her take her |

 

 

wonderful from its concentration. She had no
other thought, no other idea. To have won him
she would have laid down her life. Such a love
might have been the redemption of another
woman: in that grand, erring, ambitious nature,
it was but a another source of destruction.
Philip. admired his cousin; he thought her
wonderfully beautiful and. most wonderfully
proud. He was kind and affectionate to her,

after the manner of an elder brother; but as to |
love, he never even gave it a thought; it never |

occurred to him to fall inlove with Lord Lisle’s
daughter.

It was a new life to her—new and strange.
Beauty seemed to have fallen over the world.
Sunshine and flowers spoke to her as they had
never done before. entle thoughts came to
her—the fierce ambition and pride, that had led
her into great crime, faded. There were even
times when she longed to be good and true, that
she might be worthy of his love, when she would
have wished the sin ‘‘unsinned.” She under-
stood him well; she read the loyal, simple nature
that could forgive any crime save one like hers.
She knew that if ever Philip Lisle should learn

| what she had done, he would never look at_her

or speak to her again. ‘‘ But there was no dan-
er,” she said to herself—‘“‘ there was no danger.

e would never know.”

She tried to win him. She used her beauty,
her talents, her wit; but all in vain. When the
blue sea was calm, they sailed for hours _to-
gether over the sunlit waters of the bay; they
wandered through Fi of fragrant orange
trees; they lingered by the purple vines and
ee myrtle; but in no place, and at no hour,
Philip ever utter those words she longed to

ear.

Lord Lisle had taken a ee villa on the out-
skirts of Naples. Beautiful gardens surrounded
it, sloping down to the water’s edge. The win-
dows were thickly covered with creeping flow-
ers and bright blossoms; the balconies looked
like one mass of ever; n.

The room they preferred had a large window
es onto a balcony, around which the vines
clung in rich profusion; they hung in such thick
clusters, that one standing outside could hardly
be seen by those in the room. Lord Lisle liked
that balcony better than any other part of the
house. From it there was a view unequaled for
beauty; the Bay of Naples lay shining in the
summer sun; the distant mountains raised their
tall heads; all the luxuriant loveliness of the
fair land was spread out in one gorgeous picture.
In this balcony Lord Lisle passed many happy
hours. He learned there, too, a secret that even
in death he never forgot.

One morning, when Rita was busily engaged
with Mrs. Marche, he went to say good-by for
afew hours. He kissed her, and said he should
soon return. On leaving the house, however,
Lord Lisle found the sun so warm, that he re-
solved to defer his visit until evening. He re-
entered the house unseen by any one except the
servant who admitted him, fetched a book, then
retired to his favorite balcony to read. The
shade of the vine-leaves was most grateful, and
he was congratulating himself upon his wisdom,
when Margaret entered the room, and Philip
followed her.

“Lord Lisle is out,” said Philip. ‘I think I
shall follow his example. These sunny days
are made for out-door enjoyment.”

“Tf a broiling sun gives enjoyment,” said
Rita, ‘“‘you will have plenty of it. You said
something about reading to us this morning.”

Philip laughed gayly.

“Imagine,” he said, ‘‘ reading ‘ Lalla Rookh’
on a T like this! I never can be sentimental
when the sunis warm. Ah, Miss Lisle, I must
crave pardon for my bad taste, but I think a
row on that smiling sea will be better than all
the poetry that was ever written.”

A pained, wistful look came over her face.
Lord Lisle was about to speak, when Philip re-
sumed, gayly, “Iam always at your service,
but I think the reading will come off better in
the evening; my uncle enjoys it then.”

Something constrained and unnatural in
aaenrte voice caught Lord Lisle’s atten-

‘ion.

“Let it be so, then,” she said quietly. A
beautiful bouquet of orange-blossom and myr-
tles lay upon the table near her. She took them
in her hands.

‘‘How fragrant those flowers are!” said
Philip. She selected the prettiest spray of
blossom, and held it out to him.

He took it from her, held it carelessly for a
few moments, then laid it down upon the table.

“The perfume is overpowering this morning,”
he said. ‘‘ After all, I like our English flowers
best. Nothing can equal our violets and lilies.
There is as much, and just the same kind of,
difference between Italian and English flowers
as there is between Italian and English women.
Do you not think so, Miss Lisle.”

“Tt is possible,” she said. ‘I like the fra-
grant, richly-colored flowers the best.”

Philip laughed, and, with a bow to his cousin,
quitted the room, leaving the sprig of orange-
blossom carelessly upon the table.

For some moments she stood listening to the
echo of his footsteps. The sound ceased at
last; and she knelt where he had stood, burying

-with a look, move them with a word.

 

her face in the flowers. She wept with a pas-
sionate abandonment pitiful to see.

“He does not love me!” she said— he does
not even care forme! The flower I gave him is
of no value. He does not care for me, and I—
oo dear heaven!—I love him better than my

e!

‘When the passionate fit of weeping ended, she
took the little flower, and left the room.

Lord Lisle saw and heard it all. His first
emotion was one of unmitigated surprise; his
second, one of profound pity for his daughter.

“She loves him,” he said, to himself. ‘‘I be-
lieved her too Pg to love any man. Ah, if
her mother had lived, she would have known
what to do.”

Lord Lisle never mentioned that little scene.
On his daughter’s face, when they next met,
there was no sign of love.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE COUNTESS’ BALL.

Lorp LisLE continually thought of that scene
—those passionate tears—that bitter cry. He
knew that his proud, beautiful daughter loved
her cousin with all the force of her heart—with
all the strength of her nature. He was grieved
—for he saw nothing like love on Philip’s part.
No one could be more chivalrous, gay, and kind
than Lord Lisle’s heir; but there was no love
either in his look or words.

He watched his daughter; but she never be-
trayed her secret. At times, when Philip spoke
to her suddenly, he saw her face flush, and her
dark, lustrous eyes oo brighter. But pride
and hauteur wrapped her round like a garment.
He could have believed the scene he had wit-
nessed from the balcony a dream.

He saw, too, that alt a Rita guarded her
secret as she guarded her life, there were times
when she was jealous of every one else to whom
Philip spoke. The pretty, fair-haired, Comtessa
Guardi was then considered the belle of Naples.
Fair and coquettish, with bright eyes, charming
smiles, and winning words, she was more popu-
lar, and more admired, than any other woman
in Naples.

She liked Philip, and immediately upon her
introduction began a little flirtation with him.
She gave him her brightest smiles and gayest
words; much to the amusement of her indulgent
husband, who looked with something like com-
miseration on his wife’s favorite.

It was all innocent nonsense, and the Count
knew it. His pretty, petted wife must have
homage and admiration.

Lord Lisle and his daughter received many
invitations to the Villa Guardi, the beautiful
and luxurious home of the fair-haired Countess.
She was fond of charades—of operettas—of
tableaux. Miss Lisle charmed her; that dark.
magnificent. beauty was the very foil she needed
for her own. She was never wearied of arrang-
ing, tableaux, in which she could act with Miss

le

All the gayety and fashion of Naples assem-

bled at the Villa; dances, soirees, evening par-

ties, morning rides, excursions both on sea and

land, were constantly going on; the center and

ao of all were the Countess Guardi and Miss
e.

The Neapolitans raved about her; the fair
face, with its delicate rose-leaf bloom, the dark,
lustrous eyes, and magnificent crown of black
hair, hada great charm. ‘The beautiful Miss
Lisle!” Gentlemen flirted with the pretty Coun-
tess, but they admired Miss Lisle. ‘

Lord Lisle was delighted at his daughter's
success. Mingling with this, the best and high-
est society in Naples, her manners became form-
ed, her natural taste for all that was elegant
became developed. He saw the time had come
when he might safely present his daughter, and
the most fastidious could find no fault in her.

Rita might have had lovers in abundance—
Italian counts, French noblemen, and Austrian
nobles would fain have wooed and won the
beautiful daughter of the rich English noble-
man; but she smiled upon none. She accepted
their homage in a queenly, graceful way, that
was infinitely charming, and full of piquancy.
None of them had power to move her. Lord
Lisle laughed at her numerous conquests; Philip
rallied her; Mrs. Marche was proud of her pu-
pil; but Rita cared little. er ambition was
gratified ; men hung upon her words; they
would have risked much for her smiles; she
could rule brave and noble hearts, touch them
She was
courted, admired, and flattered; homage and
adulation followed her; but the time came when
Rita would have yielded this sovereignty of
youth and beauty for one smile from Philip.

The Countess Guardi sent out invitations for
a ball. ‘It was to be,” she said, ‘‘ a faint imi-
tation of fairyland.” No one was asked who
had not some special claim to public favor—
pretty girls, eligible men, but no ‘‘ bores.” The
number of guests invited was small. The rooms
were splendidly decorated with flowers ; the
long conservatories were lighted up; lamps
gleamed like stars amidst the green foliage and
rich blossoms; pretty fountains rippled music-
ally out in the pleasure grounds, that ran down
to the shore; the lights shone amidst the trees,

 

 
ree

>

a

LORD LISLE'S DAUGHTER.

13

 

 

 

Every one talked of the recherche entertain-
ment given by the fair Countess.

Lord Lisle wished his daughter to look her
best on this evening; he thought it impossible
that Philip could help loving her. He wished
his nephew to see her in the full blaze of her
regal Le bite queen of the ball, admired
and sought by all.

The same idea came to Rita herself. She
spared no pains over her toilette, and its result
was perfection. Mrs. Marche, whose taste was
far more than good, chose the style of dress.

A rich, sweeping, flowing robe of rose-colored
satin, shaded with costly white lace, that fell
like a white, soft cloud. Costly diamonds were
clasped round the white throat, and on the fair
rounded arms. Diamonds glistened in the coils of
black hair that crowned the queenly head, and a
beautiful blush rose nestled against her bosom.

When Rita entered the room where Lord
Lisle and Philip awaited her, they both started
with admiration. Lord Lisle kissed the beauti-
ful face with proud, tender affection; Philip
said, gayly, ‘“‘ Ah, Miss Lisle, our little Countess
will be eclipsed this evening. Old England will
show her supremacy. I place myself in the
ranks of the red rose.”

Rita was charmed by the fairy-like scene;
the soft, sweet music seemed to thrill the air;
rare perfumes came from rose-flowers; the lit-
tle fountains rippled musically,

‘¢There are pleasant scenes in this world,” she

 

haunted that night by the recollection of Queen’s
Lynne. In every pause of the soft, sweet music
she heard the sea beating in, and breaking upon
the shore. She heard Ralph Ashton crying out
that he loved, her, and could not live without
her. It was like a dream, that she should be
queen of that brilliant room; that men of noble
birth and as estate should sue so humbly for
one smile. et it was all true, and she had
done all this for herself.

“‘Tt has prospered,” she thought to herself,
‘after ail! It is not true to say that evil never
succeeds—evil has been my good!”

It was later on in the evening when Philip
sought Rita’s side. “

‘Can you find time for one dance with me?”
he asked, gently. ‘‘ You are surrounded by so
many courtiers, I have little chance, I fear.”

He was somewhat startled “by the expression
of her eyes, as she raised them to his face; for
once, her secret shone there—passion and tender-
ness lingered in their dark depths. In her heart,
she was wondering that he did not know how
utterly indifferent she was to every one but him-

self.
Her only reply was rising, and placing her
hand on his arm. Rita wasa good dancer—

graceful and easy, every movement full of har-
mony and the very poetry of motion.

The music arte sweetly and eee She
never forgot the happiness of that time. Philip’s
face smiling down into hers; Philip’s arm, with

 

rich white dress was looped up with white lilies;
her fair hair beautifully arranged; white lilies
drooped from it; the same delicate flowers nest-
led in her bodice.

“JT am interrupting a pretty scene,” she said.
‘You English people understand the sentimen-
tal, after all. . Lisle, I am looking for you.
The Princess Dorieti wishes for an introduction.
Sea yourself to be all that is fascinating.”

Philip did not respond with his usual alacrity ;
and a ees look—half-smile, half-frown—came
over the lady’s face.

“T see,” she said.
here.”

“Yes,” said Philip. ‘If I consulted inclina-
tion only, I would rather remain here; but your
wish, Madame La Comtesse, is my law.”

“T shall be glad to_rest here fora few min-
utes,” said Rita. ‘Do not mind leaving me
alone.”

They went away together. She wished to be
alone, to dream over the happiness that she be-
lieved was coming to her—to dream over the
words and looks that made her music and sun-
shine. Not there—where, at any moment, a ga:
crowd might surround her. Rita went throne!
the long conservatory, out into the pleasant,
moonlit garden, where the lilies and roses per-
fumed the night air. She sat down on one of
the pretty seats placed near the fountain. The
night was solemn and still; pale stars gleamed
in the darkling sky; the moonbeams gave a sil-

“You would rather remain

 

 

 

said, turning to Philip. ‘‘ There are two sides to
life; this is the bright one—the other—”

“The other you shall never see,” he interrupt-
ed. ‘Ah, ma belle cousine, moralizing in a ball-
room—how thoroughly English!” Y

‘“‘ Thoughts fly swiftly,” she replied; ‘‘ the rip-
ple of that water took me back for one moment
to Queen’s Lynne. I was on the sea-shore.”

“Forget that miserable time,” said Philip,
warmly. ‘We all try our best to make you
forget it, Rita, do we not?”

tle had never called her Rita before, and a
warm flush covered her face. The rose in her
wen trembled with the quick beating of her

eart. '
_ Before she had time to reply, the Countess
joined them. Farr J

“T am so glad you have come,” she said, in
her pretty broken English; “‘my rooms seem
dark without you.”

She spoke to Rita, and looked at Philip. He,
perfectly accustomed to the lady’s arrangements
of look and speech, was much amused.

In a few minutes, Miss Lisle was the center of
a group of admirers. Then she showed to advan-
tage; bright, witty words, clever sayings, grace-
ful actions and movements charmed her cour-
tiers. Prince Dalgarin prayed for .the first
waltz. She had hoped z lip would care for
that, but he was still talking to their fair hostess.

Count d’Arni, one of the proudest men in Naples,
sued humbly for the second.

Tt seemed like a dream.

She was strongly

 

 

A LAST EMBRACE.—Page 1.

its strong, light clasp, around her; Philip’s voice
whispering kind words; it was one halt-hour of
pornect happiness. She saw admiring eyes fol-
ow her; she heard murmurs of admiration
from those who watched her; but she was in-
different to all and everything, save Philip.

The last notes of the waltz died away, and
Philip, turning to her, said: ‘‘You must be
tired.” He stopped weet ete as his glance fell
upon her bright face. e saw the light in her
dark eyes; he saw the blush-rose in her bosom;
its fragrance came to him like a faint, sweet
whisper. Her beauty had never struck Philip
so forcibly before.

“You should be tired,” he resumed; ‘‘ but I
see no trace of fatigue.”

“And I feel none,” she replied with a smile.
She carried in her hand a bouquet of white roses
and lilies. Philip bent over them.

‘Give me one of those flowers, belle cousine,” he
said, ‘‘in memory of a dance I shall never forget.”

He meant nothing more thana pretty, flatter-
ing compliment; but the words thrilled the girl’s
heart. She took a delicate rosebud, half-
shrouded in green leaves, from her fragrant bou-

uet.

“You will leave it somewhere, to fade and
die,” she said.

SC INELYs" sepled Philip, gallantly: ‘‘it shall
live near my heart.”

A shadow startled them. Looking up, Rita
saw the Countess by her side. The pretty co-
quette was looking her best that evening. Her

 

 

ver radiance to water and trees; the flowers
were sleeping; only the roses seemed to be
awake, and greeting her with perfume. Far off,
like the sweet, faint echo of a dream, she heard.
the rise and fall of the music. She was alone—
alone with the beauty of the summer night, and
her own love.

‘He was beginning to love her,” she thought.
“He had called her Rita—he had lingered by
her side—he had asked for the flower. e
would love her in time; the earth had no pleas-
ure, no happiness for her, save in his love. She
had believed ambition, pride, and love of
admiration to be the master passions of her life.
This love was even stronger.. She would rather
—ah, ten thousand times rather!—be poor with
Philip, than share the throne of a king.

“T love him,” she murmured—“ who never
knew what love meant—who never cared for it.
I love him—and he must love me in return!”

Nothing like pity crossed her mind for the
man who had cared so much for her—who had
left her, believing that she would be true to him,
and wait for him.

When the thought of Ralph Ashton came, it
was with a sense of loathing and contempt—a
wonder that she could ever have endured the
sound of his voice, or the touch of his hands.

Out among the lilies and roses, she dreamed
of the love she hoped to win—of the bright
future—of the title, the honors, the grandeur
that awaited her. The solemn stars, the
sleeping flowers, the whispering night wind,

 
 

44

 

 

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

brought no bright or holy thoughts; they
brought no remorse, no pity, no compunction;
and she smiled brightly, thinking that her
8 ee had prospered, and would bear good
ruit.

CHAPTER XV.
A DANGER TO BE MET.
“PurLip,” said Lord Lisle to his nephew, a few

days after the ball, “‘have you ever thought of

marrying?”

Mr. Lisle laughed.

‘“‘ As a remote possibility, uncle,” he replied.
“Tf you ask the question seriously, I answer
seriousl y. I have never thought earnestly of

“Yet you are old enough now,” said Lord
ree “‘and you know many nice girls. How
is it?

“T have not ‘met my fate,’” said Philip. ‘I
Tknow clever girls—beautiful girls; but F neve
not met the girl I should like to marry.”

Lord Lisle felt something like a sharp pang of
‘sorrow at these very honest words,

“You may be mistaken,” he said.

“No,” interrupted Philip. ‘‘ Like all other
“young men, uncle, I have my ideal wife. Ido
not care so much for beauty; but she must be
dair, and sweet, and gracious, true and modest,
srefined and sensitive—a kind of violet.”

‘There are many such,” said Lord Lisle.

“‘T believe it,” was the laughing reply; ‘‘ but
Ihave not yet met that particular violet I am
cdestined to win and wear.”

“How can you know that?’ asked the uncle.

‘“‘ Because,” he replied, ‘‘ I am a great believ-
er in first love. Some day I shall meet a youn
girl, and I shall say to myself the first time
see her, ‘T must win her for my own.’ Iam no

believer in love founded upon intimate acquain-
‘tance and constant association.”

Lord Lisle sighed deeply; but he said no
more. There was no hope, then, for his darlin,

child. Ah, if Philip could but know, could bu
understand the treasure he had won!

Afew days afterward, one of Philip’s old
college friends, Lord Carlow, came over to Na-
ples. He was going on a yachting expedition,

and pressed Philip to join him, They should re-
turn, he said, in a month or six weeks.

Philip looked anxiously at Lord Lisle when
the invitation was given.

** Tt will be asad interruption to all our gaye-
ties,” he said. ‘‘ Madame la Comtesse will lose
her right hand. Still, if Philip would like it, by
all means let him go.”

And Philip went. Rita lost no hope. He
would return, she thought, tired of the sea, tired
of being always with gentlemen, and then she
might charm him more easily.

seemed a strange coincidence that on the
very day he left, a letter came from Daisy, say-
ing that, in accordance with Lord Lisle’s wish,
she should be with them on Tuesday.

Lord Lisle was unfeignedly pleased.

“She will find you much changed, Rita,” he
said. ‘‘What will she think of you? Poor lit-
tle Daisy! we must all be very kind to her; she
is quite alone in the world.” ,

“ When is she coming?” asked Rita, in a low
voice.

He thought she was agitated at the thought
«of seeing her sister.

“On Tuesday,” he replied; ‘‘and, Rita, darl-

I shall leave the arrangements of her room

you. Remember, that even as her mother
took you, a poor, friendless child, to her heart.
and shared all she had with you, so we must
make her one of ourselves. She is to be treated
in every way as your sister. I shall have two
daughters instead of one. You know her; see
that every taste and wish is consulted. You
will be very happy, my darling, now.”

“Yes, very happy,” she murmured; ‘‘and I
will see to everything for Daisy.”

Yet if for one moment she could have had her
will, she would have smitten the gentle girl
dead. Inher dream, in her all-absorbing love,

she had forgotten her; forgotten the ger
that might come with her, forgotten almost the
evil deed and treachery that had given her
ie lace. It came home toher now like a

blow; yet she was powerless to avert it.
In vain she watched the long night through,
pate to think of some plan or expedient which
should keep Daisy away. But noneof them did
she dare to put into practice, lest they should
excite suspicion. She remembered the puzzled
look on Lord Lisle’s face when she had dissent-
ed before. She dare not offer any more objec-
tions; suspicion and mistrust would surely fol-
dow them. ;

“T must meet it boldly,” she said to herself.
**T have played for a grand stake; it is worth
some risk, some brave: If I meet the danger
boldly, I shall conquer in the end.”

She busied herself in superintending the pre-
oe for Daisy. She placed flowers and

ks inher room. She told Lord Lisle how
fond her sister was of music; how sweetly she
sung. A ma ent piano was purchased for

ther. Had she been the pa and heiress
«oming home, there could not have been more
‘preparation.

Rita spoke of her continually. She told the

 

with her.
Madame’s first question was, ‘‘Is she pretty?”
When Rita answered that she was very tair
and sweet, here hair, the color of Bea-
trice Cenci’s, madame answered, ‘‘ Ah, a blonde!
Then I shall dislike her. The only blonde in the
world I admire or like is myself.’

Countess her foster-sister was coming to live | —turn the subject adroitly. It does him infinite

harm. Will you try and remember?”
“Yes,” said Daisy; ‘‘I will not forget it.
But just own to me, Rita, now that we are

| alone—is it not strange that our lives should
| have changed so entirely?”

“Tt is vei

strange,” she replied; ‘‘and now,
Daisy, I will leave you to dress,

I will sen

Which very characteristic speech being re- | my maid; to-morrow you will have one of your

peated to Lord Lisle by Rita, caused him great
amusement,

It was late on Tuesday afternoon when Daisy

reached the villa. Lord Lisle, with the delicate | sister.

| own.”

Under any other circumstances, Rita would
have been very proud of her dainty, delicate
She looked like a sweet, fragile flower.

tact that distinguished him, thought it would | She had chosen a dress of rich white crepe; the

be better for the two young girls to meet alone. |

Rita nerved herself for the effort. Brave and

courageous as she was, when the carriage drove |
up to the door, her heart beat so that she could |

hardly see or hear. Some few minutes after-
ward, Daisy entered the room, and Rita’s eyes
were drawn to her with a look that was half
dread, half fear.

Daisy—a tall, elegant girl, with a sweet, pure
face and tender eyes; Daisy, grown and alter-
ed, yet with the same smile, the same spiritual
expression, the same clear, musical voice, and
the face so fatally like the pictured face of
Dame Sybella Lisle.

There was no suspicion in Daisy’s heart. She
clasped her arms round Rita’s neck, her eyes
wet with happy tears.

“Rita, my darling,” she cried, ‘‘I am so glad
and happy to come to you. Howkind and good
Lord Lisleis! I shall never be able to thank bint
I cannot possibly believe that I am to live in
this beautiful home, and call it mine.”

“Tt is to be so,” said Rita. ‘‘ We are to be
sisters here, Da just as we were at Queen’s

to)

Lynne. We are both to be Lord Lisle’s daugh-
ters.’

Daisy clasped her little white hands ina trans-
port of gratitude.

“Tt is like a fairy tale,” she cried. ‘‘ Ah,
Rita, what would my mother say if she knew
all this?”

The beautiful face into which she gazed grew |

suddenly pale.

“Daisy,” said Rita, ‘‘you startle me with
your raptures, and my head aches to-day.”

““You_have altered, Rita,” said the young

irl, ‘“‘You are beautiful as a aes sister

ear! Ah, it gladdens my heart to see you
here! Jewels and rich dresses suit you well; you
are like a rare gem in a wonderful setting! Is
not Lord Lisle very proud of you?”

They talked long. Daisy had much to tell—
of the kindness she had met with from her
friends; how deeply they deplored her leaving
them; of her unbounded happiness at the
aoa of living with Rita in this beautiful

ome.

Rita said less. She spoke of the ie they
had spent in Paris; of her lessons; of her mas-
ters; of Mrs. Marche: of Lord Lisle; but she
never even named Philip, or spoke of herself.

“You must be very apy,” said Daisy, at
length; ‘‘but the Renee hing of all is to have
found some one to love you. I would give all
this a hundred times over to have my dear
mother back ee

Once more the beautiful face grew strangely

pale.

“ Daisy,” said Rita, ‘‘ you will make me quite
esate if you talk continually about dead

‘ople.

““T will not do that,” said Daisy, gently; but
5 Ra hp is never long out of my thoughts.

ou had many friends; I had but her.”

“T will take you to your rooms,” said Rita;
‘you must like them, Da: You have a suite
like mine, and I furnished them as I thought
you would like best. We will go now, and
when you have changed your traveling dress,
I will take you to Mrs. Marche.”

The two young girls went together through
the long galleries leading to the suite of rooms
Lord Lisle had chosen for Daisy. :

They were beautiful apartments, furnished
with taste and elegance. e boudoir contained
a few rare pictures and statues, and a magnifi-
cent piano; splendidly bound books lay in pro-
fusion about the table.

“T remembered your tastes, Daisy,” said
Rita—‘‘books and music, This piano is a gift
from Lord Lisle.”

eee the keys lightly.

‘What happy hours are in store for me!”
she said. en they stood in the pretty
chamber, a cry of delighted eR came from
her lips. It was so white, so light, so elegant—
the toilette-table, with its costly ornaments, the
1 mirrors, the white lace draperies.

“Rita,” said Daisy, ‘“‘I am afraid I shall
wake up, and find this all a dream. Who
would have ast four years ago, that we
should exchange the little cottage at Queen’s
Lynne for a home like this?”

en Rita closed the door quietly, and stood
before her sister, ;

“Daisy,” she said, gently, “pardon me if I

venture to say something to you. to for-
get Queen’s Lynne. Do not get into the habit
of speaking Ahead it. Lord Lisle has suffered

so much during the past, that any allusion to it
pains him. Take my advice, dear sister; even
when he wishes to talk about it, do not let him

 

golden hair rippled over her neck and shoulders
in sunny waves. She had no jewels. One
white rose lay in the brigh hair, and another
was placed in the bodice of her dress.

Mrs. Marche looked up in surprise as the
beautiful vision came into the room.

She welcomed Daisy warmly; but there was
a puzzled look upon her face as she did so.
Hours afterward, while Daisy sung in the
evenin, gloaming, Mrs. Marche went up to Rita,
‘“‘ My dear Rita,” she said, “‘there is nothing I
dislike more than curiosity. Pray pardon me,
if I ask, was not your foster-mother—this
young lady’s mother—a very superior woman?”

“Yes,” said Rita. ‘‘ Why do you ask?”

‘Because I never saw any one so innately re-
fined as your sister. She has every mark of
ee breeding, and, what is more, of good

ste. Look at those little white hands; they
are like a rose-leaf! Look at the delicate little
ears—the beautifully arched neck! If I had
not known, I should have believed her to be
‘descended from a hundred earls!”

With a sore, envious heart, Rita owned the
truth of all that Mrs. Marche said. In mere

oint of beauty and coloring, she was superior
0 Daisy; but she had not the spiritual face—
the refined, patrician mantenethe indescriba-
ble something that has no name, yet distin-
guishes a true lady, and is seen in one glance.

It was almost dinner-time when the young
girl received a message to say that Lord Lisle
awaited them in the drawing-room.

“Now,” thought Rita—‘‘ Now comes the real
danger. If I escape during the next hour, I
have nothing to fear.”

There was no trace of emotion on her face as
she took Daisy’s hand, saying, ‘‘I will take you.
Remember, we are both to’ be Lord Lisle’s
children!”

i a entered the-room, holding her sister’s
and.

“Papa,” she said, gazing at him the while,
“here is my sister—your other child, as you

call her.”

There came no sign of recognition into his
face—only a kindly smile of welcome. The
tender eyes were raised to his. Lord Lisle
never understood how it was, but in one moment
the golden head lay upon his breast, and the
sweet, fair face was wet with tears.

es My other child!” he said. ‘‘My dear Daisy,
welcome home!”

CHAPTER XVI.
NATURE’S VOICE.

Lorp Lis~x could not understand how or
why this young = made her way so quickly
into his heart. She had not the regal beauty of
his child. She seemed all soul. Ber fair, spir-
itual face charmed him inexpressibly. Her
voice had a strange power over him; ie struck
him like a sound of long-forgotten music.
There was something about her that seemed
strangely familiar.

“Tf must be from Rita’s description that I
know you so well, Daisy,” he said, one day. “I
feel as though we were renewing an old ac-
quaintance, instead of forming a new one.”

- She won upon him strangely. It was perfect

rest to be with her; little failings, little fits of
impatience or irritability, seemed to die out,
ashamed in her presence. She had a calm
brave soul, The breath of worldliness had
never ruffled it; passion or pride had never
marred its ity.

Lord Lisle liked to be with her; he liked to
watch the fair features bent over books and pic-
tures. He enjoyed talking to her; her noble
thoughts and e. Sa words filled him with
wonder and et .

Rita saw all this, but it did not pain her.
There was no danger in it. Lord Lisle was per-
fectly welcome to love Daisy, provided no sus-

icion of the truth ever entered his mind; and
it never did. : ‘

In every respect the two girls were on a per-
fect equality. Privately, Rita managed to ex-
ercise a little authority over her sister; and
Daisy yielded with sweet, smiling grace. She
was too eet for any small troubles to anno.
her. She had never known a thought that life
could be so pleasant or so bright. She loved
Lord Lisle, gd more than she had ever
loved any one else. No mean thought of
sealodsy or envy ever came to her. All the
uxury and grandeur that surrounded her be-
longed to Rita and Rita’s father; she was grate-
ful for her own share in it, and envied no other.

She thought often of the great contrast be-
tween her past life and the present. She never
forgot the kindly, homely mother, who had

 
wae

 

LORD. LISLE’S. DAUGHTER.

15

 

striven to do her best. At first, she avoided all
mention of Queen’s Lynne, and the faithful, hon-
est woman she believed to have been her mother.

But as time wore on, and Lord Lisle began to
find his greatest pleasure in sitting with Daisy,
he himself was the first to mention familiar
names.

“You talk to me of Italy,” he said, one day
to Daisy, ‘“‘but never of England. Tell me
something of Queen’s Lynne, and your mother.
Why do you avoid all mention of them?”

ee Laide ht it pained you,” she replied, gently.

“Why should it?” said Lord Lisle, with some

wonder. ‘‘I hope some day to see the place
where my daughter spent so many peaceful
years. I hope to see the grave of the generous

‘woman who was a second mother to her.”

‘Rita must have been over-sensitive,” thought
Daisy; and the subject passed from her mind.

Daisy cared little for the pretty, coquettish
Countess; Rita spent whole days together with
her. She had no longer the least fear; she
laughed at the foolish doubts that had disturbed
her before Daisy came. Her secret was safe;
ere knew it but the dead, and they tell no

ales.

Daisy and Lord Lisle were thrown much to-
gether. Philosophers may say what they will,
but there is a strong and mysterious attraction
between father and child. Nature speaks in a
voice that can not be mistaken. Even to him-

 

self Lord Lisle never owned it, never even

studio, arid Rita resigned herself to what she
considered a dull morning.

“T hope you will be pleased with the picture,”
said Signor Cardi to Lord Lisle. ‘‘Of course a
copy does not allow of much inspiration; but I
have done my best.”

Daisy wondered at the emotion in Lord Lisle’s
face, as the artist took the covering from a large
picture, and held it up before them.

Lord Lisle uttered no word. He gazed for
some minutes in deep silence. His dead wife’s
sweet countenance shone out from the canvas
living and breathing. The artist had succeeded
well; the eyes were full of tender, vivid intelli-
gence; the lips half parted with a smile. ‘

“Tt is her very self,” he said at length. Turn-
ing to Rita, he continued: ‘‘ Margaret, come
here, dear child; look well on this face; it shines

now among the angels. This is your mother—
my beloved wife.”
he came forward, and looked with curious

eyes at the picture. For once, her self-posses-
sion abandoned her; she knew not what to say
—false words seemed out of place just then.

‘‘T suppose you have no remembrance of her,”
said Lord Lisle, wistfully.

‘‘ No,” said the clear, cold voice—‘“‘ none what-
ever. I was too young when she left me to re-
member her face.”

Lord Lisle turned to say something to Daisy,
and was startled by her appearance. She was
gazing at the picture, her hands tightly clasped.

 

Would those pictured lips denounce her, and
make known her hiddencrime?” These thoughts
rushed like avenging furies through Rita’s mind.

She was slightly reassured by Lord Lisle’s
calm, unsuspicious look. At length she said,
“Why, Daisy, this is an old fashion of yours,
thinking about dreams. You have startled me
in that way before.”

The words were skillfully chosen. Lord Lisle’s
face cleared.

“You have a highl
Daisy,” he said, gravely.
dulge in such fancies.”

The danger was over, and Rita breathed
again. But Daisy could not so easily forget the
impression made upon her mind. The picture
came home, and was hung in the grand salon.
She spent many hours before it, wondering why
that face had seemed to haunt her—wonderin;
what was the secret trembling on the lips, an
shading the clear eyes.

Pui wrote, at length, to announce his com-
ing. Rita heard the tidings, and prepared her-
self for a final struggle. She resolved to win
him, come what night.

There was nothing Lord Lisle enjoyed so much
as hearing Daisy sing, in the beautiful Italian
gloaming. When the world was all fair and
tranquil, the water rippling in the bay, and the
flowers sleeping in the sun, she would sing to
him for hours together. He never forgot these
tranquil, pleasant hours. Through the long

nervous temperament,
“You must not in- —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

knew it; but it was certain, of the two girls, he
loved Daisy best. / i

There were tones in her voice that thrilled
the very depths of his heart. She had some
little actions and gestures so like those of his
dead wife, that they gave him a strange pang;
yet he never connected the two, never realized
the resemblance in voice or gesture. Strange
to say, he never even observed the likeness be-
tween Daisy and the beautiful picture of Lady
Sybella Lisle.

One morning, as they sat at breakfast, Lord
Lisle said, ‘‘ Rita, I have made an engagement
for you this morning, and Daisy will accompany

“Ts it anything nice, papa?” asked Rita. ‘I
half promised Madame Guardi I would drive
out with her.”

“‘She will release you this once,” said Lord
Lisle; and Rita never thought of cuporing his
will, although an engagement with her father
and sister had no great charm for her.

“« Shall we drive or walk?” she inquired again.

“We will walk,” said Lord Lisle. “I am
going to Signor Cardi’s studio; he has been
painting a picture for me, and I should like you
to see it. 1 thought of asking him to paint an-
other—Daisy and yourself to ether.”

“We might quarrel,” said Rita, with a smile,
‘tif we were always in one frame.”

Signor Cardi was delighted to see the two
beautiful English girls of whom every one was
talking. There were no other visitors at the

 

AT THE ARTIST’S STUDIO.—Page 15.

Her face had grown white, even to the lips; and
an expression of hope, fear, and bewilderment
was in her wondering eyes.

‘““ What is it, Daisy?” asked Lord Lisle, feel-

ingly.

f t do not know,” she replied, confusedly;
‘but it seems to me I have seen that face some-
time; and surely those eyes have smiled at me!”
. “You have seen one whose features resemble
these?” said Lord Lisle, sony

“No, that is not it,” said Daisy, persistently,
yet with the same appearance of struggling to
regain some lost memory. ‘‘ Ah, now I recol-
lect! Years ago, I used to dream of a lady with
soe such eyes and lips, who came to me in my
sleep.

Rita listened in silent terror. She tried to
speak, but the words died away in a harsh mur-
mur.

if oe young lady is imaginative,” said the

ist.

‘““No,” said Daisy, in a tone of quiet convic-
tion. ‘‘ Years ago, I often saw that face. Do
not laugh at me, Lord Lisle; but it seems to me
now those eyes are looking at me, and the lips
going to speak.”

Lord Lisle was startled.

“You are nervous, Daisy,” he said, gently.
“The warm sun has tired you. Come away
from the picture. You will laugh at these ideas
to-morrow.”

“Did the dead ever speak? Her secret was

 

known to none living—could the dead reveal it?

 

 

vine-clad windows, the soft summer breeze cama
in mild and warm. The birds sung, and the
flowers bloomed. The pure rich voice found its
way to the very depth of his heart. She sung
simple love-songs—where truth and honor al-
ways prevailed over everything else—and old-
fashioned English ballads. Daisy’s singing was
like herself, as free from affectation, and as sim-
ply pure. :

One evening, Rita had gone with the Countess
Guardi to a ball at the Dalgaine Palace. Lond
Lisle had declined the invitation; Daisy did not
— for it; and Mrs. Marche remained with
them.

‘**-You must give me a treat, Daisy, this even-
ing,” said Lord Lisle; ‘‘ sing some of my favorite

ongs.”

When dinner was over, and Rita, magnifi-
cently dressed, had driven away, she sat down
to the piano. She knew exactly what Lord
Lisle liked. They were in the d saloon
where the picture hung. As Lord Lisle listened
to the sweet, tender music, and looked upon his
wife’s face, it seemed that words and song both
came from her. i

He was so deeply lost in thought, Daisy so
wrapped up in her own music, that neither of
them heard the door open, or saw Philip Lisle
enter the room.

He stood silently looking on the pretty scene
so suggestive of home-comfort me happiness.
His eyes lingered on the sweet face of the young

 

girl, so spiritual, so tender, and fair; the eveu-
 

 

 

  

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

ing sunbeams seemed to kiss her golden hair.
The clear, rich voice filled the room with music
sweeter than any he had ever heard.

‘“T must. have tired you, Lord Lisle,” she said
at last, rising, and crossing the room.

“No,” he said; ‘‘I should. never tire of that
unusic, Daisy. I haye a strange feeling upon
me to-night; something tells me I shall soon see
that dear face again.”

“Who is nervous now?” asked the young girl,

{ with a smile. ‘

“Not I,” he replied. _‘‘ While you were sing-
ing the ‘ Land o’ the Leal,’ a solemn kind of rest
came over me. I shall see her soon, Daisy; my
heart tells me so. _My life has not been a ver
chappy one. I shall understand its sorrows be
ter when Lhave seen her again.”

Before Daisy had time to reply, some one
cam? up to Lord Lisle’s chair—a strong, kindly
hhand grasped his.

“Why, uncle,” said a cheery, genial voice, ‘‘I
mever heard you speak so mati before. I
came in five minutes ago; but the music bound
me with a magical spell.

Lord Lisle started up, and greeted his nephew
"warmly.

“T am glad you have returned, Philip,” he
ssaid. ‘‘ Now let me introduce you to my other
daughter, Daisy—Rita’s foster-sister.”

-He bowed respectfully, and she dropped her

ashy eyes as he looked admiringly at her.
__ Almost before she had raised them again,
Philip Lisle had said to himself, that was the
sy he would win for his wife, if it were possi-
‘ble to do so. This was his ideal—the face, the
figure, the voice, he had imagined, and hoped
‘sometime to meet.

“Rita is away,” said Lord Lisle. ‘‘She has
Be with your old friend, Madame Guardi, to a

all. Would you like to join them, Philip, or
wemain with us?”

“Can you seriously ask such a question?”

said Philip. ‘I ask nothing better in life than
to stay here. I have many adventures to tell
ou, uncle. I have been among ‘strange

aslands in glittering seas; do not send me into
exile on the very night of my return,”

Lord Lisle sighed. He wished Philip had
shown more anxiety to be with Rita—Rita, who
had wept so passionately over the love she bore

 

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DEATH-BED PROMISE,

Tue sight that greeted Rita on her return
from the ball was not a pee one. Philip
sat between Daisy and Lord Lisle; they all
three looked very happy. and were laughing
heartily at some of Lor Carew’s adventures,

She weighed every word of Philip’s greeting
to herself; it was kind, even affectionate, but
there was not what she longed to hear,

“TJ do not find Lord Lisle looking very well,”
‘said Philip to his cousin on the day following
his arrival. ‘‘ He seems weak and ill; have you
noticed any change in him?”

“No,” she replied; ‘‘ perhaps the climate does
mot suit him.”

Philip shook his head gravely. ‘‘I fear it is
‘something more serious than that,” he said.
“‘T eannot forget some words I overheard him
saying to your foster-sister last evening. I do
not like the worn expression of his face. The
troubles of his early life made him old before
his time.”

“He is happy now,” she said.

“Yes, he is happy,” said er ‘The one
aim of his life is accomplished; he has found
the child whose loss nearly killed him. Perhaps
this may be the reaction, after too great amen-
tal strain.”

But Lord Lisle did not recover either health
or strength, and Rita was the first to propose
their return home.

- The suggestion was soon acted upon; and by

easy stages they were all once more happily

ered within the cheerful rooms of Lisle
ourt. ;

The ailing master was pleased to be once
amore at home—pleased to see his mother’s gen-
tle face; but it was’ evident to all who knew
and loved him that Lord Lisle had not long to
live. The knowledge of this brought a keen,
sharp pang to Daisy’s heart; to Rita it gave a
‘sense of relief that she could hardly define.

For many long weeks after their return they
watched him fade slowly and» surely...There
«came to him no violence of pain; life and
strength ebbed gently away. The most learned
j ae in England stood by his bedside, and
aid battle with grim King Death. But he was
“not to be baffled; he had marked his. prey.
‘Dering those long, sad autumn weeks two
events happened. Philip Lisle-fell deeply in
Jove with Daisy; and Rita found that, without

him, life, and all it held, was empty and dreary.

Has nature no voice?—no keen, unerring in-

stinct? What was it drew Daisy, hour after
thour, to that sick-bed? Lord Lisle took all his
medicine and all his food from her, Rita look-
ing on with calm indifference. She was his ac-
Jknowledged daughter and heiress. All matters
wof love and sentiment were of no consideration.
Daisy stole gently into his room, and watched

 

while he slept. Daisy sought the rarest fruit,
repared the richest cordials. As his strength
eclined, and the long night hours brought but
little rest, she sung, in that low, clear voice, the
songs he loved, and hushed him to rest.
hen death came very near, it was Daisy
who knelt by his side, and said the prayers her
mother taught her; it was she who read sweet,
solemn words, full of rest, peace and hope.

And then, in her heart, Lord Lisle’s mother
would wish this fair, gentle girl were her son’s
child, instead of the prgua: haughty beauty,
who looked on so calm y while he suffered.

Death was drawing nearer. One night, Dais
watching by Lord Lisle’s side, read to him until
his eyes closed, and he fell asleep. She dreaded
awakening him. The gray autumn evenin,
closed in; the fire-light blazed fitfully through
strange shadows on the walls; the lamp stood
upon a table near, but she would not move, lest
the sound should wake the sick man, -

He slept calmly for a short time, then a moan-
ing ery came from his lips. She bent over,
whispering some gentle words, laying her hands
upon the damp brow. She was startled to find
his eyes wide open, and fixed upon her face.

“Margaret,” he said, ‘‘are you come to me
at last? My darling wife, I have pined and died
for you!”

“You are dreaming,” said Daisy, gently.
“Do ton not know me?—I am Daisy Rivers.”

A gleam of recognition at once came into his
e

yes,

‘“Who was it whispered to me?” he asked.
‘“Tt was not you; it was Margaret—my wife. I
knew her voice; it was just the same tone in
which she bade me farewell. Ah, Daisy, you
did not see her, but she has been to me.”

Nor could she convince him to the contrary.
Believing it to be the delusion of a dying man,
she did not contradict him. :

“She has been to me,” he said, ‘‘and I heard
her voice. Before the sun sets to-morrow I shall
have joined her. Daisy, call my mother; and
tell Philip I want to see him now, at once!”

Daisy was alarmed at the gray pallor that
fell over his face.

In a few minutes Mrs. Wyverne was by his
side, and Philip soon joined her.

3 Mother,” he said, ‘‘my wife has been to
summon me. Do not leave me again yet. I
want to see Philip quite alone. Come back after
that, and bring Rita with you.”

They were left together—the prematurely
old man, whose life was rapidly closing, and his
young heir, whose future lay all before him.

Philip knelt by his uncle’s side. The bright,
dying eyes were fixed intently upon his face.

“ Philip,” said Lord Lisle, ‘‘you are my heir,
and I have loved you dearly, as though you
have been my own son. You care much for
me, I believe. Living, I have been kind and in-
dulgent to you; dying, I ask from you a favor.
Grant it, and my blessing will follow you
through life. Refuse it, and I shall die un-

eRe
“My dear uncle,” cried Philip, ‘‘I would do
anything for you.’

“Remember your words,” he continued, with
a faint smile. ‘I shall put them to the proof.
Task you to do what some men would be proud,
beyond all words, to do. Philip, when I am
dead and buried—when the time for mourning
is past and gone, will you promise me to marry
my darling Rita?”

n the hushed silence of that room, the words
fell clear and distinct; they smote Philip Lisle
like the blow of a sharp sword. How could he
marry Rita, when he loved Daisy with all his
heart?

“She is very beautiful,” continued Lord
Lisle, wistfully, ‘‘and very clever. She will
be my heiress. What more can you want,

Philip?’
What more? The words sounded like bitter
sarcasm. Trying to recover himself, Philip

said, ‘‘But, my dear uncle, it is quite possible,
you know, that Rita may never be willing. She
may care for some one else.”

“Ah, no!” said Lord Lisle; ‘‘bend lower,
ety a me whisper Se ed you. a cpP
see things more clearly when they come to die.
Philip, my daughter loves you. I know it. One
day I found it out. She wept bitterly when
you seemed indifferent to her. In her passion of
grief, she cried out that she loved you better
than her life.”

“Is it. possible?” cried Philip Lisle, in aston-
ishment.

“Tt is true,” replied Lord Lisle. ‘‘I tell you
her secret. You are a Lisle, and a gentleman;
it is safe with you. I know how those of my
race love; how fatally and how well. Lying
here on my death-bed, my daughter’s secret
troubles me. She has not been very happ ,

or child! Oh, Philip, make it up to her!

‘omise to love and care for her! Promise to
make her your dear, honored wife!”

But Philip had no words. “With those plead-
ing, dying eyes fixed so wistfully upon him, he
could sooner have plunged a sword in his own
heart than have said ‘‘no.” Still he did not
love her, and never could.

‘For her dead mother’s sake!” pleaded the
faint voice. ‘‘ Let me be able to say when I
meet her, that our child is happy.”

 

Still no answer came from Philip. There was
a. fierce struggle in. his heart, a mighty tumult
that bereft him of all words.

Suddenly, upon his hands, he felt warm tears
fall, and the pale lips quivered like the lips of a
grieving child.

‘“My only child, Philip!’ said Lord Lisle;
ef a, only one!”

Old and sorrowful, weeping and d ing, Philip
could not withstand it. ae Lord vi e asked
for his life then, he would have given it more
cheerfully by far than he gave the promise that
wrecked the happiness of his life.

‘Hush, my dear unele,” he said; ‘‘it shall be
as re wish. I promise to make Rita my wife.”

look of relief and pleasure passed over the
dying face.

‘‘God bless you, my dear boy!” he said. ‘I
shall die happy now! I leave my darling in
good hands. You will be kind to Daisy,” he
continued; ‘‘let her live here with my mother
until she marries.” ' 5

_ ‘¢T will be kind to Daisy,” said Philip, hoarse-
ly. He had not the courage to refuse his uncle’s
last wishes; he could not turn a deaf ear to the
faint, pleading voice; yet the giving of that
pie made him so wretched, he would gladly

ave changed places with the man whose last
hour had: come.

At Lord Lisle’s wish, he summoned Rita and
Mrs. Wyverne.

“Rita,” said Lord Lisle, ‘let me speak to you
while I have strength. Philip will tell you all
we have arranged. You are to be his wife, my
darling.” fs

Philip never forgot the startled joy and hap-
piness that came into her face; it was a new
revelation to him.

“Take her in your arms, Philip,” said Lord
Lisle; ‘‘ tell her you will fill m aietaa.?

Philip bent over his cousin: her beautiful face
softened, and full of tenderness as he had never
seen it before, was raised to his; he touched her
brow with his lips.

‘““T will’ take care of you, Rita,” he said,
gently.

It was not very enthusiastic wooing; there
was no’rapture on Philip’s face as he looked
upon the girl he had promised to make his wife.

Two hours afterward, when the great change
came, and Mrs. Wyverne summoned. Rita, she
shrunk from the sight of death. She went back
to the room, and knelt, with her face buried in
her hands.

Lord Lisle died with his head pillowed on
Daisy’s arm; his eyes, unto the last, lingered
on her face. He was confused in that hour, and
thought she was Margaret, his lost wife, come
to fetch him,

 

A week of gloom and sorrow followed; the
great house was hushed and still; the sunshine
was not allowed to visit it; people spoke in low,
hushed whispers; for he who had been the loved
and Bcusrod aussie lay dead there.

The day of the funeral came at last—a day of
pouring rain; the long, black procession wound
its way through the dri ping trees; even nature
seemed to weep as Lord Lisle was jaid down to

rest.

After the funeral was over, the will was read
in the library; the three ladies were summoned ;
Mr. Kent, the lawyer, and a few friends of the
family were there. It was a just and equitable
will, leaving, as a matter of course, to Philip,
the entailed estate of Lisle Court, and the in-
come derived from it. To his dearly-loved
child, Margaret Lisle, was bequeathed the three
estates of Helsmeir, Endsleigh, and Thorne.
To his mother, the late lord left a handsome In-
come, and the same to Daisy. The annuity

aid to Mrs. Ferne and Mrs. Markham was to

continued. All old servants and dependants
were remembered.

As she listened to the lawyer’s monotonous
tones. Rita sat like one in a dream. The end
and aim of her life was accomplished. Her
fraud had succeeded; there could be no more
danger—no more fear of discovery. f

There was much to arrange. At Lord Lisle’s
urgent request, Mrs. Wyverne consented to re-
main for some time, at least, at Lisle Court.
Rita and Daisy were to remain with her. Phili
himself had business in Scotland, and, when a

lans were settled to everybody’s satisfaction,

e went there. t }

After the year of mourning had passed, it
was Mrs. Wyverne’s intention to take the two

oung girls to London for the season. It was

igh time that Rita made her debut; she was to
be presented at the birthday drawing-room, and
the elder lady predicted for her beautiful grand-
child a series of brilliant triumphs.

When the time came, Daisy, much to Mrs.
Wyverne’s surprise, steadily refused to make

any and debut in the gay world.
*T will go to London with you, dear madam,”
she said. ‘‘The truth is, I could not bear to be

arted from you; but I think it would be absurd
tor me to attempt to share the honors and priv-
ile that are Rita’s by right of birth. It is
enky through Lord Lisle’s bounty that I am
even what Iam. I have no claim tomore. 1
do not forget that I am of lowly birth and sta-
tion.”

Rita, who heard her sister’s reasons, said no

 
LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

£7

 

 

word. In her heart she was pleased to be saved
from the continual presence of one who she
felt would be a formidable trial.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

A BRILLIANT DEBUT.

Tuer London season opened brilliantly. Lord
Lisle went to the family mansion in Grosvenor
Square. Mrs. Wyverne took a beautiful house
in Hyde Park, and went there with Daisy and
Rita. Mrs. Marche had left them. The three
ladies were very happy together. Daisy was
the sunbeam; her sweet, unselfish disposition,
her gentle patience and interest in others, never
seemed to fail. She listened to Rita’s egotistical
conversation, and never wearied. She was
Mrs. Wyverne’s confidant; and Philip, Lord
Lisle, despite his promise, thought the day dark
that passed without one glimpse of her.

Yet Daisy had her trials. Before Lord Lisle’s
illness and death, she had in some vague, dreary
way begun to think that Philip cared very
much for her. He never seemed to forget her;
he had talked to her more than to any one else—
his face wore a different look when she was
near him; and once—she had never forgotten
the day—after singing to him for some time, he
caught her hand, and kissed it.

“Daisy,” he said, ‘‘ Il hope your voice will be
the last sound I shall hear on earth.”

 

 

AAS AK

IN Pain
aA
i

 

She was not vain, but many little things had
happened which made her think that Philip
loved her. He had not said so in words, but his
eyes had told some passionate love-tales. Mod-
est and gentle, she had treasured these things in
her own heart. Daisy was not one to love un-
sought; there was a quiet dignity hidden under
her affectionate manner and graceful, winning
way. She was eae of loving deeply as her
sister, but in a different way. Rita would have
schemed, planned, and maneuvered to win the
ons she loved. Daisy would have buried her
secret, and remained true to it all her life.

Vague, happy thoughts of what might be
came to her—sweet, girlish dreams, in which
Philip took the greatest share. They were never
of rank or position—never of grandeur or riches
—but of him himself. On the night of the late
lord’s death, she stood by when the engagement
‘was announced, and heard the words—‘“‘ Rita
was to be Philip’s wife.” In her pure humility,
she felt no surprise. After all, it was right and
natural that Philip should prefer his beautiful
cousin to one so lowly as herself. So the pretty
dream was dispelled—the bright, vague hopes
that had thrilled her heart were buried. If she
suffered, no one knew it. She listened to Rita’s

lans for the time when she should be Lady

hilip Lisle, and wondered at what she thought
her own vain folly.

The sun shone brightly one May morning.
London was unusually gay. The tall trees in
the parks were green and full of leaves; the

birds sung in all the branches; crowds of gayly-
dressed people filled the wide streets. There
was a subdued murmur in the air: the roll of
carriages, the sharp ring of horses’ feet, the

ealing of church-bells, and the bands of music
in the squares.

In a superbly-furnished drawing-room Mrs.
Wyverne sat on that May morning with Miss
Lisle. It was the day after her presentation,
and the two. ladies were discussing the triumphs
she had won. Every one agreed no such debu-
tante had been seen for years; the beautiful
southern face, the dark, lustrous eyes and pro-
fusion of black hair, was rare among the daugh-
ters of England. Even royal lips had spoken in
praise of her magnificent loveliness.

The gay world followed its leaders; before
that day came to an end, Miss Lisle was estab-
lished the belle of the season. Her triumph ex-
ceeded her fondest—nay, most sanguine dreams.

On the following morning the breakfast-table
was half-covered with cards, invitations for
balls, soirees, and parties. Daisy laughed, and
a flush of gratified vanity crimsoned Rita’s face.

“T told you so, my dear,” was Mrs. Wy-
verne’s comment. “1 wish your father had
lived to see this day; he would have been proud
of it.”

Among other invitations was one from Lady
Carlyon—the queen, par excellence, of the
fashionable world. She was one of the prettiest

 

and most popular-women in London, and, at the

3
verne, good-naturedly; “of course you will

join us, Philip?”

““T intended doing myself that pleasure,” he
replied, with a smile.

“Why should he not have that one gleam of
happiness?” he asked himself. ‘‘The time must
inevitably come when Daisy would leave them;
sooner or later some happy man would discover
the full value of this fair pearl, and win it for
himself. Surely, froma lifetime of sacrifice, he
might snatch one hour’s brightness, and sit by
Daisy’s side, and look in her pure, fair face,
without wrong?”

Lord Lisle was proud of the ladies he escort-
ed. Rita wore a superb dress of sheeny, gleaming
white and gold; rich red rubies flashed from the
coils of dark hair, and shone upon her neck and
arms. Daisy looked fresh and fair as a spring
morning; her dress of white lace had no orna-
ment save the pretty violets that looped it up.
Purple violets nestled in the ripples of golden
hair. She carried a bouquet of the same sweet
flowers in her hands. In personal beauty she
was inferior to Rita, but Rita lacked the grace-
ful patrician manner that characterized her
sister.

Philip was charmed beyond all prudence. He
sat by the side of the woman he had promised
to marry, looking at the girl he so fervently
loved.

Mrs. Wyverne’s box was the great center of
attraction that evening. No one was so capti-

 

 

A LONG HOPED-FOR MOMENT.—Page 18.

same time, so exclusive, that to belong to her
set—to have the entree to her house—was a
stamp and seal of superiority.

Lady Carlyon always gave a ball directly
after the drawing-room. It was a gleaning of
beauty, fashion, and talent, She had procured
an introduction to Mrs. Wyverne and Miss Lisle,
forerogte, with her usual shrewdness, that a
new star had arisen on the great world.

Rita held the pratty card of invitation in her
hand when Lord Lisle entered the room. He
smiled at the quantity of notes.

“Lady Carlyon!” he said, in answer to some
remark of Mrs. Wyverne’s. ‘Wherever else
you may go, or whatever you may forego, you
must be there. She is the most exclusive woman
in London and gives the best balls. One meets
all the best people there. If you make an effec-
tive appearance at Lady Carlyon’s, Rita, your
success in society is certain. When is the
ball?”

‘On Thursday night,” she replied.

“You should go to Madame Durrand’s at
once,” he replied. ‘‘I called toask if you would
go to the opera this evening.” e

Daisy raised her head suddenly at this ques-
tion, and Philip caught a wistful glance of the
violet eyes.

“You would like it,” he said gently.

“Better than anything in the world,” she

 

said. ‘‘I know all the music of ‘Trovatore’,
but I never heard it sung.”
“We will go this evening,” said Mrs. Wy-

 

vated by Rita as Captain Darcy. He was intro-
duced to her by Lord Lisle, as one of his friends;
and at the first sence of her eyes fell a vic-
tim to their light—fell, without any hope or
chance of recovery, fathoms deep in love.

Philip looked on with quiet amusement. Ah
if it could only be so! If Rita were free, and.
he were free! If he might woo that fair, gentle
girl for his wife, life would recover its lost
charm! It was too late for such dreams! Let
his heart ache ever so much, he must marry
Margaret Lisle!

But for this one evening, he yielded himself to
the charm. Captain Darcey rushed on to his
po) lingering by Rita, while Philip talked to

aisy.

How fair and pure she was! The delicate
bloom in her face, that deepened at his every
word; the tender radiance of those clear eyes;
the perfume of the violets she carried, had some
secret, subtle charm for him. For many long
months afterward that same perfume struck
him with a sense of pain.

It must end. Lord Lisle left Daisy with a
deep sigh, and a shadow on his bright face.
Mrs. Wyverne heard the sigh, and saw the look,
but misunderstood both.

She pitied Philip, and thought him jealous of
Caen Darcy. Until the opera ended, she sat
making up her mind that on this very evening
she bir speak to him, as she had long intend-
ed to do.

 

“Call to-morrow morning, Philip,” she said,

 
 

 

i
\,
Hh
iM |
i
|
i
fi

 

18

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

as Lord Lisle left them; “‘I want to see you par-
ticularly.” ;

Going home that evening, Philip made some
excellent resolutions. He loved Daisy; how
could he help it? But, he would not break his

romise. For the future, he would avoid her;

er presence had a fascination for him that no
words could describe. From this evening, he
would avoid her, and keep his honor intact.

Mrs. Wyverne received Lord Lisle in her
own room, giving orders that she was at home
to no one else.

‘* Philip,” she said, ‘‘be seated. I shall detain

ousome time. What I have to say is impor-

t. Have oe decided when your marriage
with Rita is to take place?”

The question came to him like a sharp blow;
for one half-moment it unnerved him.

“T have not thought about it yet,” he said;
“there is no immediate h , 1 suppose?”

“No,” she replied; ‘‘bu qour engagement
should be made known. It willsave many dis-
appointments, and much mortification. That
poor Captain Darcy quite fell in love last night
with Rita.”

“« She did not seem to reciprocate it,” he said,
with a smile.

“No,” replied Mrs. Wyverne; ‘Rita sees,
hears, and cares for no one but yourself,”

Which information would have been pleasant
enough had Philip been of the same mind.

“T& should be made known at once; and I
think, unless you see any obstacle, that the
marriage should take place at the end of the
season. Any longer de lay would be useless.”

Ah! useless, indeed. No delay could avert his
fate. Let the blow fall quickly.

“Whenever you wish, madame,” he said,
wearily.

She Tsiod up in wonder at his tone.

“Your own wish must dictate to you,” she said,
“not mine. I merely advise the autumn, Do
you think that time will suit?”

“T see no objection to it,” said Philip.

“Then you had better k to Rita about
it. Sheisnot in now; but if youlike to call
this evening, we shall all be pleased to see you.”

“T have an engagement this te he re-
plied. ‘‘I shall meet you all at Lady Carlyon’s
oem evening, and I will mention it to her
then.

As Philip closed the door behind him, thank-
ful the interview was ended, Mrs. Wyverne
sighed deeply.

‘Icannot understand them,” she said—
‘‘these men of the present day. What an un-
fortunate love-affair my ee son’s was, and
here is Philip—he talks of love and marriage
far more coolly than he would of a new picture!
I cannot understand it. Surely, the ancient
spirit of chivalry must have died away!”

As Lord Lisle was leaving the house, he met
Daisy just coming in from the garden; her
hands were full of pretty flowers; she herself
looked like their queen.

‘What is the matter, Lord Lisle?” she asked.
looking at his sad, tired face. ‘‘ Have you heard
ood Ne Daisy side lied, taking the fl

0. @ rep. in; e flowers
from her hand, and clasping the Mutie dagers ist
hisown. ‘ Help me to be very brave. I have
sorrow to bear; tell me how to bear it.”

“Bravely!” she said, her face glowing with
Hele. ‘‘Bravely, as great men and great heroes

o!

“T am no hero,” he said, sadly.

“ Any man is a hero who bears a sorrow in
silence and well,” Daisy continued; ‘‘and there
are many such in the world.”

“Twill try_to be one of them,” he said.
“Daisy, say ‘God bless you.’”

She repeated the words, and he left her, won-
dering what had saddened and wearied him on
that bright May morning, when every one else
looked happy and gay. ;

CHAPTER XIX.
THE CROWNING JOY.

“T SHALL not see hed triumphs, Rita,” said
Daisy; ‘‘but I shall hear of them. Lady Carl-
yon must be difficult to please if she is not
charmed with you.”
diets ma Malet a h tle hands

ing-room; an r, with gentle f
was add some last finishing touches to her
toilette. had never looked more beautiful.
Mrs. Wyverne, unable to keep the secret, had
whispered to her that Philip was going to ask
her a very momentous question that evening;
and she had prepared for a grand triumph.

The dress chosen was one that enhanced and
increased her re; beauty. It was of the rich-
est green velvet, shaded with delicate white
lace, and trimmed with golden fringe. Mrs.
Wyverne had wished her to wear nothing but
diamonds; they circled her graceful h like
poe of fame: they were clas round the

mirror in her

white throat and beautiful arms; they
suited her well.
Daisy had selected her bouquet; it was of
scarlet verbena and white heath.
“Tt requires just that dash of crimson to make
the Beare complete,” she said. laughingly.
aisy,”

“Youare always thinking of pictures,
said Mrs, Wyverne,

 

‘Because I love them,” she replied. ‘‘ Now,
ha: ene: have you everything? It is grow-
ing late.

She took from the table a beautiful fan. The
handle was ore in pure gold. It was made
of rare white feathers, light as down.

“JT never saw any one manage a fan better
than you, Rita,” she said; ‘‘you must have a
code of language for it. Hold that open, my
dear, and let me look at you.”

Rita opened the fan, and the delicate feathers
touched her white neck.

“That will do,” said Daisy; ‘‘ I am quite satis-
fied with my picture.”

“Would 70 not like to go with us?’ asked
ee complacently regarding herself in the
ass.

“Yes, for some reasons; no, for others,” re-
plied the young girl. ‘‘ Now, Therese, the opera-
cloak, please; Miss Lisle will be late.”

The crimson cloak was thrown over the white,
polished shoulders, and Rita swept out of the
room, followed by Mrs. Wyverne.

It was a brilliant night. In the dark after-
days, Rita looked back to it as the crowning
hour of her triumph.

Lady Carlyon’s rooms were magnificently
decorated; lights shone like stars from costly
flowers that rose in tiers, each one more brilliant
than the other.

Azaleas and crimson fuchsias, golden calceo-
larias, magnificent pelargoniums; delicate heath,
heliotropes, roses of every kind and hue form-
ed a gorgeous background. Here and there
between the bright flowers, one caught sigh
of a white marble statue. The whole suite of
rooms were illuminated. Leading into the large
conservatory, pretty scented fountains rippled
there—a large one in the midst, shaped like a
huge lily, from which the water fell with a
musical rhythm and cadence that soothed and
charmed the ear.

Almost the first gentleman who accosted
Rita was Captain Darcy. His aoe was
complete when he had secured her hand for the
first waltz.

She was surrounded by her court of admirers.
Never had the beautiful face shone brighter;
never had the brilliant wit and quick powers of
ne been shown to eae advantage.

iss Lisle was, undoubtedly, the queen of that
gay throng. Lady Carlyon was charmed with
er. oe could not help gece proud of her;
nor could he help seeing the different way in
which she treated him. To others, she was
charming and gracious in her peculiar, haughty
manner; for him, her whole nature seemed to
change—her face softened, her dark eyes droop-
ed—he could not help seeing how — was his
power over that proud, ambitious heart.

As he watched her, the center of all homage
and admiration, he felt that she would fill well
the place of Lady Lisle. She would do him
credit; she would be one of the fairest branches
on the family tree; she would receive the hom-
age of all the great world, and it would reflect
fresh glory on his ae but, for all that, he sigh-
ed when he recalled a fair, sweet face, framed in
golden hair, and eloquent eyes, full of truth and
candor.

It could never be—that fair vision must fade
from him; he must linger no more by Daisy’s
side; honor called him elsewhere. et that
night, when the girl he had promised to marry
shone a peerless queen among her compeers,
he would have given title, wealth, rank—every-
thing save honor—for his freedom. __

Those who saw Lord Lisle that evening, won-
dered at the strange, gloomy expression of his
face. He had a task before him—the sooner it
was accomplished the better; he was to ask
Margaret Lisle when she would become his wife.

There — — ee ‘ht eS ust a
supper. roya e, a great a er 0}
Tate Garkvons “looked in.” His Grace hap-
pened to be ina particularly ha PY and genial
state of mind. He congratula dy Carlyon
upon the magnificent appearance of her rooms,
and put the final stroke to his ee Lae
requesting an introduction to Miss Lisle. ly
Carlyon was delighted. It was the proudest
moment of Rita’s life. erat? eye was turn-
ed upon her. She stood er in the pride of
her magnificent beauty, and his Royal High-
ness bent before her, zled by the light of
that wondrous face.

He murmured some few complimentary
words, and then solicited the favor of one waltz.
The keenest observer could not have detected
one passing oe of triumph in the dark eyes;
the snowy plumage of the gorgeous fan did not
flutter as she held it against her bosom.

Accustomed to state y, beauties, and ladies of
high degree, the Duke, the cynosure of all eyes.
said to himself that the debutante surpassed
them all. ;

Rita saw the envious and admiring glances
that followed her every movement; she knew
that the homage of her royal partner would ene
a stamp and seal to her apart —would set
her far above all rivals. Even while she was in
the whirl of the dance, she thought of all these
things. One idea was paramount—Lord Lisle
would see how others worshiped her, and it
might make him more eager in his wooing.

hen the waltz ended, and the Duke returned

 

with his beautiful partner to the seat she had left,
Lord Lisle was there with Lady Carlyon. Rita’s
triumph was oe His Royal Highness
danced no more; during the few minutes that
he remained, he lingere by her side; when he
bade her adieu, it was with a wish, most flatter-
ingly exp: , that he might have the pleas-
ure of seeing her again.

It was a lesson in worldliness to see how she
was surrounded then. Yet no one could dis-
cern the faintest consciousness of success. The
smiles were brighter and more charming than
usual; nothing else denoted any elation.

Lord Lisle was struck with what he saw.
Surely this girl, from whom he would so gladly
have freed himself, must have fascinations thab
he did not understand. All around him people
were talking of her; the men in warmest, most
extravagant terms; the ladies, with affected
candor and ill-concealed jealousy. How was it
that he alone of all the world was untouched
by her beauty, uncharmed by her stately grace!

“You look rather tired,” said y Carlyon
to Miss Lisle. ‘‘ You have danced every dance,
I believe. Lord Lisle, where is your gallantry?
Miss Lisle would, perhaps, like to w: through
the rooms. A few minutes in the conservatory
would be refreshing; it is cool and fragrant.”

With a silent bow, Philip offered his arm to
Rita, and they walked through the long suit of
rooms.

“Opportunities are given to most men,” said
Philip. ‘‘I had better make the most of mine,
as I have a question to ask to-night. I will ask
it now and here.”

There was no one in the conservatory. Philip
placed a chair for Rita near the pretty lily-
shaped fountain.

“There could not be a more pleasant place
for repose,” he said. ‘‘Itis cool, fragrant, and
gel the sound of this falling water lulls one

She was gazing dreamily into the ripplin
water; the music of it took her back to Gupen a
Lynne. She saw a gorgeous evening sky, a
stretch of golden sand, and a sunlit, smiling
sea. She saw a dark, handsome face looking
in her own; her hands seemed to burn where
those passionate kisses had fallen; words such
as she would never hear again sounded once
more in her ears.

“How he loved me!” she thought; ‘‘and I
never cared for him!”

“Rita,” said the low voice of Philip Lisle,
“can you spare me a few moments? I have
something very particular to say to you.”

She raised her eyes from the rippling water,
and looked anxiously at him.

But Lord Lisle was puzzled what tosay. Had
oat been sitting there, he would have said,
simp. Ys “Tell me, Daisy, when will you be my
wife?’

He was too honest to feign a love he did not
feel, yet he wished to be kind and affectionate
to the young girl his dying kinsman had con-
fided to him.

“Do you remember the evening your father
died,” he asked, ‘‘and what then?” ;

A crimson blush covered her face. Could it

be that the one passionate hope of her heart
was to be gratified at last? | ;
“T could never forget it,” she said gently;

and then a deep silence fell upon them. | :

“ Rita,” continued Lord Lisle, arousing him-
self at last, “Iam but an awkward wooer—so
awkward, that I am astonished at myself. Can
you overlook that—will you pardon my ab-
ruptness, and tell me when will you consent to
be my wife?”

For the first time that evening, Rita lost her
self-possession; the jeweled fingers trembled,
the rich color faded from her cheek and lips.

“That is an important question,” she replied.

‘‘Yes,” said Philip, gravely. ‘‘ Do not let me
hurry you, Rita. "haxe time to think it over,
Give me your answer when you like.” |

“T do not require time for thinking,” she
said; ‘it is not that.” X

All that was womanly and tender in her
seemed to be aroused; the pride and hauteur
died from her face; a light, soft and beautiful,
came into it; the dark, lustrous eyes were
dimmed with happy tears. aw GEE

“Tt is not that, Philip,” she said, rising and
placing her hand on his arm. ‘‘I am ready to
redeem my promise whenever you will; but do
you love me—tell me, do you love me?” R

Lord Lisle felt an uncomfortable sensation,
as if being placed in the aon difficulty any
one had ever been in. e could not look into
that beautiful face, and say, blindly, he did not
love her; nor could he feign a lover’s rapture
that he did not feel. He evaded all reply b
raising her hand, and pressing his lips upon it.

“There are times,” she said, with rare and

aceful humility, “when I feel unworthy to
fy your wife, y life has not been all happi-
ness.

He interrupted her, touched to the heart by
that rare softening, and murmured something
to the effect that she was worthy to be a queen,

“Ah, no,” she said, “I am not vor)
Tent ut if you love me, if I am your wife,
I wil try as I have never done before; and you
will help me?” , f

Lord Lisle was only mortal. The beautiful

ma

 
rs foi lat pee

19

 

 

 

pleading face, so near his own; the dark, lus-
trous eyes swimming in tears; she so proud to
others, courted, flattered, and admired. He
clasped her in his arms, and kissed the tears

away.

will do my best,” he said, gently, ‘‘to
make you happy, Rita. Tell me—when will
you be my wife?”

They stood by the little fountain, whose
pretty, rippling waters told nothing of the
dread tragedy even then looming in the dis-
tance; and they talked of the marriage that
was to take place when the summer flowers had
ceased to bloom, and the autumn leaves were
falling.

 

CHAPTER XX.

THE GALL IN THE HONEY.

On arriving home on that eventful night,
Rita hurried to her own chamber. She re-
eat no attendance—she longed to be alone.

ing the whole eveni she had exercised
marvelous self-control. She had seen_herself
ueen of the most brilliant throng in London.

‘en whose names were historical had vied with
each other who should pay the mose aaa
homage to her—royal lips had complimente:
her; and then came the crowning triumph—
Lord Lisle, whom she loved with all the strength
of her ambitious nature, had asked her to say

 

when she would be his wife, All this had hap-

She thought nothing of it at first, and did not
move to reach it. Not until her reverie ended
did she carelessly take up the little note and
open it.

Ah, is there no retribution? Can evil pros-
per? As she reads, the bright color fades
from her face—the white lips part with a low
gasping cry—the jeweled hands tremble—
weird, wild horror comes into the dark eyes.
Then pushing far from her the shining gems,
she—lately so proud and radiant—lay white
and crouching upon the ground. Pride, hope,
ambition, love—all crushed for the moment by
deadly fear.

Yet they were not terrible words that she
read. Some would have glanced over them,
heedful of the passionate love they betrayed
ao of the devoted heart that dictated

em.

‘“‘Rita,”—so the letter ran—‘‘I must see you.
my darling! No matter what happens, i
must see you! I returned to England some
weeks since—I went straight to Rooks’ Nest,
hoping, believing, you would be there to wel-
come me, and redeem your promise. God grant
you may never feel the grief and anguish that
fell upon me when I heard that you, my dar-
hanes promised wife—had left, never to re-
turn. the neighborhood I heard your story
—people still tell of the day when strangers
came and took you away. But I could learn

 

no more; Mrs. Ferne would tell me nothing of

tion, this blow had fallen, paralyzing her at first
with mortal dread.

“Thate him!” she said. ‘‘ I wish he weredead!”

She tore the letter into shreds, and stamped
upon them, inwardly feeling she could trample
his life underfoot. Reflection succeeded fear—
indignation came swiftly after.

“How had he dared—poor and lowly born—
how dare he imagine that their foolish acquaint-
ance was to continue? His wife!” A swile of
derision curled her beautiful lips. ‘‘ She was
betrothed to Lord Lisle—Lord Lisle, who would
thrash this low-born hind within an inch of his
life, if she complained to him. She must see
him—temporize with him—show him the great
and impassable difference between them. Then,
if he were not satisfied, and did not take his dis-
missal kindly, she would complain to Lord
Lisle.” She began to smile at her own fears,
The worst that could happen had befallen her.
Ralph had found her out; but, after all, it did
not, could not, matter. Difficulties had arisen
before, and she had conquered them. She should
do the same again.

Suddenly the thought struck her—who had
placed the note upon her toilette-table? It was
not there when she dressed for the ball. Through
the rest of that summer night Rita lay in deep,
conscious thought—there was no rest and no
sleep for her. She must answer the letter; there
was noalternative. But see him she would not,
unless she was obliged to do so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

pened—the very depths of her heart had been
stirred. Now she wanted to be alone, and
think it over.

The wax-tapers were lighted on the sump-
tuous toilette-table—a cozy easy-chair was
drawn up to it. Rita fastened the door, and
seated herself before the mirror.

The future lay before her—one path of roses.
There was not a thorn to be seen in it—not a
cloud in the bright sky that smiled upon her.
In a few short months, the dearest wish of her
peers would be gratified—she would be Lady

e,

“He loves me,” she said to herself; “and, in
time to come, he will worship me.”

There came to her no memory of the deep,
passionate love that had once been hers.

“* After all,” she said to herself, “‘ it has pros-
pered. What an old woman’s tale all that non-
sense about evil and good is! Ihave made the
most of circumstances—the most of my beauty.
I have trampled under foot all that the world
calls honor and truth. What am I the worse?
Why need I have feared what fools call retribu-
tion? I have prospered. Evil has been my

ood. There is no more a shadow of danger, of

ear. Henceforward, my life will be a series of
triumphs, one more brilliant than the other.
All the world shall know and talk of the beau-
tiful Lady Lisle.”

Her eyes wandered from her own face to the
shining diamonds. Suddenly they fell upon a
white, folded paper lying beneath the mirror.

THE SURPRISE.—Page 22.

your name or address. To my passionate plead-
ing and prayers, she sere no heed. In dgpeir
that knows no words, I sought for you. There
is little need to tell you the clue by which I dis-
covered my lost dartieaetey wife that is to be.
The world may call you ‘ Miss Lisle you may
be a brilliant belle, a wealthy heiress—no mat-
ter, you are mine, sworn to me by the most
solemn vow a woman could take. Had such for-
tune come to me—were I to be made a king to-
morrow, it would not matter; I should value
all, because you were to share it with me.

“T have worked hard for you, Rita, these

three years.. I have come to claim you.
know you are true to me, and waiting for me.
No fear assails me. Perhaps those proud rela-
tions of yours may want some preparation. be-
fore seeing one who is to take their pride and
hope from them. I leave all that to you; only
appoint a time and place where I may meet
you. My heart hungers and thirsts for one
— at your beautiful face. My whole soul
ongs for one word of welcome from your lips.
Send a line to this address, and hasten the time,
Rita, darling. .I can live no longer without
you. There may be difficulties; you must over-
come: them. o has a greater right to you
than I?”

There was no name at the end of the letter,
but she knew it was from Ralph Ashton. After

 

so many years, this ghost had arisen; in the
| hour of her triumph, at the very moment when
| she had mocked at fear, and laughed at retribu-

She dare not ring for her maid at an earlier
hour than usual, lest some suspicion might be
aroused, But when Therese did come, she
looked with surprise at her lady’s pale face and
shadowed eyes.

When Ray dressed, Rita turned suddenly, as
—— the thought had only just occurred to

e!

*

“Did you place that note upon my toilette-
table last evening, Therese?” she asked.

The young girl’s face flushed Gent.

ee hope it was not wrong, Miss Lisle,” she
said.

“Wrong?” said Rita. ‘‘ Certainly not; why
should it be? The only thing is, I do not under-
stand that kind of thing, and should much pre-
fer letters being sent to me through the post,
How came you to do it?” she continued.

“The person who gave it to me said it was of
the greatest importance. He asked me to place
it there, that you might see it.”

‘* How came he to doso?” asked Miss Lisle, with
hong indifference. f ;
“T do not know,” replied the maid. ‘The

truth is, Miss Lisle, I have met him this week
several times; he seemed to be watching about
the house. He spoke to me last night; he gave
me the letter, and asked me to place it where
you could see it.” ;

“Tt is strange,” said Rita, calmly. ‘Is hea
gentleman, Therese?”

She could not resist the question; she was so

 

anxious to hear the maid’s reply.

     

|
|
|

 
 

 

  

20

 

 

JHE HIBESIDE LIBRARY

 

 

-**No; I should not say he was a gentleman,
miss,” was the candid reply; ‘‘ but he seemed to
be.a very respectable, nice-looking young man.”

“T do not blame you this time,” said Miss
Lisle; ‘‘but remember never to take the same
liberty again, Therese. If—if that person should
ever ask you to give me another letter, pray
tell him the post-office is the proper channel for
be pee of all kinds.”

erese thought herself only too fortunate to
escape any further anger from her imperious
young mistress. She said nothing of the hand-
some, haggard face and im ea or the

‘old which found its way teat alph’s open

nd to her pocket.

Rita did not go down to breakfast. She
shrunk from the ordeal of having remarks and
comments over her pale face. She ordered
some tea to be brought to her, resolving before
anything else to answer Ralph’s letter.

ut Daisy knocked at the door, and would
not be denied.

“T know you are tired,” she said, bending
over the beautiful, false face. ‘Therese tells
me you are quite fatigued; but I could not help
coming to you, my sister. Mrs. Wyverne has
been recounting your triumphs, and she has told
me something besides. Let me kiss you, Rita,
and wish you all happiness. We were children
together. Your pleasures and your sorrows
will always be mine! So you danced with a
Royal Highness!” she continued, gayly. ‘‘ Ah,
Rita, I smile, yet the tears lie close to my eyes.
‘Who would have thought it years ago ou
will soon be Lady Lisle! Surely no life ever had
stranger vicissitudes than yours!”

“No,” said Rita; ‘it is like one of the fairy
tales you used to admire so greatly. Daisy,
my head aches, and I am very tired. Tell Mrs.

yverne I am going to rest this morning, and
a let any one come near me till I ring my

 

CHAPTER XXI.
DIAMONDS AND PEARLS,

Ir was a cleverly-worded ne that Rita
composed in answer to Ralph Ashton’s letter.
There was not one word which could in an:
way compromise her. She said nothing of wel-
come, nothing of love—she never named con-
stancy; but she appealed to his generosity.
“She was surrounded with difficulties,” she
said; “would he be generous and wait—not
press for an interview that would cause her to
run the serious risk of displeasing her newly-
found friends and relatives?’ She said ee
of the distance between them, but every wor
betrayed how great she felt it to be.

The letter written, she would not intrust it to
any one. With her own hands she carried it to
the nearest post-office, wishing, as she did so, that
4 might be the last she was ever to write to

‘ina.

Mrs. Wyverne came to her dressing-room, al-
most immediately afterward.

“Daisy tells me you are better, my dear, and
that you have been out. I want to speak to
you very seriously; can you spare me. a few
minutes?”

“My time is all at your service,” she replied;
and the elder lady sat down upon the luxurious
little couch.

“Your wedding is to take place in the au-
tumn,” said Mrs. Wyverne. ‘‘I assure you
my dear, the time is short enough for all tha’
we have to do. Lady Hammond has been here
this morning, and she tells me that Messrs.
Storr and Mortimer have some magnificent
pearls and rubies. She says they are more su-
ae than anything she ever saw. I have been
hinking that as I intend to give i jewelry,
we cannot do better than drive there at once,
and if they please you, you can select what
ou will; you must choose your own design
or the setting. Have you any engagement

which will prevent you from going with me?”

“None,” she replied, gently but Mrs.
eens wondered why the jutiful face
looked so strangely white and sad.

“ Daisy is going with us,” she continued. ‘I
asked her Ply she has exquisite taste in
all such matters. ‘The carriage will be round in
ten minutes; will you hasten to dress?”

The sun shone es i and the streets were
crowded with gayly-dressed people; yet on
Rita’s heart there seemed to linger a’ heavy
weight of aun ao presentiment All plea-
sure was ‘ile e miserable memory of
Ralph ‘Ashton. Ht o

s. Wyverne and Daisy both thought their
companion silent and dull.

Ah, me! The gorgeous jewels spread out be-
fore her; diamonds that looked like living jets
of flame; red rubies glowing like hearts of tite:
emeralds green and bright; opals with wondrous
changing tints; and pearls that glimmered and

oli like dew-drops with the sun shining in
em.

At any other time, those proud, dark eyes
would have lighted up with gratified vanity.
Now she glanced listlessly over them, While
Mrs. Wyverne admired the rubies and Daisy
pee eis over the pearls, she was think-
ing w could she get rid of Ralph Ashton,
‘Rita,” said Mrs, Wyverne, suddenly, ‘you

 

seem very absent. What are you thinking
about?”

The question alarmed her, she must arouse
herself, or they would suspect. With a strong
force of her iron will, she drove back the haunt-
ing fear, and applied herself to the task of
choosing from among the magnificent gems be-
fore her.

Little they thought who watched the slender
white fingers that touched the shining jewels,
what deadly thoughts of hatred were passing
through her hearts Mrs. Wyverne gave her
carte-blanche, and Rita selected rubies and
pearls that a princess might have envied. She
chose the most gorgeous settings; and Daiey
smiled as she thought how well these rare jewels
would become her sister’s queenly beauty.

“You will have the finest jewels in London,
Rita,” said Mrs. Wyverne, as they drove away.
“ And now, if you have still time to spare, I
should like to call upon Mr, Ferne. I spoke to
him last week about begining your portrait,
and he appointed to-day for an interview.”

Rita, looked up in silent. wonder. Mrs. Wy-
verne smiled.

“T have said nothing to you about it,” she
continued. ‘‘I want your picture as a surprise
to Philip. Every Lady Lisle hangs in the great
gallery; you have a double right to be there, as
a daughter of one lord, and wife of another. I
consider Mr. Ferne the finest artist in England.
If you are willing, I should like him to com-
mence your portrait at once.”

“‘T can have no possible objection,” said Rita.
“On the contrary, I like Mr. Ferne’s pictures,
and shall be much pleased to sit to him.”

They found several visitors of rank and note
at the studio. Lady Rolfe, with her pretty,
fashionable daughter, the young Countess of
Eversham; Sir Harry Hulme; and Captain
Lionel Verne, the son of the bravest and finest
officer in the ‘English army.

Rita saw at one glance how she had risen in
popular favor. Lady Eversham, the most fas-
tidious and exclusive of belles, hastened forward
to address her. The gallant Captain impatient-
ly awaited his turn; and Sir Harry Hulme was
busy composing some original compliment.

They withdrew at length, after many protes-
tations of delight at the unexpected meeting,
and assurances from Lady Eversham that she
should look forward with delight to the friend-
i Miss Lisle.

e artist, Mr. Ferne, had leisure then to |

k. He listened to Mrs. Wyverne’s ideas
gbolit the picture; his keen, artistic eye drink-
ing in, as it were, the magnificent beauty of
Miss Lisle, and the delicate loveliness of her sister.

Seeing how much Mr. Ferne admired Daisy,
Mrs. Wyverne introduced her to him. For the
first time, Rita was slightly jealous. _He seemed
to pass her over, and concentrate his attention
on the fair, spiritual face and tender eyes of her
foster-sister. ;

“And this young lady,” he said, turning to
Mrs. Wyverne; ‘‘I hope she intends honoring
me with a few sittings?”

Daisy eee rippling, musical laugh,
that charmed Mr. Ferne.

“No,” she said, gayly. ‘‘I think that Fate
never intended my face to be hung side by side
with the Ladies Lisle.”

In after years, they both remembered those
careless words.

The time was arranged for the first sitting.

‘We must hurry home,” said Mrs. Wyverne,
then; ‘‘there will be barely time to dress for
dinner, and I expect Lord Lisle—not one word
of the picture to him, remember; it will be a
charming surprise.”

Lord Lisle thought his beautiful fiancee looked
pale and tired. e was kinder and more affec-
tionate to her in his manner than he had been
before.

The evening gloaming had set in when dinner
ended, and Lord Lisle joined the ladies in the
drawing-room. Rita had drawn a large easy-
chair near the open window, through which the
summer breeze came in sweet with perfume.
There was an expression of deep thought on her
face; the brilliant, vivid coloring had grown
text pale. Lord Lisle thought her more
beautiful under this softened aspect than he had
ever done before.

Why did she look so sad and thoughtful—his
uncle’s darling child? Could it be that she had
noticed the coldness of his love? The young
man’s generous heart smote him with a keen
sense of pain. There could be no other reason
nae the woman who loved him so dearly should
look unhappy. He resolved to drive that ex-
pression from her face. Lord Lisle liked to do
anything ea if he did it at all. No half-
measures suited him. Honor and her own love
bound him to this young girl, and he said to
himself that he would trample all else under-
foot, and make her happy.

He went at once to her.

“You danced too much last evening, Rita,”
he said. ‘‘It is useless to deny the fact—you
are unlike yourself to-day. Shall I read to

ou?”
me You are very kind,” she said, gently.
“Talk to me; I should like that better.”

Lord Lisle drew a little footstool near her,
and sat at her feet.

 

He talked to Rita as he had never done before
—of a future when they should be_ together.
sharing one home. He talked of his hopes ani
his plans—all he intended to do, and of all his
hopes for her.

he listened, and yielded to the charm.
Something would happen. Ralph dare not per-
secute her; he would withdraw his claim, and
leave her in peace. For the time, she quieted
her fears; and Lord Lisle, when he saw the
smile return to her lips and the light to her
eyes, thought how cleverly he had guessed the
case of her sadness, and how dearly she loved

im,

CHAPTER XXII.
THE REPULSE.

Tue post of thenext morning brought another
letter from Ralph. Mrs. Wyverne passed it to
Rita. A dark, angry flush covered her face as
she received it; the common blue envelope—
the rude style of address—the clumsy. seal—all
formed so great a contrast with the elegant let-
ters that came with it.

“That looks like a tradesman’s bill, Rita,”
said Mrs. Wyverne, as she passed the envelope
to her.

She made some slight remark, then put the
letter away. Had she dared, she would have
torn it intoshreds, and stamped upon the pieces;
but fear compelled her to read what he had
written.

Her heart sickened at the passionate, loving
words. ‘‘His own Rita,” he called. her—‘‘ his
wife that was to be. Yes, he would wait pa-
tiently ; but only for a short time. He must see
her soon, and hear from her own lips when she
would become his wife.”

It was well for Ralph Ashton that he did
not see the bitter contempt on the face of the
woman he loved. She trembled with angry in-
dignation; she hated herself for her folly in
having ever given such a man power over her.

‘“‘T must have been mad,” she cried. ‘‘ Did I
sell myself for a pair of diamond earrings, and
the pleasure of hearing a few flattering words?”

All that day she spent with Mrs. Wyverne,
ordering and selecting costly dresses of every
description; trying, in the whirl of business and
gayety, to forget all fear.

Never was bride or jfiancee so magnificently

ortioned. Mrs. Wyverne seemed to wish to

y all the treasures of earth at the feet of her
beautiful: grandchild. Rita’s eyes ached with
the glitter and sheen of all that was brilliant
and rare.

Could any one be so mad as to think that she
would give up all this, to become the wife of a
man she detested—give up the title she had set
her heart upon—give up the position she had
longed for—and, more than all, the man she
loved?

Yet she awaited Ralph’s next step in fear.
What would he do? ould he force his way
into the house, and demand to see her? Would
he call and ask for her? Would he write and
insist upon a meeting? She knew not; she
walked blindly, like one upon the edge of a pre-
one, who neither sees, nor cares to see, the
brink. ©

The exhibition of the Royal Academy of that
year was considered an unusually successful
one. The whole fashionable world went to see
Mr. Ferne’s wonderful picture, ‘‘ Condemned.”
People raved of its simple pathos; its grand ex-
ecution; its tragical story. i

It was the picture of a young and beautiful
girl alone in a prison-cell; a sunbeam coming in
through the narrow grating touched her bowed
head with its golden glory. There was a trag-
ical history in the beautiful, despairing face.
Love that knew no bounds or measure had
played in the beautiful eyes now so haggard
and wild; love that had ale to jealousy,
and led to crime. She did not look repentant
or sorrowful, although the lifeblood of the man
she had loved had sped net naan: aurea
power and passion, capability ol en a:
expressed in the delicate features. The white
hands, heavily chained, were clasped together,
not in prayer. ‘

It was a grand picture; people looked at it,
and left in silence. Strong emotion does not
always call forth words. There was nothing to
be said about it; the story told itself. :

Lord Lisle called one morning to ask Daisy
and Rita to go with him to see the far-famed
picture.

“Pray, let us walk through the Park,” said
Daisy. ‘‘I am quite tired of going everywhere
in a carriage. e, Rita, how the sun shines;
the birds will be all singing, and the chestnut
trees in flower. Let us walk.”

“T am quite willing,” said Rita, indifferently.
Provided she were with Philip, she cared for
little else. a

“You had better make a ravishing toilette,”
continued Daisy, with a smile; and Rita agreed
with her. It was the first time since the an-
nouncement of their engagement that she had
gone out with Lord Lisle, and she resolved to do
honor to the occasion.

Philip thought he had never seen her looking
so beautiful; all details of millinery were lost
upon him, He saw a radiant vision, clad in

 
TeI| nor

eo

wee © ODO

= Se

ga ey oe

:

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

 

24

 

 

rich, sweeping silk, with a cloud of lace falling handsome face

artistically in all directions. The queenly hea
was covered with a little gem of a bonnet—
white lace again. One crimson flower, glowing
like the heart of a pomegranate, lay upon the
massive coils of dark hair.

Just as they entered the Park, Captain Darcy
met them. On hearing their destination, he
begged permission to join the party.
tached himself to Rita’s side, and
walked a little in advance with Daisy.

‘This is an unexpected happiness,” said Cap-
tain Darcy to Rita. “I am leaving England,
and may not have another opportunity of say-
ing farewell to you.”

‘Leaving England?” said Rita, indifferently.
‘When, and why?”

“In three days from now,” he replied. “I
have exchanged into a regiment going to India.
That is when; I wish I dare tell you why.”

“You can if you will,” she said; interested
by the handsome, melancholy face, and the sad,
patient voice.

“May I?” he asked. ‘‘ And you promise not
to be angry? Oh, let me tell you, Miss Lisle;
give me one kind word, and let me take it into
exile with me! You cannot help being the most
beautiful and noble of women,” he continued ;
“and I cannot help loving you. Do not be an-
gry, Miss Lisle; I ed you the first moment I
saw you, and [ said to myself then that I would
freely give my life to win one kind word from
you. cannot help loving you; but I ama
man of honor, anda gentleman. They tell me
you are going to marry Lord Lisle, and I bow
to my fate. shall go far from you, where I
may learn to forget the love that is at once the
bane and the pride of my life.”

“Tam sorry,” began Rita, gently; but he in-
terrupted her.

“Do not say that, Miss Lisle; do not let me
think I have ever brought one sad thought to

ou. Believe me, looking upon you now for the
ast time, I say that I would rather love you,
and love you in vain, than be happy with any
other woman in the wide world.”

He oe abruptly, and Rita knew not what
to say. Once before she had heard words like
these—words that had seemed to chime with
the falling waves and the murmuring winds.

Al Caeet not to have told you this,” he said;
“it would have been nobler and braver to have
gone away, and have let my secret be buried
with me. But you will give me one word to
cheer my exile. I have light, warmth, and
bene with you; I go out into darkness and
cold. Say something to me that I may remem-
ber in the years to come.”

‘“T say you are a noble man, Captain Darcy,”
said Rita, gently. ‘‘I predict that there is hap-
piness yet in store for you.”

‘“No,” he replied. ‘I may find peace, but not
happiness, Miss Lisle. There comes a thunder-
cloud occasionally in the brightest summer sky.
Life lies all smiling before you; but trouble may
come. If ever it should—if ever you should
need a friend with a strong arm and a true
heart, will you promise to remember me? I
would come from the uttermost ends of the
world to serve you.”

“T will remember,” she said. And the time
came when she would have given much for such
aid as he could have afforded her.

“T shall go away happier,” he said; ‘‘I am
glad I spoke to you, Miss Lisle.”

He looked into the beautiful face upraised to
his with a sweet smile. Suddenly, he saw it
change; the brilliant color all faded; the white
lips parted, and uttered a low cry. She laid
one hand upon his arm.

‘¢ Hasten!” she said, in a voice he scarcely re-
cognized—“‘ hasten on!”

She walked with rapid footsteps; it was with
difficulty he kept pace with her. When they
left the Park, and turned down the broad path,
she relaxed her speed, and turned to him. Her
face was still white, and her lips quivering.

‘‘ What is it, Miss Lisle?” he asked, anxiously ;
“what has alarmed you?”

‘¢ A resemblance,” she said; ‘‘ perhaps only a
fancied one.”

“Tf any one annoyed you,” he said, “I
would—”

‘‘ What would you do?” she interrupted with
a smile. ‘

“« Shoot him,” replied Captain Darcy, ‘‘ with-
out any remorse.” 5: ;

She looked almost A nee at him. Ah! if
some brave man like this would but espouse her
cause, and free her from the wretched persecu-
tion that blighted her life. If she could but tell

im all, and ask him to free her from Ralph
Ashton? But no, she could not share her miser-
able secret—it must be kept at any price.

Margaret Lisle committed many grave crimes
during that morning, She had made, perhaps,
the greatest mistake of her life. She had con-
verted Ralph Ashton’s passionate love into
fierce hate—she had changed a devoted lover
into an implacable foe.

Walking with Captain Darcy, listening to the
warm, eager words, she had, for the moment,
forgotten all else save him. She was looking
earnestly at him, when, suddenly crossing the
Park, at some little distance, she saw Ralph
Ashton, Her quick eyes noted the dark,

rd Lisle

 

He at- |

| the vulgar, ii tting clothes—the large, un-
| gloved hands, and showy ring. Her heart sick-
| ened at the sight of him. She felt nothing but
| the most intense loathing and disgust.

| Suddenly, she perceived that he recognized |

her. She saw the start of surprise; the uncon-
trollable joy that brightened his face; the quick,
eager manner in which he hastened to meet her;
the outstretched hand extended in greeting.

| For once self-control failed her; disgust over-

| came fear; she laid her hand upon Captain

| Darcy’s arm, and turned indignantly away.

| Ra ph saw it all—the disgust, contempt, and
fear that blanched her face; the hasty gesture
of avoidance, the hurried manner in which she

| evaded and avoided him. At first, he was

| had listened to him on t

stunned, as with a heavy blow. The girl who

a sea-shore; who had
repeated that binding oath in the sun-lit garden
at Queen’s Lynne; who had promised to his
wife when he should return and claim her; the
girl for whom he had worked and toiled day
and night, after nearly four years of absence,
had coolly looked in his face, and passed him by
with dislike and avoidance.

For some minutes he could not realize it. The
shock seemed to have paralyzed him. When he
recovered, Rita had passed out of sight, and
Ralph’s anger was something fearful to wit-

ess.

“So,” he said slowly to himself, “that is it!
She sent me a few sugared words, thinking to
put me off, meaning to deceive me! She passed
me by! She was ashamed to ak to me be-
fore that fine officer! She looked as though she
ae me; and I—oh, heavens, I have loved her
so!”

Was he ashamed of the sharp, stinging pain
that rankled in his heart—of the hot tears that
blinded his eyes like aban Smeg They changed
him; love grew into fierce hate. Margaret Lisle
committed that morning one of the most fatal
errors in her erring life.

There and then, before leaving the Park,

‘; Ralph meditated long, and formed the plans so

fatal to the girl he loved.

“You will not tell me what alarmed you,
Miss Lisle?” said Captain Darcy again.

“Tt was nothing,” she replied, ‘“but a fancied
resemblance to one I knew, and dreaded, years
ago. I have quite recovered from m rm.
Let us speak of pleasanter. things. Have you
seen this famous picture?”

“No,” replied the captain. ‘‘ And if you will
pardon me, Miss Lisle, I will leave you here. I
will make my apologies to Lord Lisle. I am
not in the mood for looking at pictures.”

“As you will,” said Rita, gently.

‘Say those words to me again, Miss Lisle; bid
me God-speed on my journey.”

For one half-moment she hesitated. Surely
the lips so steeped in lies should not utter that
name.

“Good-by, Captain Darcy!” she said; ‘‘ God
speed you. I shall always remember you.”

He turned away, lest she should see the emo-
tion on his face.

“Going?” said Lord Lisle. ‘‘ Ah, you soldiers
are very fickle; I thought you wanted to see the
‘Condemned? Good-morning; I shall see you
at the club this evening.”

“Captain Darcy looks very melancholy,
Rita,” said Daisy. ‘‘Have you been cross, or
proud, or inflexible?”

“No,” said Rita, with a startled look; “I
have been passive, Daisy; that is the most I can
say for myself.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BLUE ENVELOPE.

Tuy stood before the wondrous picture.
Daisy’s sweet eyes filled with tears as she gazed
be the beautiful, despairing face, and the
chained wrists.

‘““The old story,” said Lord Lisle, gravely.
“Love is at once the greatest good, and the
greatest evil.”

“Abuse of it may be an evil,” said Daisy.
paar itself never could be anything but

“Tt is not the master-passion of the world,”
said Rita. ‘‘ Ambition is greater.”

“Do not say the word,” exclaimed Lord
Lisle. ‘‘I dislike ambition, and ambitious peo-
tie No word seems to me more harsh on the
ips of a young girl than that. I could pardon
much to love, nothing to ambition.”

Those words haunted Rita. He could pardon
much to love—nothing to ambition. Oh, if
ever he discovered her secret, there would be
Bo pity for her—nothing to plead on her be-

That evening, as Rita, dressed with great
magnificence and skill, descended the grand
staircase, a footman met her, carrying in his
hand a silver salver, on which lay one of those
blue envelopes she knew and detested.

‘““A man called with this before dinner, and
desired me, Miss Lisle, to give it to you at
once.”

Rita took the letter with a gesture of superb
indifference; there was no time then to open it;

 

the second dinner-bell had rung, and Mrs, Wy:
verne had one of her grand dinner parties. She

own coarse and sunburnt— | Jaced it carefully in the

 

cket of her dress.
t night would have
secret care or trouble weighed
upon her. She threw off the stately reserve
that usually wrapped her like a mantle. No
smile was so sweet and winning—no voice so
musical—no wit so keen—no satire so kindly as
hers. Even Lord Lisle was charmed; he lin-
gered by her side, and when the little party
moe up, he touched her beautiful face with his

o one who had seen her t
believed an

ps.
“That is my privilege now,” he said, gently.
“Goodnight, Rita. ou shall be precisa
Queen of Hearts.”

She laughed a low, sweet Jaugh—her heart
beat high with triumph. He was beginning to
love her as she wanted to be loved—as Captain
aee loved her; poor Captain Darcy who had
sailed that day for India, and who was never to
look upon her face again!

When she was alone in her own room, when
her maid had taken away the brilliant jewels
and the costly robes, Rita opened her letter,
and read it.

They were fierce, angry words, such as come
from the lips of coarse, angry men. ‘She was
his,” he said, ‘‘ before God and before man; his
by a thousand ties—by virtue of an oath she
dare not break—and he would claim her. She
had passed him by—ashamed of him, before her
grand friends; but it was useless. She must
appoint the time and place for an interview, or
he would call at the house, and force her to see
him. He would wait no longer—she must pre-
tre to keep her promise, and become his wife.

e could force her to do so; and if she would
see him, and hear all he had to say, she would
see how he could compel her to keep her
promise.”

There was nothing much of love in the letter.
He spoke chiefly of force, and as though he had
some mysterious power over her.

A on ae, and foreboding seized her as
she read. Ah! could it be, after all, that evil
brought its own punishment? Could it be that
retribution had already begun?

A thousand different plans suggested them-
selves to her. She would have shown scant
mercy to Ralph Ashton, had he been in her
power. All night, while others slept, she walked
ea up and down that sumptuous apart-
ment; night, while the stars shone, and the
wind whistled amid the trees—while the flowers
rested and drank eagerly of the glistening dew
—she, fevered and worn, raging with impotent
hatred, tried to form some plan by which she
could free herself from Ralph Ashton.

She could only think of one thing—that was
to temporize with him until she was married to
Philip. Once Lady Lisle, she would defy the
whole world. Nothing could change, alter, or
undo that. Ralph might rage and fume; he
might persecute and threaten; but if she were
Philip’s wife, what would it matter? If Lord
Lisle should know of this entanglement before-
hand, with his keen sense of honor, she knew he
would never dream of marrying her; but, if he
heard of it afterward, for his own sake he
would hush the matter and shield her.

Once married, she had nothing to fear. If she
could keep him at bay until then, all would be
well. She must do again as she had done before
—temporize with him. Ah! if she could go
away—go to some quiet, out-of-the-way place,
where he would not find her until the time
fixed for the wedding.

To think, with her, was ever to act. When
the early sunbeams peeped into her room, when
the birds began their morning hymn, and the
flowers opened their bright eyes, Rita was seated
at her little writing-table, composing, with all
the skill at her command, a letter that should
pacify Ralph Ashton.

She explained her ‘“‘seemingly strange be-
havior,” and assured him that she was longing
to'see him. But would he wait? She was busily
engaged in removing all difficulties. Would he,
as he valued her love, wait one week? She
would, in the meantime, arrange all for their
meeting and introduction to her friends. He
must write and tell her if he would consent.

It was a clever letter. Pity that such powers
should be so falsely a Every word of it
was carefully weighed. When Ralph Ashton
read it, he smiled a bitter, sardonic smile.

‘‘She writes well,” he muttered. ‘‘A week
can make no difference. As I value her love, I
agree to it.”

He wrote in reply, ‘‘I agree to your arrange-
ment. I will wait a week; at the end of that
time, if I do not hear from you, I shall call, and
not leave the house until I have seen you.”

The excitement, the fear and suspense, had
proved too much for Rita’s strength. Daisy,
going to her room one hour after Ralph’s an-
swer had been received and destroyed, found
her lying white and senseless upon the sofa.

Alarmed and anxious, Daisy hastily summoned
Mrs. Wyverne and her sister’s maid, Therese.
When Rita opened her eyes, she found the three
bending over her with startled faces.

“My dear child,” said Mrs. Wyverne, ‘‘ what
is it?—-what is the matter?”

‘““T feel ill,” replied Rita,— ill and over-done.
eed away—let me be somewhere quiet and
still.

 
  
 

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. \

 

2A
|

They laid her to rest in a darkened room; |
they bathed her hot brow in cool, fragrant |
water; and then retired, to hold an anxious |
consultation among themselves.

They had noticed a great change in her; her
spirits were unequal; there were times when
both had seen a wearied, wan look on her face,
and a shadow in her dark eyes. There could be
but one cause for it, and that was ill-health.

Mrs. Wyverne thought the excitement of her
Breveutetion, the continued succession of gaye-
ies, the whirl of pleasure, the never-ending pre-
parations for her marriage, had, altogther, been
too much for her.

“Tn my opinion, Daisy,” said the elder lady,
“your sister will have a serious illness unless
some steps are taken at once. I do not like
those dead faints; they show great weakness.
I must speak to Lord Lisle.”

But there was no need. Rita sent for Mrs.
Wyverne, who found her lying pale and quiet,
with a strange softening of her proud, haughty

face.
“Tam glad you are better, Rita,” said Mrs.
invemes ‘but I am uneasy about your

“Tt is of that I wish to speak to you,” replied
Rita. ‘I have not complained—I dislike com-
plaints; but I do not feel well; I have not been
well for some time. I am tired, wearied, long-
ing for rest.”

‘And rest you shall have,” said Mrs. Wy-
verne, whose heart was touched by the young
girl’s sad face and plaintive voice. ‘The best
of the season is over now. We will go away for
a time—you, Daisy, and myself—would you
like that?”

“Better than anything in the world!” she
cried, gratefully. ‘‘ How kind you are to me!
Yes, I should like a few weeks of perfect rest
and repose before my marriage—and the time
draws very near.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wyverne; ‘‘ the time draws
very near. Where would you like to go? Lisle
Court is all in a ferment.”

‘““Let us go to some quiet spot,” said Rita; “‘a
place unknown to the great world, where we
can be quite alone.”

“T know of a pretty little watering-place in
Wales. I went there many years ago. It is
twenty miles from Swansea. It is very quiet
and retired. Would you like that?”

“‘Very much,” she replied. ‘I cannot thank
you, but, indeed, I am grateful. Will you
promise me one thing more—promise that no
one shall know where we are going except Lord
Lisle? Do not allow it to be mentioned before
the servants, or we shall have crowds of fashion-
able friends invading our retreat. If you will
promise me that, I shall soon be well.”

She drew Mrs. Wyverne’s face down to her
own, and kissed it.

“Tt shall be just as you say, my dear child,”
said the elder lady; ‘‘even Therese shall not
know where we are going until she has left the
house. Lord Lisle can keep a secret; so can I.
But what a strange, nervous fancy it is!” she
continued, with a smile. ‘‘ However, if rest can
restore you to health, you shall soon be well.”

Lord Lisle cordially approved of the plan,
He had noticed some strange change in Rita,
and thought the arrangement a very sensible
one. Daisy was only too happy to leave gay,
crowded London.

Nor was Rita insincere. She was really ill,
and worn out with the struggle. She wrote an-
other letter to Ralph, telling him she was ill
and unable to leave her room. His reply did
not tend to comfort her, ‘‘ Il or well,” he said,
“she must see him at the end of the week.”

The indisposition of the beautiful Miss Lisle
was much deplored by the great world. She
had grown so popular, no ball or fete was con-
sidered egenkie without her. It was a sudden
eclipse of the brightest star. Condolence and
sympathy, in the shape of cards and letters,
poured in upon her. Mrs. Wyverne was flat-
tered, Daisy amused, by the sensation.

Her secrét was well ept. No one knew any-
thing of the intended journey. Her maid was
told that Miss Lisle was going away for a few
days’ rest and quiet. Mrs. erne humored
every whim and caprice, as though Rita had
been a sick child.

Lord Lisle promised to join them soon. One
fine morning, three days before the time ap-
sa for seeing Ralph, the three ladies, at-

nded by servants, left London for Sunbay, a

a retired spot on the southern shores of

ales.

At the first view, Sunbay was desolate—a
wide sweep of waters, and a clear, vast sky.
Grand old sloped down to the shore. Every
here and there, a pretty little villa peeped from
among the trees. There was no town, no regu-
lar streets—no place could be imagined more
silent or unknown. It was hidden altogether
from the great noisy world.

A nicely-furnished house was taken, and the
ladies comfortably established therein.

“Will this suit you, Rita?’ inquired Mrs.
Wyverne, anxiously. ‘‘ Nothing could be more
tranquil or duller.”

‘‘T cannot tell you how grateful and pleasant
the quiet is to me,” she replied.

 

It was a luxury to sit still. and not tremble at

every ring of the bell or step upon the stairs; it
was a luxury to walk out in the broad open day,

and not fear to meet the man she dreaded a

every corner of the road. :

To Daisy it was all a mystery—she could not
understand so great a change in her sister Rita,
whose life was one longing for pleasure and ex-
citement, to shun every one, and seek quiet.
She had never quite understood her foster-sister,
who was now more of a mystery than ever.

 

CHAPTER XXIV,
REPUDIATED.

In a few days after their arrival, Rita began
to recover herself. The panic of fear and dread
that had seized her died away. All now seemed
safe and secure. Once married, she had nothing
to fear, and every day brought her marriage
nearer. It was not likely Ralph would find her.
No matter what any one said, she did not intend
to leave Sunbay until a day or two previous to
the one fixed for her marriage.

She laughed triumphantly to herself. Yes,
once more schemes and maneuvers had pros-
paved once more fate had played into her

ands, and just retribution was delayed.

The color returned to her face, and the smiles
to her lips.

“This rest_is curing you, Rita,” said Mrs.
Wyverne. “Lord Lisle will hardly know you.”

‘IT do not feel the same,” she replied. mally
think coming here has saved my life.

Nothing happened to disturb her. From Lon-
don and from Lisle Court, daily, letters told
how nearly everything was prepared for Miss
Lisle’s marriage. The magnificent jewels were
on view at Messrs. Storr and Mortimer’s; the
carriages were to be seen at Hewson’s; the
trousseau, one of the most exquisite and elabor-
ate ever prepared, was in the hands of Madame
Cerise.

At Lisle Court, all the more modern rooms
had been refurnished in the most recherche and
luxurious style. From ‘‘rosy morn until dewy
eve,” Rita heard of nothing but the grandeur
and luxury prepared for her.

The wedding-day was fixed for the 13th of Au-
gust, and it was now the 2d. Lord Lisle wrote
to say that if Rita felt quite recovered, and
Mrs. Wyverne would receive him, he should
like to spend a few days at Sunbay.

She could not allege any excuse, neither did
she wish to do so. er marriage would give
her the title and position she had longed for;
but she valued, even above that, the love of the
man she was going to marry.

She wrote a few lines to Lord Lisle—a few
loving words, such as she had never used to
him before,—saying how pleased she would be

to see him. Years afterward, Lord Lisle read |

those words, and wondered at the love of that
ambitious heart for him.

When he arrived at Sunbay, Mrs. Wyverne
was in the house alone. Rita and Daisy had

‘one out for a ramble on the cliffs, she said, and

e had better join them.

‘‘Philip,” said considerate Mrs. Weyverne,
‘‘ will you tell Daisy I want her to write some
little jnotes for me, if she will return home at
once.

Lord Lisle promised to deliver the message.
In the far distance he saw the two girls sitting
on the hight of a tall white cliff. Lord Lisle
never forgot the picture. The two faces—so
beautiful, yet so unlike—standing out in bold
relief against the clear blue sky, the purple
heather spreading around them, and the waves
breaking at their feet.

He was true. Even then he would not look at
the fair, spiritual face, and the golden head,
that drooped sadly as Daisy omen sight of
him. He only looked at Rita, whose beaut,
was ee by the bright blush that wel-
comed him.

After a few words of greeting, Lord Lisle de-
livered his message, and Daisy turned awa
with a smile. As the house was almost in sight,
he did not offer to accompany her, but sat down
in the purple heather, by Rita’s side.

“Tneed not ask if you are better,” he said,
gallantly; ‘‘ you never looked so well. I imagine
your illness was a complete over-dose of pleas-
ure, Rita. I am amazed when I think of all the
toil you fashionable ladies undergo.”

She made some laughing reply; and then the
sat for some minutes in silence, the sunny, smil-
ing sea breaking with a musical murmur at
their feet. The measure of her content was
full. She was safe; and the man she loved bet-

ter than all the world besides sat by her side. |

When Lord Lisle ke again, his voice had
changed—there was deep emotion in every tone.
“Rita,” he said, producing a small morocco
case, “‘there was one strange omission at the
time of our betrothal. I gave you no ring; I
have brought you one now; may I place it upon
your finger, and will you promise me never to
remove it?”
He never forgot the love that shone in her
dark eyes as she raised them to his face. :
“T will never remove it, Philip,” she said,
gently. ‘‘ While you live in my heart, that
sg See remain upon my hand,’ :
e gave a little cry of pleasure and surprise

when he opened the case, and took from it one

 

of the prettiest and most costly rings she had
ever seen. It was of pure pale gold; one large
diamond of the first water was surrounded by
small but tk rubies.

“Do you like it?” he asked gently.

‘‘ More than any jewel I have,” she replied.

He took the firm white hand into his own,
and placed the ring on her finger.

‘You will never part with it?” he said.

“Never; neither in life nor in death!” she
answered.

He kissed the jeweled hand.

“Suppose I am very presumptuous,” he said,
“and oo for a reward; shall you be very
angry?

or the first time in her life, she raised her
face to his, and he touched her lovely, blushing
cheek with his 7

“Neither in life or in death,” he heard her
murmur; but he had no clue to her thoughts.

So they sat through the long, bright summer
hours, talking happily of the future that lay
unruffied as the summer sea before them. Lord
Lisle saw that Rita’s eyes never once quitted
the ring. She watched the diamond sparklin,
and gleaming in the sun, He was touche
more than he cared to own by the expression of
her face.

Suddenly, he looked at his watch. ‘I must
write to London,” he said. ‘‘I promised not
to forget. Will you return to the house, Rita,
or shall I come back for you—what would
you like best?”

“T have my book with me,” she replied.
‘““The cliff is far more pleasant than the house,
this warm day. When you have finished your
letter, come back for me, if you will.”

Her eyes followed him until he passed out of
sight; ihen: they wandered to the ring.

she opened her book, but never read one word.

“How kind he is,” she said to herself; ‘‘ how
noble, how unlike other men! Ah! I wish—
how I wish I could have won him, and have
won all that is now mine, without evil or wrong!
I detest wrong when I look at him.”

A strong hand was laid upon her shoulder; a
hot, fierce grasp held her hands.

“T have found you!” hissed a low voice into
her ear. “There is no spot upon earth where
you could hide from me!”

She started to her feet with a cry of more
than mortal agony, and stood confronting Ralph
Ashton.

‘‘T have found you!” he said again, with a
sneering laugh. ‘You weak, pitiful coward,
do you think you can ever deceive me?” Ah,
me!—the wild anguish of that face!

“Ralph!” she said, at length, in a low, hoarse
voice; “have you no pity”

“No,” he replied; ‘*‘none. I have come to
claim my wife, and I will have her!”

“ But,” she interrupted, faintly, ‘all that is
changed now. Were I still nee Rivers,
ou can see as

such a thing ralght be possible.
well as myself the impassable distance between
you and Miss Lisle.”

“There is no distance between us,” he said,
with a mocking laugh. ‘‘ Rita,” he continued,
passionately, “how can you think circum-
stances can change such love as mine? Had
fortune come to me instead of you, I should
have laid it at your feet—crowned you with it
—not spurned and despised you. All words are
useless. I am here to claim your promise.
Will you be my wife?”

Face to face with the danger so long dreaded,
her courage rose.

‘“‘No,” she said, ‘‘never! Ralph, I do not
want to quarrel with you, but you must see
yourself I could never be your wife.”

“Ts that fair-haired aristocrat who sat here
your lover?” he asked, fiercely.

“Yes,” she replied, “he is my lover—Lord
Lisle—and I have promise to marry him. There
is some -one to take my part, and punish you if
you persecute me.”

He recoiled from her words. ‘Good heavens!”
he cried; ‘how heartless women are! Four
years ago, you said you loved me—you gave
me sweet words, sweet kisses—your head was

illowed on my breast—you swore you would

my wife! You took my heart from me, and
held it in your hands! Now, you ae back
to me, and talk of ‘ punishing’ me for that very
love you once returned!”

“Hush!” she said, with a gesture of queenly
dignity. ‘‘Do not remind me of my past folly
Lie ret it.” ase, |

“Folly!” he cried. ‘Oh, Rita! is it for this
I have toiled these years; is this the welcome

ou give me? Do you remember that night be-

are left you in the garden, at Queen’s Lynne?”

“Hush!” she said again, imperiously. “I
will not be reminded of those times; they are
nothing tome. Surely, Ralph,” she continued,
more ntly “you must see everything is
changed. Ishould lose all my friends, my for-
tune, my position, everything I value most, if I
became your wife.”

‘So your new name, your new friends, your
wealth and grandeur, are the real barrier be-
tween us? I can remove them, Rita!” he said,
doggedly.

look of startled fear broke the proud calm
of her face. ‘ : ;

‘Once, and for the last time,” he said, ‘‘ will

 

 

 
 

 

 

|
|

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER. 23

 

 

you keep your promise to me, and be my wife?
Answer me!”

“Never!” she replied; ‘‘ come what may.”

His face grew livid with anger.

‘Without doubt,” he said, ‘‘ you love the fair-
haired stripling who has supplanted me?”

‘You may as well know the truth,” she said,
recklessly ; ‘I do love him!”

“Then go to him,” he said, hoarsely; ‘‘ go and
tell him you are a living lie—a false, mean trait-
ress! Tell him you have stolen a name and a
birthright—that you are Margaret Rivers, and
no more Lord Lisle’s daughter thanI am! Te
him that, and, in his turn, he will spurn you!”

He stopped in the midst of his burning torrent
of words, frightened at the white despair that
came into her face.

“What do you mean?” she asked. ‘‘ What can
you know of me?” 3

“T know all your pretty plot from beginning
to end,” he retorted; ‘‘and I should never have
s oiled it had you been true tome. Even now,

will keep your secret if you will be my wife.”

She waved him from her with a superb dis-
dain that infuriated him.

“Tell me,” she said; ‘‘ what do you mean?”

He seemed to take a pleasure in looking upon
her agonized face. ; '

“T shall be obliged—much pees your will—
to revert to those past times that no longer be-
long to you,” he said, mockingly; “‘to that very
evening, indeed, when I bade you farewell, and

ou took the oath that has so easily been bro-
en,”

“Go on!” she said, hoarsely, as he paused.

“‘T asked you for a keepsake, and you gave
me an old book. Neither you or I knew what
was fastened in it.”

“What!” she gasped.
Ralph.”

‘“‘Spare you, as I have been spared,” he re-
torted. ‘I will tell you what was in it: proof
of the lie you have told and acted—proofs that
the golden-haired girl you have cheated and be-
trayed is the rightful daughter of Lord Lisle!”

er face could grow no whiter; its pallor was

“Do not torture me,

dreadful to witness—the quivering lips could
utter no words.
“‘T will show you,” he continued. “Stand

where you are. would rather trust to a tiger
than to afalse woman. See! Do you remem-
ber the book?”

He took from his pocket the yolume she had
so carelessly given him that fatal evening. He
opened it, and showed her some folded papers
lying between the leaves.

“T did not find these until I was far from
England,” he said—‘‘far out on the deep seas.
I little thought then what I held in my hands.
Draw nearer, that you may see.”

 

CHAPTER XXV.
THE TYRANT LOVER.

THE unhappy girl made one step toward him,
her eyes riveted on the papers he held.

‘¢ See,” cried Ralph Ashton, mockingly; ‘ this
is the first proof of oe HO. ry Z

He held toward her a portrait, the pictured
face of a little child—a sweet, spiritual face,
with tender eyes and sensitive lips; golden curls
ran over her little head. Underneath the por-
trait was written, in a clear, legible hand, some-
what faded:

‘“‘ The portrait of my dear little Daisy, given
to Susan Rivers by er sincere and grateful
friend, MARGARET.”

“There can be no doubt about this, I sup-
poet said Ralph, sneeringly. ‘This face of

he child Daisy here is, as any one can see, the
face of the young girl you call Susan Rivers’;
daughter. ou do not resemble this portraits
our hair never was golden, your eyes never
Sia’ You are, POCA more beautiful; but,
you never looked true and guileless, as this
child does. Ihave yet another proof. Here is
a letter written by Lord Lisle’s wife, just be-
fore she set sail, it seems, for India. Listen. She

says:

we Isend my darling’s portrait; it is just like
her. May she grow up fair and innocent as she
is now. Call a Daisy, nurse, to distinguish
her from your own little Rita—the pretty dark-
haired child, who will be a sister to my darling.
Do not let her forget me. When you take her
in your arms, tell her how I loved her—how I
used to kiss her golden curls, I have one
with me.’

“There is more of it,” continued Ralph, ‘‘ but
yon. have heard enough. The fair-haired, fair-

aced child called Daisy, whose portrait I hold
here, is Lord Lisle’s daughter. You can sooner
deny the sun that shines in the heavens, or the
sea that rolls at your feet, than that.”
Ido deny it,” she said, boldly. ‘“ You may

do your worst. I deny it all.”

“You are clever at plots and plans,” he said;
“others are skillful as you. You roused a de-
mon when you insul me. I have been to
Deepdale. I did not betray you, Rita; but
those are living there who still remember the
beautiful dark-eyed child of Susan Rivers—who
remember the strange lady coming and bring-
ing the little Daisy with her. There are lenty
who would swear to your identity—and to hers.

She clasped her hands with a low ery, and he

 

continued: ‘* You may brave me and defy me;
but, remember, surely as you court inquiry. so
surely is your cause lost. The evidence I hold
here is too strong; the evidence that can be ob-
tained in Deepdale is stronger still. You will
have no chance. You will lose the name, the
rank, the position, the fortune you have won—
ah, and you will lose that fine lover of yours!
Men of that stamp do not wed cheats and liars.
How long would his love survive the knowledge
of what you have done?”

Not one moment—she knew it; and the truth

ll , of his words struck her like a sharp sword. The

ring he had given her gleamed and glistened in
the sun. She laid her lips upon it, with a pas-
sionate cry.

“Now, Rita,” said Ralph, aD
“you see you are utterly and completely in my

ower. Let us make terms. I do not wish to

e hard upon you. I will keep your secret, and
you shall keep your home and station, if you
will marry me.”

ee made no answer, and he continued,
eagerly.

“Tt will not be difficult to tell this Lord Lisle
that I was your own true love years ago, and
that I have returned fromsea. Tell him you
care most for me, and want your freedom. He
will give itto you. Wecan be married then.
You are rich enough. The late Lord Lisle left
yen plenty. We can live upon it. If you re-

use to do this—nay, do not turn from me—I
will go first to your lover, then to the true Miss
Lisle, and tell the story of your shame and
crime to both. I will make all England ring
with your story. I will make your name a by-
word and a mockery to all those who have flat-
tered and praised you. ‘The would-be Miss
Lisle’ shall figure in police-reports and in the
prison-cell,” :

He stopped, exhausted by his own violence.
There came no cry from her pale lips, She
crouched upon the ground, and hid her face in
her hands.

“You may think yourself well off,” he said,
“if no worse naire than marrying me
come to you. Iamnosaint. I would do much
to win gold and fortune, but I could not have
betrayed the peing and the dead, as you have
done. Let me tell you, in all your insolent
pride of beauty, passionately as I love you,
there are times when I recoil in dismay an
loathing at the thought of what you are.”

She could sink no lower, when he who had

looked upon her as a goddess and a queen dared

to say this.

She raised her despairing face to the smil-
ing summer sky. , that crime and evil
should have marred such beauty!

“Ralph,” she said, gently, ‘do not deal so
hardly with me. You have brought me low;
have you no mercy for me—no pity? I cannot
marry you; I love Lord Lisle.”

“You can make your choice of the two evils,”
he said, carelessly. ‘‘I swear not to alter one
word of what I have said!”

“Haye pity on me, Ralph!” she moaned. But
there was no relenting in his dark, handsome
face. He stood over her, as she knelt in the
purple heather at his feet, and she saw all plead-
ing was lost upon him. :

‘Give me time, at least?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied; “‘you may have time.
‘You want to contrive more plans and schemes,
but you cannot. You are in my power. I will
give you time, but I will not lose sight of you.”

“We leave here soon,” she cried; and the an-
guish of her voice almost touched him.

“Teave when you will,” he said; ‘I shall
follow. You may take another week to think
of your answer, if you like; but you will not
play me false again, for I shall not lose sight of
you. Tell me where and when to meet you; I
will be there.”

“We are cing to Lisle Court _on Thursday,”
she said. ‘Meet me early on Saturday morn-
ing, at. seven o’clock, in the park. You shall
have my answer then.”

“T know, beforehand, what it will be, my

roud, dainty beauty,” he said. ‘‘ You will be

rs. Jph Ashton, and keep your ill-gotten
wealth. ou will be my wife, as you swore
to be!”

He bent over her, as though to kiss her face,
as Philip had done so short a time before. She
turned from him with a cry of disgust.

“You shall pay for that!” he said, fiercely.
i aera people would not care to kiss such lying
ips

He left her abruptly, going with quick foot-
steps down the cliff.

“T have humbled her,” he said, with a sneer;
‘‘she will never pass me by again. Poor Rita!
I wish it had been different.” .

He was gone, and she stood alone in her
anguish and shame, alone in her misery; life all
wretched—her hopes all blighted.

“The hour was cursed,” she said, ‘‘ when I
took evil for my good.” i

Philip’s ring was shining upon her finger; his
words still sounded in her ears; his caressing
touch was still warm upon her face, and she
would never hear loving words from him again,
He must either loathe her as a traitress and
most wicked betrayer of trust, or he must look

coldly upon her, believing that she preferred |

 

that coarse, savage man to him. Do as she
would, Philip was lost to her.

From the chaos of thought that
through her brain, that idea was the only one
that came clearly to her. Philip was lost to her.
The words seemed to be all round her in letters
of flame; the sunny sky seemed falling into the
smiling sea. A red mist came before her eyes,
and blinded them. Without cry or sound, she
fell as one dead, among the purple heather and
fragrant grass.

Lord Lisle finished his letter, and then started
out once more to fetch Rita. Mrs. Wyverne
met him as he was crossing the hall.

“You will have to use a little more expedi-
tion over this walk than you did over the first
one,” she said, smilingly; ‘‘we keep primitive
oe here, Philip. Dinner will be ready at

ve.

He made some light, laughing reply, and
hastened on to the hi’ Dit his eyes aeaatys
him, or was it only fancy? Lord Lisle felt sure
that he saw a man rush Pastily from Rita’s side;
a dark, handsome man, who walked hastily
oe him, with an angry, heated look upon his

‘ace.

He reached the top of the cliff. He had left
Rita, not more than an hour since, bright, beau-
tiful, full of hope and love, the diamond in her
ring no brighter than the litt in her eyes. He
found her, white and senseless as one stricken
with death, lying crushed and helpless amon,
the purple heather. In one moment he ha
raised her, and pillowed her head on his breast.

“Rita, my darling!” he cried, ‘‘ what is the
matter?

He kissed the white face over and over again;
it seemed to him, then, that she was like some
dying, helpless child.

The dark eyes opened slowly. Ah, me! the
wore of unutterable woe in their shadowed

epths!

‘ Rita,” said Lord Lisle, ‘‘thank heaven, you
are better! You frightened me. What is the
matter—what made you ill?”

She made no reply, but turned from the kind-
ly, honest face bent over her.

“Have you been alarmed?” he asked, ay.
“T thought I saw some great, rough man rus
ing Sey Have you been annoyed in any
way? ‘

“No,” she said, in a low, quiet voice; ‘‘I have
been too long in the sun—it has made me
faint.”

“But Mrs. Wyverne told me you were quite
strong again,” said Lord Lisle, anxiously.

She looked so weary and distressed, that he
was at a loss what to think or say.

“T am sure something has happened, Rita,”
persisted Lord Lisle; ‘‘a little warm, pleasant
sunshine could never affect you in this way.
Ges that man annoyed you, and you do not like
to say so? I feel certain that I saw him speak-
ing to you,”

‘You are mistaken,” she said, wearily. ‘‘ Oh,
Philip! do not tease me. I am tired; take me
home.”

He said no more, but a shadow fell over his
bright, handsome face; he felt something like
constraint and suspicion creep into his heart.

“Philip,” said Rita, “‘say nothing to Mrs.
Wyverne and Daisy; they tease me, and make
themselves unhappy when I am ill.”

“So you never tell them, and let them think
yon are growing strong?” he said. ‘‘I shall

ve to take care of you myself. I shall stay
here to-morrow, and take you to Lisle Court
myself.”

‘When Rita came down to dinner, there was
but little trace of her illness. Jewels and dress
hid the anxious, trembling heart. Still, Mrs.
Wyverne would make what Daisy called a sen-
sation. After dinner, she forced Rita to rest
upon the little couch Philip placed near the open
window.

st HE may read to you,” she said; “but
you must be quiet.”

Daisy played while the sun set over the rip-
pling sea; and the birds sung their evening

ymns; and Philip talked to the unhappy girl,

whose quivering lips could bacdle smile,

“You are better, now,” he said, looking anx-
iously into her face. ‘Ah, Rita! you must be
more careful; you are not strong. For my
sake, you must take care of yours”

She could have cried aloud with the intensity
of the pain his words caused her, and he could
not avoid remarking the strange expression of
her features.

‘‘Are you not happy, Rita?” he asked, bend-
ing over her. ‘Does it pain you to think that
your life will all be passed with me? Do you
not love me, that you look so sad when I speak
of our future?”

‘‘Love you!” she said, raising her dark eyes
tohis. ‘Yes, Philip; I love you so dearly—so
well, that I wish I could die now, with your
face looking kindly upon me, and your voice
sounding in my ear!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE FINAL RESOLVE,

TE sun shone clear and bright in the midday
heavens when the travelers reached Lisle Cours.
Never had the grand old building looked to

 
   
 

 

aA

greater advantage. Never had the woods and
pleasure-grounds looked so fair.

The birds sung gayly in the heart of the deep
woods; the summer air thrilled with their melo-
dy; brilliant flowers shone from the midst of
green teen There were not many fairer or
more brilliant Bi ey in England than Lisle
Court as it looked that bright morning in Au-

gust.

It was Mrs. Wyverne’s wish that the wed-
ding should take place there. Lord Lisle, too,
was pleased with the idea. The preparations
for the marriage had been carried on with
magnificent disregard of expense. Rita’s heart
beat high with gratified vanity. Ah, if she
could have but thrown the black shadow that
haunted her into the background! If she could
but for one moment have forgotten Ralph Ash-
ton, and felt safe!

ever had the splendor of this grand old home
of the Lisles been so dear toher. The sumptuous
furniture, the costly pictures, the wonderful
array of gold and silver plate, the numerous
servants, the comfort and luxury that pervaded
the whole establishment—and all this, but for
Ralph Ashton, might be hers!

But for him, she, next week, might be en-
throned mistress and queen—she would be Lad
Lisle—every hope and desire of her heart grati-
fied—but for him!

As she looked with wistful eyes upon the
luxuries around her, a deep, dead a hatred rose
inher heart against him who would fain deprive
her of all. She said to herself that she would
rather die a thousand deaths than be his wife.
He should never triumph over her. She had
found but little time for thinking what her
answer would be. She must decide that night.

Lord Lisle had intended to remain for an hour
or two at the Court, then hasten on to London,
where a multiplicity of business awaited him.
Mrs. Wyverne pressed him to remain for that
one night, and he consented to do so.

The wedding so long talked of was to take
place in the soe ae week. All preparations
and arrangements had been made for the recep-
tion of the young ladies who were to officiate as
bridesmaids, and the brilliant company of guests
invited for the occasion.

Lisle Court was ina ferment. French cooks,
direct from Paris, had been engaged for the
occasion; the whole country-side was aroused
pe interested; and people talked of nothing
else.

“We shall have one quiet evening,” said
Daisy, after dinner, ‘‘and even that we ought
to be Bropeny, ateful for. I am overwhelmed
when I think of all the smiling and talking that
lies before us.”

It might have been a happy evening but for
the white, wearied face of Rita. Lord Lisle
looked at her in amaze. When she spoke, he
detected a ring of pain in her voice that aston-
ished him. He saw her lips quiver when she
tried to smile, and her hands clasped tightly
when the future, or her marriage, was alluded

to.
She did not look like the happy bride whose~

every wish was gratified. Pale and sad, with a
deep shadow in her dark eyes, what had come
over her? Lord Lisle was both grieved and
anxious.

Rita had gone to the large window that looked
into the pretty pleasure-garden. A large foun-
tain played in the midst of blooming flowers.
Blossoms of every hue and shade were there.
The western sunbeams lingered over them. She
watched the bees and butterflies roaming from
leaf to leaf. She watched the tall trees bending
their stately heads in the evening breeze. She
watched the smiling heavens, the rippling wa-
ters, and the setting sun, with despair more
bitter than death in her heart.

“Next week,” she thought, ‘all this would be
mine, but for him!”

She clenched her white fingers at the words
“but for him.” If he were but dead—no mat-
ter how he died, provided that she were free.

She started, uttering a low cry, when Lord
ae suddenly stood by her side, and spoke to

er.

“Tt is a beautiful evening,” he said; ‘‘are
yeu looking at the flowers, Rita? I must tell

ennings you admire them. He always con-
siders this especial piece of ground his chef-
Voewvre.”

She made no reply. The sense of his words

had not reached her. Through the tortured
heart and brain one idea ran. She must give
her answer to-morrow. What should that an-
swer be? .
- “Rita,” said Lord Lisle, gently, ‘‘ despite
your feverish attempts at.gayety, you seem
very ee La What is it? Have you any
trouble? If so, share it with me. Let there be
no secret between us. If you have any sorrow
or trial, tell it to me. You know I am your
best friend.”

He looked so noble, so strong and true, that
she longed to kneel at his feet, and tell him all.
Better to meet judgment from him than from
Ralph Ashton. The impulse was strong upon
her, but she resisted it, resolving to fight to the
very last, and in that resolve sealing her own

‘ate.
“Ts there anything,” continued Lord Lisle,

 

gravely, ‘‘in the arrangements made that does
not please you? Have you any wish ungrati-
fied?—any desire unfulfilled?”

“None!” she replied, drearily. “If I com-
fen of anything, it would surely be too much

indness.”

“Then you are ee ekaan e and depressed!”
said Philip, taking her hand, ‘‘ Ah, Rita, you
have no faith! Your future is not an unknown
land, but a sunny, ae path! I can see no
trouble for you; you only want rousing and
cheering!”

Something like a low moan came from her
lips. He bent over, and kissed her sad face
more lovingly than he had ever done before.
In after years he was pleased to remember that.
He never forgot the anguish in her features, as
she laid her head passively against his shoulder.

“Tf I might only die now!” she murmured;
and he saw that her dark eyes were wet with
tears.

“Death and you will be strangers for many
long years, I hope,” he said, believing she was
depressed and ill.

ut he could not cheer her. She talked to
him: there was no music in her voice, How
could she either smile or forget, when she knew
that Ralph Ashton was keeping his stern watch
near the walls of the house, and that early to-
morrow morning she must give her answer?

She endured it until she could bear no more;
her energy seemed to fail, her strength gave
way. The hands Lord Lisle held in his own
were cold as marble.

“T am very tired,” she said. ‘I must ask
you to excuse me. It is your last night here. I
am sorry to leave you so early.”

“T can only hope rest may restore you,” said
Lord Lisle. ‘If Nek feel better in the morning,
let me see you before I go.”

How little he Seer as he looked on her
beautiful face for the last time, what the morn-
ing sun would see! ;

rs. Wyverne would with Rita. Daisy
was left alone with Lord Lisle.

He was troubled and wnhappy for some time
past. It seemed to him that something more
than ill-health affected Rita. In vain he tried
to think what it could be. He had anticipated
her delight and admiration at the changes and
improvements that had taken place; her plea-
sure at the numerous and costly preparations
made in her honor; but she had looked indiffer-
ently upon them all, and seemed to avoid the
subject. She looked like anything but a happy
bride.

“Daisy,” said Lord Lisle, suddenly, “you
will soon be my sister as well as Rita’s. Do you
know, I am very anxious over her. I never saw
any one so changed. She used to be all anima-
tion. Now she looks as though life held no in-
terest for her. Have you remarked it?”

“Yes,” said Daisy. ‘‘Mrs. Wyverne was
speaking to me about her last evening. It must
be the reaction after all our gayety in London.”

“T wish I could think so,” sai oak ey
appears to me that some secret weighs heavily
upon her mind. No physical illness could have
changed her so. Has she any secrets, Daisy?
Iam soon to be her husband; I ought to know
them.”

“What secret can she have?’ asked Daisy,
startled. by his earnest manner. ‘I know of
none. I know of nothing that can trouble her,
Lord Lisle.” :

Lara quite puzzled by her manner,” he con-
tinued. ‘‘ Why is she so silent, so abstracted,
so unlike herself this evening? There is some
mystery in it.”

e little dreamed how soon and how tragical-
ly his question was to be answered, and the
mystery solved. :

aisy tried to soothe him—to make him forget
both irritation and anxiety; but thoughts that
he could not put into words haunted Lord Lisle.

““T will see her in the morning,” he said, ‘‘be-
fore I go, and persuade her to trust in me. She
So ae to me, and I must take care of

er.

Mrs. Wyverne thought she was doing a kind,
motherly action in ore ie Rita to her room.
She knew nothing of the imperative need for
rest and thought. It seemed to Rita that she
should never alone. Mrs. Wyverne would
talk about her wedding; about the long train of
bridesmaids, comprising some of the fairest and
noblest girls in England; of the grand ceremo-
nial and the brilliant company ;—all this, while
Ralph Ashton stood outside the walls keeping
watch upon her. :

She talked until the unhappy girl grew des-
perate. It seemed to her that she must cry
aloud. Mrs. Wyverne noticed the white, quiv-
ering face. :

‘“‘T will leave you now, Rita,” she said, gent-
ly; ‘Iam talking too much.”

In after years she was pleased to remember
how she had turned back and kissed the young
face so white and worn.

Daisy, too, could not rest until she had been
in to see her sister. She threw her arms round
her. The last words Rita ever heard from her
roseate lips were a blessing and a heartfelt
prayer.

She was alone at last, and had time to think
what should her answer be?

 

THE.,-FIRESIDE, LIBRARY.

Did ever hatred and love fight again as they
fought that night in her heart? Did ever the
ye stars shine down upon one so wretched?

ook where she would, there was no hope. She
was hemmed in with toils of her own makin;
—caught in the fatal web she had woven roun
herself. If she refused Ralph Ashton and made
him desperate, he would go straight to Lord
Lisle, and tell him all. She knew that he could
easily prove the truth of his story. Daisy’s
likeness to the Lady Sybella Lisle was one proof
in itself,

What would happen then? Even if she were
spared the prison cell, she would lose everything
—name, position, rank, wealth, and Philip. She,
who had reigned a haughty and brilliant queen,
would be driven forth from the luxurious home
that sheltered her, a penniless outcast, mocked,
scorned, despised, and insulted by those who
had flattered her—she, at whose feet the noblest
in the land had offered their homage.

She could never live and bear it; she could
never endure the loss of all she had sinned so
deeply to win.

On the other hand, how could she renounce
Philip and marry Ralph? What excuse could
she offer for such a breach of faith?, The world
she had loved and served so well would disown
her. With every preparation made—with
guests invited, and the whole ceremony ar-
ranged, how could she break off her engage-
ment? Certainly not under the pretext of ‘“‘an
old lover returned from sea.” How could she

resent Ralph Ashton to a gentle, refined lady,
ike Mrs. Wyverne? No one would tolerate him.

True, if she did so, and married him, she
would still have wealth; the fortune Lord Lisle
left her was considerable; but it would be
worse than useless—it would be poisoned by the
continual presence of Ralph Ashton.

She would never do it. Shecould never, after
the training of these few years, associate with
one like Ralph Ashton. Never again! Life
with. him would be living death.

No! fate must do its worst. She hated him
with a deadly, rancorous hatred. She would
rather suffer anything, she would rather die any
death, than marry him. He should not trample
upon her ruined hopes and prospects. From
the wreck of her life he should not rise, rich
and prosperous. Let him do his worst, she
would not marry him.

The pale glimmer of the stars had died away,
and the gray morning light came into her room
before she had made her final resolve. It was
made at last; her answer was ready. She
looked at her watch; it was then emey four.
She was to meet Ralph at seven. There was
some little time to rest.

A solemn hush and silence fell over her. Her
answer was ready, and she could not foresee
what it would cost her.

CHAPTER XXVILI.
THE TRAGEDY.

SurEe.y the most solemn sleep of all is the
sleep of the condemned man just before death.
The deep repose that fell upon the unhappy girl
was not more dreamless or still. There was no
more torture of indecision; her answer was

ready.

She slept until the August sun shone full and
warm upon her face. Perhaps the most painful
moment of her life was that in which she woke.
The first rush of memory smote her like a sharp
sword. She remembered all: why she had
slept, where she was going, and what the day
would bring forth.

It wanted but a few minutes to seven, and
she dared not delay, lest not meeting her, Ralph
should come to the house, and exposure take
place before all the servants.

She still wore the rich dinner-dress and cost-
ly jewels that she had put on to please Lord
Lisle. She did not stay to remove them. A
dark cloak flung over her shoulders hid them
from view.

What was it caused her to stand for a few
minutes at the door of her room, and look back
upon its luxurious quiet as upon a lost home?

o thought came to her of the next sleep she
would take upon the pretty white bed.

Gently and noiselessly she went out into the
parlor. None of the servants observed her; no
one saw her leave the house, or knew at what
hour she had done so. :

The morning was sweet and calm; dew-drops
still glittered upon the tall trees and the fra-
grant blossoms. The birds were all awake
singing of the quiet summer beauty around »
them. From the depths of the wood came the
music of rustling leaves and the singing brook.
The flowers had raised their bright heads. Na-
ture is never so fair, so smiling, so gracious as
in the early hours of the ak

The beauty of earth and sky brought no glad-
ness to her; the sweet, fresh summer wind
raised no color on her features. The flowers
bloomed, and the birds sung in vain for her.

She saw Ralph Ashton standing at the stile
that led into the woods. He smiled at the
shudder of hate that she could not repress.

“True to your time, Rita,” he said. ‘But
you always were. If I remember rightly, you
were often at the trysting-place before me.”

at

 

Sc, we

 

 
f

 

 

———_—

LORD LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

25

 

 

She did not speak; she had resolved to hear
all he had to sayin silence. She would give
her answer, and take her chance. Never again
would she kneel at his feet, or ask for his mer-
i ae beautiful white face was cold and
1ard,

“Let us go into the wood,” said Ralph. ‘I
mean to have things settled this morning. If
we remain here, some of those prying servants
may see us, and interpret what promises to be
a very pleasant scene.”

She followed him into the wood-path, where
the tall trees met overhead, and shut out the
smiling, merciful heaven. The tall, green grass
was wet with dew; pretty wild flowers grew
side by side with rare fern-leaves. The wind
made solemn music among the leafy branches.

As she looked her last upon the summer skies,
the pnbarpy girl shivered as one seized with
mortal cold.

“Not so warm here as in one of my Lord
Lisle’s hot-houses,” he said, with a coarse laugh.
“‘Now, Rita, let us have no tragedy airs. Iam
come for my answer, and I mean to have it.
What are you going to do? Will you be my
wife?”

“No!” she said, in clear, steady tones. ‘‘I
have thought well. I would rather suffer an
disgrace—any shame—any torture—any deat
than be ro wife! Ihave coe te and I must
suffer. I thought to escape— rosper in my
evil aseasbne Mighty Hand val overtaken
me. Doas you will; sane me—betray me—
degrade me—rob me of all I value and love—I
am still spared the greatest degradation of all—
that of becoming your wife!”

His face grew livid with ion, Had she
seen the fury that flamed from his eyes, she
would have fled for her life, but her face was
turned from him. an

“That is your answer?” he said, in a low,
hissing voice. :

“Tt is my final decision,” she said.
you will.” .

‘You know that I shall go straight to Lord
Lisle, and tell him how vile a trai he has
asked to be his wife; that before sunset you
will be thrust with ignominy and disdain from
a home to which you have never had the slight-
est right?”

“T have Spee she said, “that yon have
overlooked. Even re oucarry out your
scheme of vengeance} shall a change places
with my foster-sister. The late Lord Lisle in-
tended to befriend Susan Rivers’ child even as
she had befriended his daughter. You will
Fi a ty and degrade me—your power stops

ere.

The fury in his face would have alarmed her,
but she never saw it.

“Ralph,” she said, ‘fin yonder house eve:
thing is prepared for my wedding. I love ran
and luxury; I love Lord Lisle. Make a com-

act with me. Leave me in peace—leave me to
take my own path, and you take yours. I will
make you a rich man—rich beyond your wildest
dreams. You gain nothing by disgracing me.”

“Yes,” he replied, angrily, ‘‘I gain my re-
venge.

Vou refuse, then?” she asked.

“T refuse, I have sworn, and ae have
sworn that y will be my wife. t vow
shall be kept!”

“Never!” she said, calmly; ‘I prefer death.
I have sinned myself, but I could never stoop so
low as to marry the man who could trade upon
a woman’s secret. Do your worst; you cannot
hurt me much. I will go with you, and look
Lord Lisle in the face while en your story.
ITamno coward, When all is done—when your

“Do as

worst vengeance is wreaked upon me—I am the.

victor—not you!” ,

She was frightened then, for he seized her
arm with a hard, cruel grasp.

‘“No,” he said, “you
will kill you first!”

She looked in the fierce, angry face bent over
her.

“Ralph!” she said, ‘‘you cannot mean it?”

As she stood there alone in the silent depths of
the woods, with that fierce, wild man, Captain
Darcy’s words flashed across her.

“Tf ever you want a friend with a true heart
and a strong arm, remember me.”

Ah! if he could but come to save her now!

“JT do mean it,” he said. ‘If Iam mad, you
have made me so! You shall not leave this
pn alive, unless you promise to be my wife—

‘fo away with me now, and at once!’

he hapless girl saw something shining in his
hands, and turned to fly. There was a rush—a
pet sharp, shrill. ery—and the deed was
‘i pene a is and aan pata = the epee
ea 0} Ww and angry at the
ruthless ae me i

Down in the thick, dew-laden grass; crushin
the fragrant flowers, she fell, her death-like lone
tures hidden by the fern-leaves. There had been
no time to ae time to ask for merey—no
time to plead for pardon.

He stood for one moment, stunned by his
own act. Thenhe knelt by her side, and called
her. He raised the white face from the ground,
and saw death there. :

never conquer—I

 

‘*1 did not mean it,” he gasped; ‘‘I did not
mean it. You drove me mad, Rita.”

Down again fell the dead face; and he turned,
with a cry that rung through the silent woods—
a up to the high heavens. He turned, and

led.

Blind with mad fury, glutted revenge, and
wounded, outraged love—the air like a red-hot
mist around him—he fled from the sight of the
dead features that were to haunt him until his
last hour.

The birds, scared for a time by the shot, re-
sumed their song; the sunbeams began to pierce
the dense foliage, and glisten in the terete ;
the little brook murmured its own story; the
flowers gave forth fresh fragrance, all heedless
of the crushed heap of oe silk and gleaming
jewels—all heedless of the hair stirred by the
summer wind, or of the white face hidden by
the fern-leaves.

The breakfast-bell rung in Lisle court. Daisy
was the first to descend. Lord Lisle and Mrs.
‘Wyverne soon joined her.

hilip’s first question was:

“Where is Rita?”

“She will be down soon, without doubt,” said
Mrs. Wyverne. ‘I have not heard how she is.”

‘She promised to see me before I went away,”
said Lord Lisle. ‘‘I must go at eleven—it is
nearly ten now. Weare all late this morning.”

No Rita came, and Mrs. Wyverne sent one of
the footmen to summon Therese.
iten maid camein, bowing profoundly to Lord

isle.

‘How is Miss Lisle this morning?” asked Mrs.
Wyverne.

‘* My lady has not rung yet,” replied the maid.
‘‘She wished me last night not to disturb her
until she rung.”

“T will go,” said Daisy. ‘I will remind her
that Lord Lisle goes at eleven. Do not wait
breakfast for me—I shall stay with Rita.’’

Daisy was absent ten minutes or more. She
returned, looking pale and startled.

‘Rita is gone out,” she said, slowly.

Lord Lisle looked relieved.

“She is all right, then, I suppose,” he said,
“and has gone for an early, pleasant morning
walk,”

“Tt seems strange,” said Mrs. Wyverne.
‘Why did she not ring for Therese?”

At that moment she caught sight of the maid’s
scared look as she stood at the.door. A sudden
presentiment of some great trouble seized her.

“What is it, Daisy?’ she asked, starting from
her seat.

Daisy went up, and threw one arm round her.

“Do not be frightened,” she said, ‘‘ Therese is
alarmed. Rita has gone out; but the strangest
thing is, herbed has not been slept in, and the
things laid ready for her to put on have never
been touched.”

Therese came in.

“T cannot undertsand it, madam,” she said to
Mrs. Wyverne. ‘‘My lady has not even taken

er-dress—I cannot find

off her jewels or her
them.”

Mrs. Wyverne turned to Lord Lisle.

“Philip, my dear,” she said, what is it?—see
what it means.”

“Tf means eigen said Lord Lisle, gently.
*¢ Rita has in all probability gone out. She is
somewhere in the gardens or in the grounds;
perhaps even somewhere in the house. Daisy
and I will look for her. Therese, stay with Mrs,
Wyverne. Not one word of this nonsense be-
fore the servants, mind!”

‘Tell her how she has frightened me,” said
the elder lady, in a trembling voice. ‘ Bring
her here quickly.”

They went to the drawing-room—the lib
—the state-rooms—they searched the whole
house; but there was no sign of Rita. Daisy
grew frightened.

“Tt is all nonsense!” said Lord Lisle. ‘She

nm and Manners, two of the

is outin the grounds.”

He called Dra:
footmen, and told them ‘‘ Miss Lisle was in the

ounds. Would they go and tell her the break-

ast-bell had rung?”

The men went on their errand. Lord Lisle
stood by the library-window, Neither Daisy or
he spoke one word.

The men were absent nearly half an hour.
Neither one or the other had been able to dis-
cover Miss Lisle.

the for the first time, Lord Lisle felt

alarmed.

“Go and tell Mrs. Wyverne, Daisy,” he said.
“ Ask her to come up into Rita’s room.”

They all stood there helpless and uncertain
what to do. Nothing seemed out of place.
There was no disarray of jewels or dress; the
pretty, white morning wrapper, with its crimson
ribbons, lay untouched upon the chair.

“She has not slept here,” said Mrs. Wyverne.
“that is certain. Philip, what has become o
my child?” ‘

‘We will soon know,” he replied.

The great bell in the hall was rung, the men-
servants all assembled; and in lessthan ten min-
utes they were dispersed over the grounds,
searching for one they would never find in life

again.

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIIL
THE DISCOVERY.

“ Arg you going with the men?” asked Daisy
of Lord Lisle.

“Yes,” he replied. ‘‘There is no prneney, to
London for me this morning. shall do
nothing until we have solved this mystery. It
may be all right, but 1 begin to feel doubtful.
Goto Mrs. Wyverne, Daisy, and do not leave
her. There was a secret after all, you see;
nd something tells me that we shall discover
it.

it.

She saw his pale, stern face, and pitied him.
Even should all come right, it was not pleasant
to have had all this fright and disturbance over
the woman he was to marry.

Daisy went back to the breakfast-room. The
whole house was in commotion. The rumor of
Miss Lisle’s disappearance had spread among
the servants, ne they were all in confusion.
Mrs. Wyverne was lying back, pale and faint,
upon the sofa.

“Daisy,” she said, in a trembling voice, “tell
me the worst quickly. This suspense is killing
me. Thank heaven, my dear son did not live to
see this day.”

‘‘The worst is, that Rita is missing,” said the
young girl, gently. “Lord Lisle and the men-
servants are gone in search of her. All may
yet be well.”

“Nay,” interrupted the poor lady, ‘‘my heart
tells me differently. Oh, Daisy! if Philip’s sur-
mise be right—if there be any secret or mys-
tery, what shall we do? She has been so strange
lately—so unlike herself.”

Daisy took the trembling hands in her own.
She soothed and comforted the grieving, sor-
rowful lady as no one else could have done.

““ Whatever it is, we must bear it,” she said.

So the long, sunny hours of that mornin
passed, and there came no news of the belov
one, lost forever.

Lord Lisle followed the men into the park.
He was bewildered. They turned to him for
directions, and he knew not what tosay. The
sun shone so brightly, the flowers bloomed, the
birds sung—every thing was bright and gay.
What shadow of sorrow or wrong could fall
that beautiful morning? There was not a cloud
on the smiling summer sky—not a sigh in the
clear, ed breeze.

‘“‘Where shall we go, my lord?” asked one of
the men. ‘‘Perhaps the young lady has met
with an accident while walking in the park.
Shall we go there first?”

But even as he stood giving his directions, he
saw three of the servants running from the
stile that led into the woods, white and breath-
he calling loudly for help.

e went to meet them. eee foot-
man who usually waited upon Miss le, came

“My lord,” he said, ‘‘I am afraid there is
something wrong in the wood. Something is
lying there we dare not touch. Will you

come?”
They went all er, leaving the bright,
warm sunshine, an ing into the cool, deep

shade of the wood. e birds were singing in
the hearts of the tall trees. Something—a con-
fused mass of shining silk—lay in the long thick
grass. ane wind played with a mass of black,

ippling air.
ey drew near, with hushed breath. One
round, white arm, clasped by a diamond brace-
let, lay still and cold on the silken robes. Lord
Lisle knew what lay there when he saw that.
The men drew back as he went to the quiet
figure. He parted the mass of fern-leaves, and
raised the face, beautiful and still in Ceath.
There was a loud ery of grief and horror; but
he knelt in silence, lifting the prostrate figure,
and raising the head. 5
As he did so, he caught sight of the fatal

pistol.

“Oh, dreadful deed!” he cried. ‘She has
been murdered—shot! Who can have done this?
Run, Jennings, Martin! Get_out the swiftest
horses! Fly for your lives! Fetch the nearest
doctor, and telegraph for more!”

“Tt is all useless, my lord,” said the butler.
“The Raa lady has been dead for hours—shot
through the heart.”

He saw it was allin vain. A deep sob broke
from his y as he tenderly covered the white
face. He did not think how she came by her
death. He only felt the bright, beautiful girl,
who loved him so dearly, who was soon to be
his wife, lay before him dead. _

@ men went back for awhile;. they would
not intrude upon their young lord’s sorrow.
The — sight hidden by the fern-leaves
brought tears into many eyes. F

They made a rude litter of twisted branches,
and then Lord Lisle, rising from the dead girl’s
side, turned to them. r

“My men,” he said, “‘ we will carry her home
—back to the house, where, in a few days’ time,
she was to have been married—where all her
bridal splendor awaits her: then we will hunt
or d through to find the one who did the

There was a murmur of hate and execration.
The murderer would have fared badly had he

 
  

 

26

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

fallen into the hands. of those angry men. They
then gently raised the silent figure, and laid it
on the litter, while kindly hands folded the
silken robes around her.

Surely the summer sun never shone upon so
sad a sight. The bright beauty of all around
seemed a cruel mockery. They went through
the park, where she never more would tread,
and carried their sorrowful burden to the Hall.

‘Be cautious,” said Lord Lisle. ‘‘ Do not let
the ladies know.”

In silence, they carried her up the broad mar-
ble staircase decorated for her wedding, into
the room she had that morning left. In silence
and tears, they laid her upon the bed, where so
lately her wearied head had lain. They left
some to watch in the darkened room, and then
Lord Lisle went down to seek those who waited
for him so anxiously.

Mrs. Wyverne started up at his entrance.

“Philip,” she cried, ‘‘ have you found her?”

“Yes,” said Lord Lisle, sorrowfully; ‘‘ we
have found her.”

“Where, and how?” she asked.

But when he sat down by her side, and tried
to tell her, his courage and strength gave way.
Lord Lisle buried his face in his hands, and
wept aloud.

e told them at last, holding their hands in
his, and begging them, for heaven’s sake, to bear
it well. Daisy’s scream of horror rung in his
ears for days afterward. Mrs. Wyverne looked
as though oie would die from the shock.

‘Who can have done it?’ cried Daisy, beside
herself with grief. ‘My sister had no enemy;
she never did any one wrong or harm.”

* She had a secret in her life,” said Lord Lisle
—‘*some secret that has cost her dear. Paul,
the head-gardener, who has _ just returned from
Thornton, tells me he saw Miss Lisle cross the

 

park this morning with a tall, dark man, He

A few days passed in mourning and gloom
that no words can describe. An inquest was
held at the Hall, but no evidence could be pro-
cured which threw any light upon the most
mysterious murder of modern times. The pistol
found near the spot bore neither mark nor
name; still, the detectives hoped to obtain some
clue from it.

All England rung with the news. People who
had seen Miss Lisle, in all the splendor of her
beauty, could hardly credit the fact. Never
was anything so sad; young, lovely, wealthy,
about to be married to a man she loved, Popu-
lar indignation was aroused as it had seldom
been before.

The day came when all that was mortal of
the erring, unhappy girl was hidden forever
from the sight of men. With all her grand
beauty, her glaring faults, Margaret Rivers
passed away, and her place knew her no
more,

There never was a sight to equal that funeral
procession; the guests invited for the wedding
came to do more honor to it. The bells that
should have rung out a merry peal for her mar-
riage, tolled for her death. Those who saw it
will never forget it. They will never forget the
aged lady whose tears and sighs moved all
hearts; the golden-haired sister, whose sweet
face was, perhaps, the saddest sight of all; or
the pale, sorrow-stricken mourner, who was so
soon to have been the husband of Margaret
Rivers.

They laid her to rest in the old family vault
in the pretty, green churchyard of Thornton.
The sun shines over her grave, flowers bloom
near it, and birds sing round it. She, with all
her faults and sins, her sorrows and fears, will
rest well until all earthly rest be ended in this
world,

It was the evening of the day of the funeral.

 

“So I told him, my lord,” was the reply;

‘‘but he implored me so earnestly to ask your -

lordship for an interview, I could not refuse.
His manner is so strange, my lord, I cannot
help thinking he has something of vital impor-
tance to communicate.”

‘““What kind of man is he?” asked Lord Lisle.

“Tall and dark, my lord; with a strange,
wild face—fierce and handsome.”

As the man said the words, there suddenly
flashed across Lord Lisle the remembrance of
the man whom he had seen speaking to Rita on
the cliff at Sunbay. Could it be the same, and
pelt he come to tell the secret that belonged to

er?

“Show him up,” said Lord Lisle; ‘‘ and, Mar-
tin, see that some of the men are at hand to
answer the bell.”

It was the same—Lord Lisle knew him at a
glance—the same man who had rushed past him
that day on the cliff.

The butler withdrew, and closed the door be-
hind him. Then Lord Lisle, looking in the
man’s face, found it white, worn, and wild, as
though rest, sleep, and pe were strangers to
him. He came near the table, and Philin saw
that his hands trembled, and his Ree cayeney:

“Sit down,” said Lord Lisle, kindly; ‘you
look ill.”

The man took no heed of his words.

“My lord,” he said, suddenly, ‘‘my name is
Ralph Ashton, The girl who has been buried
to-day, who was to have been your wife next
week, was my promised wife four years ago;—
bound to me by every tie—bound to me by love
so passionate, by an oath so solemn, nothing
could break it.

“You may look at me, my lord; but my
words are true; she was mine, and I loved her
—ah, what words can tell how! The ground
whereon she stood was precious to me; I wor-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

aid no particular attention to him, believing

im to be a visitor. Rely upon it, that man is
her murderer. Who was he, Daisy; and what
had he to do with your sister, who was to have
been my wife?”

They went up to the room where weeping at-
tendants watched their dead lady. We leave
them there—grief is sacred, and their’ sorrow
was no light one.

Lord Lisle took no rest; the whole country
side was roused to search for the perpetrator of
the dark deed; the news ran like wild-fire, and
created a sensation that was never equaled.

“The beautiful Miss Lisle, who was to have
been married next week, had been found dead,
shot through the heart.”

Lord Lisle telegraphed to London for the first
detectives in the city to be sent down at once,
They came; the neighboring gentry all joined-
in the search; a reward of two thousand pounds
s offered by Lord Lisle; Government offered
two hundred more; but all seomed vain. Thore
was no clue, no trace, no sign of the assassin.

  

 

THE FATE OF RITA.—Page 25,

The guests had all departed; the confusion was
all over, and a somber quiet had fallen upon
Lisle Court.

Mrs. Wyverne sat in her own room; Daisy
was with her. Although the day was warm, a
fire burned in the grate; the chill of sorrow had
taken possession of the poor lady. Daisy, in
her deep mourning-dress, sat by her side, trying
to forget her own sorrow in soothing that of
others.

Lord Lisle was alone in the library, wearied
and exhausted by the horror and misery he had
— through, unable to read, to write, or to

0 anything, save think of the scenes he would
have given worlds to forget.

It was not yet dark; but he had drawn the
blinds, unable to endure the sight of the summer

un.
The butler came in to say that a man re-
quested to see his lordship on very important
business.
“T cannot seo him to-night, Martin,” said
Lord Lisle, wearily; ‘‘I am tired and ill.”

 

shiped her; I was her slave. She said she
loved me. She gave me sweet kisses, sweet
words, and loving looks. When I went awa:
to sea, she swore to be true until I returned,
and then to be my wife.

‘““When I returned, she was gone—she had
tried to prevent me from knowing where. I
sought her—found her. She flung my love
back, with scornful words; she roused all the
pride and anger in me. i was a man; she
turned me into a devil.”

“Why tell me all this?’ interrupted Lord
Lisle. ‘‘Let the poor girl’s faults be buried
with her.”

‘““You must hear it, he cried; ‘it concerns
you most of all. I meant to keep her secret;
but, it seems to me, if her soul is to rest, justice
must be done.”

He drew a packet of papers from his pocket.

“There, my lord,” is said; ‘‘look at these.
You will find; from them, that the girl who lies
in Thornton Churchyard duped you, as she
duped me; deceived and tricked you, as she did.

 
 

ry.

- had heard.

LORD  LISLE’S DAUGHTER.

27

 

 

me. She was not the late Lord Lisle’s daughter;
she was the child of Susan Rivers. The fair-
haired girl she called her sister is Miss Lisle,
Look at these papers, and let justice be done.”

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DENOUEMENT.

Too bewildered for words, Lord Lisle opened
the packet before him; from it there fell a pic-
ture. He raised it. and saw before him Daisy’s
face; the sweet, spiritual face; the tender violet
eyes and Bolger curls of a little child. He re-
cognized it in one moment; then he read the
words written in Margaret Wy-verne’s hand.

Like one in a dream, he eponeg the letters,
and read the passages where the young mother

ke lovingly of her little Daisy’s golden curls,
roof was heaped upon proof.

“The strongest proof of all,” continued Ralph
Ashton, in the same constrained, -passionless
voice, “is the fact of her death. She never de-
nied the charge—never. She told me she would
rather brave the disclosure than be my wife. If
you want further evidence, my lord, go to Deep-
dale; there are people there who can swear that
this is the portrait of the child brought by the
strange young lady to Susan Rivers. They will
swear that the dark-eyed, dark-haired girl called
Rita was Susan Rivers’ own child.”

“This was her secret, then,” murmured Lord
Lisle; ‘‘poor, unhappy girl!”

‘“That was her secret, my lord,” replied the
man. ‘‘That you may be sure I am not slander-
ing the dead, I bring you the letters I received
from her some wecks since in London. You
know her writing—read these,”

He read the letters composed with such skillful
art. There could be no doubt about them; at
the very time she was his promised wife, she
had corresponded with this man.

Lord Lisle leaned back in his chair, stunned,
unable to think or speak.

“She always loved riches and grandeur,” con-
tinued Ralph Ashton. ‘She was very beauti-
ful, and she longed for dresses and jewels to set
off her beauty. She loved luxury and wealth,
I can i ine how it was all done, my lord.
The rightful Miss Lisle was awa, from home
when n Rivers came to die. She must have
trusted the secret to her own child, who used it
for her own purposes. Let justice be done, my
lord,” he continued. ‘Let the true Miss Lisle
take her place.” :

“T will place the whole matter in the hands
of a skillful lawyer. We must have legal as well
as moral proof,” said Lord Lisle. ;

“So be it,” replied Ralph Ashton. “If in-
quiry is made, there is no fear. Miss Lisle will
have her own.” :

As Lord Lisle sat listening to the strange
voice, details long forgotten, words and actions
he hed thought strange, all rushed up panongaé
his mind; each one corroborated the story he
All that seemed a mystery to him
was clear now.

Ralph Ashton told the whole story, from the
meeting with Rita until that morning when she
had met him for the last time, and said she pre-
ferred death to becoming his wife.

He stopped then, and his lips, dry and
parched, trembled conyulsively.

“There remains but one thing more, my lord,
to be discussed, and that is the murder. They
tell me you have clever detectives here from
London.” Will you be pleased to let me see
one?” : ‘

Lori Lisle rung the bell, and in a few min-
utes "Ir. Grey, from Scotland Yard, entered the
Toon. 1

Ralph Ashton stood up before him.

“You are a police-officer?” he asked.

“T am,” replied the detective, quietly, -

“T surrender myself to you,” he said, “for
the murder of Margaret Rivers! I shot her
through the heart! [ killed her; but I swear I
never meant it. She insulted me, maddened
me, and I fired!”

ery of rage and horror came from Lord
Lisle. ee started from his chair. }

ct Nay, my lord,” said the detective, interpos-
ing. ‘Let the law take its course.” :

“ Ah)? said Ralph; ‘“‘let the law take its
course, my lord. I am not worth your anger,
See, my hands tremble, and my limbs fail, not
from fear. Since she fell dead, and I saw her
face, I haven’t slept, eaten, or rested. There
will be little left for the law to do, my lord.
Let it be carried out. Let heaven judge who is
most to blamie—the woman who dioatred and
maddened me, or I who struck her down in the

 

heat of passion and wrath. Let the All-seeing

Power aboye jtidge. I have done eee iN
ay God

‘Remove him,” said Lord Lisle,
haye mercy on him!”

He was led at and Lord Lisle never saw
the man again. Before the time for the trial
came, Ralph Ashton died. From the evening
he gave himself-up, he had never one sensible
moment. He died of brain fever, and even
those he had most deeply sinned against were
glad that it was so.

His confession of the crime was published,
without naming the motives that led to it.
Most people ‘believed him to have been, mad,
or to have slain the unhappy girl for plunder.
Beyond the few members of the family, no
one ever heard the tragical love-story of Ralph
Ashton. . :

Lord Lisle sat for some time in silence. He
was overwhelmed by the discovery. No shadow
of. doubt rested.on his mind of its truth. He re-
membered the picture of Lady Sybella Lisle,
atid Daisy’s perfect resemblance to that fair
and noble lady. He remembered a thousand
trifles, “light as air,” yet each bearing strong
eee of the truth of the unhappy man’s
story.

A task lay before him—the news had to be
told to Daisy and Mrs. Wyverne. He sent to
a he could be received, and the answer was

‘ es.”

Lord Lisle never remembered all the details
of that scene. Daisy’s tears and sobs; her
mingled joy and sorrow; her grief for the un-
happy girl who had betrayed her; her unavail-
ing regret that her father. had not known the
truth before he died.

Her only comfort was that he had loyed her
so well, and had died in her arms.

“Tté was strange,” said Philip, ‘‘how Lord
Lisle loved you. Daisy, nature does
after all,”

She shed tears over the faded letters of her

“*T never ae her,” she said. ‘‘I dreamed
of her continually; and the face that bends over
me in my sleep is the same that hangs in my
dear father’s room. I felt there was something
strange, yet I never dreamed of this, You must
spare her, Lord Lisle—we must bury her faults
in silence.”

‘Justice must be done to you,” said Philip,
“and dily, too.” <

But, in her sweet, persuasive way, she pleaded
for pity and mercy for the one who was beyond
all praise or blame; and Lord Lisle promised
to spare her memory and shield her as far as
possible.

Skillful lawyers were engaged; the case was
well sifted. Lord Lisle, Daisy, and Mrs. Wy-
verne went to Deepdale. There all legal doubt
ended. Many there were who swore that the
little child brought by the strange sr! to
Susan Rivers was no other than Daisy. They
recogni her. Every shadow of doubt was
ae up. Lord Lisle’s daughter was.found at

‘mother.

A somewhat garbled statement of the case
went abroad, telling that a mistake, now rec-
tified, had been made, leaving every one who
read it quite undecided as to whether the de-
tective who managed the business or the late
Lord Lisle was most to blame. No one under-
stood it clearly—it was a nine days’ wonder,
and then died away; some people thinking it as
well that the mistake was not discovered until
ie ithe death of her who had been ‘“ Miss
isle.

Lord Lisle, with great pomp and ceremony,
introduced Daisy, even as Rita had been in-
troduced before her, to all the dependants and
tenants of Lisle Court as the rightful daughter
of their late lord, He said a mistake had arisen
over the identity of the young ladies, both
brought up together, and that circumstances
had arisen which explained the error.

She might have been proud of the devotion
and homage offered to her, for Daisy’s gentle
rule had won esteem and liking from all.

They welcomed their young mistress most
wi y; but Daisy’s greatest comfort was that
Rita’s name had been spared.

Then, by Lord Lisle’s advice, the two ladies
went abroad—it was better, he thought; the
story would die away; and in his own heart
he resolved that, if prayers and love could win
her, Daisy should return to England as Lady

sle.

They went toItaly. Lord Lisle joined a party
of friends whd were about Role Egypt and
the Pyramids,”

THE END,

 

During his absence, the steward had orders
for great alterations at Lisle Court. That part
of the wood where the fatal tragedy had taken
place was to be destroyed, the trees cut down,
and the ground cultivated. The rooms used b
the unhappy girl were dismantled and le
empty—everything that had belonged to her
was giyen away. e eae portrait, painted
with such exquisite skill, was placed in an old
lumber-room, No one eee bear either to look
upon or destroy the beautiful, dark face glow-
ing there.

x * * * *

*

Three assed away, and the desire of
Lord Lidkigiheert was dete. ' He wooed and
won the lovely, gentle girl he had loved so long
and so well,

They returned to Lisle Court, and the whole
country side seemed aroused to welcome them.
Lady Lisle was presented at Court, where her
delicate beauty and grace made her a great
favorite.

She was loved and admired as Rita had never
been. Her influence was that of a good and
noble woman. The frivolities of fashion did
not engross her; gayety did not absorb her
whole time and attention. Lord Lisle never knew
his own power and capabilities of atk good,
until his young wife taught him some of the high
and holy lessons she had long learned.

They went once to see Rita’s graye, a plain
slab of white marble:. Ttitold the truth, for it
said that ‘‘ Margaret Rivers” slept there.

Years afterward, a man, bearing upor his
face the marks of long travel, came t. ere.
Captain Darcy never forgot the beautiful, vril-
liant' girl he had loved so passionately. The
cruel story of her murder came to him oyer the
Indian seas; and then he heard that she was not
Lord Lisle’s daughter. It made no difference to
him. The first spot he visited in England was
Rita’s grave,

Had ‘she been living, he would gladly have
laid the honors he had won at her feet; every
hope and wish, all the love of his heart, was
buried with her. Captain Darcy lived his life
bravely jand. well, but it had no more.of joy or
brightness for him.

One beautiful evening in June, a pretty little
up were on the lawn of Lisle Court. A lady
with golden hair sat at. the feet of Mrs. Wy-
verne, now grown old and feeble.. Lord Lisle
lay on the grass near them, enjoying at one and
the same time the flayor of a cigar and the
gambols of his children. :

“ Daisy,” said Lord Lisle, turning to his wife,
“that eldest boy of yours is about the greatest
tease Leversaw. Come here, little Pearl. What
has he done to you?”

A noble boy, with his father’s laughing eyes,
brought his sister by the hand.

‘‘T have done nothing to her, papa,” he said.
“Boys do not fight little girls She cried be-
cause I threw a stone at her doll.”

Lord Lisle took his young heir in his arms,
and gave him a lecture on the value of kindli-
ness.

The child nestled in his father’s arms, and
listened patiently.

‘* Papa,” he cried, suddenly, ‘I went with
Jennings to-day into some of those empty rooms
in the western wing. I saw the picture of a
lady with such a beautiful face. Jennings said
I must never tell you I had seen it. Who was
she, papa?” ‘

At the singular, childish question, a shade of
sorrow fell over the fair face of Lady Lisle.
ai husband looked at her, and gave a deep
sigh.

‘Tt was some one we knew long since,” he
said; gently—‘‘some one who was very unhap-
py, and who died,” .

Lord and Lady Lisle never told to their chil-
dren the story of the unhappy girl who for so
short a time had borne their name. They never
forgot her, even on that em June evening,
when the sun shone upon the blooming flowers,
when the birds sung gayly, and the rippling
waters of the pretty fountains told of the fair
summer—when the air, of fragrance, whis-

red of youth, love, and happi —even then

er memory fell upon them, like the shadow of

a passing cloud.

isle Court is a hay home now, Fair chil-
dren bloom there; Lord’ Lisle is beloved and es-
teemed by allowho know him: seems to
have lavished her most precious. treasures,
heaven its choicest gifts, upon Lord Lisle’s
Daughter.

 
 

sy

Ca, UTS

STAND 4

LY

DIME DIALOGUES

For School Exhibitions and Home Entertainments.

Nos. 1 to 22 inclusive.

15 to 25 Popular Dialogues and Dramas in each book. Each volume 100 12mo pages, sent
post-paid, on receipt of price, TEN CENTS.

BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, No. 98 William St, N. Y.

These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability for Exhibitions, being adapted to
schools and parlors with or without the furniture of a stage, and suited to SCHOLARS AND YOUNG PEOPLE
It is fair to assume that no other books in the market, at any price, contain
so many useful and available dialogues and dramas of wit, pathos, humor and sentiment.

of every age, both male and female.

 

 

Dime Dialogues, No. 1.

Meeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies,

Baiting a Live Englishman. For three boys.

Tasso’s Coronation. For male and female,

Fashion. For two ladies.

The rehearsal. For six boys,

Which will you Choose? For two boys.

The Queen of May. For two little girls.

The Tea-Party. For four ladies.

Three Scenes in Wedded Life. For male and female,

Mrs. Sniffles’s Confession. For male and female.

The Mission of the Spirits. For five young ladies,

Hobnobbing. For five eee

The Secret of Success. For three speakers.

Yo America. For three males and two females,

Josephine’s Destiny. For four females, one male.

The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers.

Dogmatism. For three male speakers.

The orant Confounded. For two boys.

The Fast Young Man. For two males.

The Year’s Reckoning. Twelve females, one male.

The Village with One Gentleman. For eight females
and one male.

Dime Dialogues, No, 2.

The Genius of Liberty. Two males and one female.
Cinderella; or, the Little Glass Slipper.

Doing Good and Saying Bad. For several characters,
The Golden Rule. For two males and two females.
The Gift of the Fairy Queen. For several females,
Taken in and Done for. For two characters.
Country Aunt’s Visit to the City. Several characters,
The Two Romans. For two males.

ae. the Characters. For three males.

The Ha) PY Family. For several ‘‘ animals.”

The Ratt w. For several characters.

How to write “‘ Popular ’’ Stories. For two males,
The New and the Old. For two males.

A Sensation at Last. For two males.

The Greenhorn. For two males.

The Three Men of Science. For four males.

The Old Lady’s Will. For four males.

The Little Philosophers. For two little girls.

How to Find an Heir. For five males,

The Virtues. For six young ladies.

A Connubial Eclogue.
The Public Mee

. For five males and one female,
The English Traveler.

For two males,

Dime Dialogues, No. 3.

The May Queen. For an entire school.

Dress Reform Convention. For ten females.
Keeping Bad Company, Farce. For five males.
Courting Under Difficulties. Two males, one female,
National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four males,
Escaping the Draft. For numerous maies.

The Genteel Cook. For two males.

Masterpiece. For two males and two females.

The two Romans. For two males,

The Same. Second Scene. For two males.
Showing the White Feather. Four males, one female.
The Battle Call. A Recitative. For one male.

 

Dime Dialogues, No. 4.

The Frost King. For ten or more persons.

Starting in Life. For three males and two females.
Faith, Hope and Charity. For three little girls.
Darby and Joan. For two males and one female.
The May. A Floral Fancy. For six little girls.
The Enchanted Princess, 2 males, several females.

Honor to Whom Honor is Due. 7 males and 1 female.

The Gentle Client. Several males and one female,
Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males.
The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2 males and 1 female.
A Scene from ‘“ Paul Pry.’’ For four males.

The Charms. For three males and one female,
Bee, Clock and Broom. For three little girls.

The Right way. A Colloquy. For two boys.
What the Ledger Says. For two males.

The Crimes of Dress. A Colloqguy. For two boys.
The Reward of Benevolence, For four males,

The Letter, For two males.

Dime Dialogues, No. 5.

The Three Guesses. For school or parlor.
Sentiment. A ‘‘ Three Persons’ ”’ Farce.

Behind the Curtain. For males and females.

The Eta Pi Society. For five boys and a teacher.
Examination Day. For several female characters,
ae in “ Traps.”’ Kor several .

The Schoolboys’ Tribunal, For ten boys.

A Loose Tongue, For several males and females.
How Not to Get an Answer, For two females,
Putting on Airs. A Colloquy. For two males,
The Straight Mark. For several boys.

Two ideas of Life. A Colloquy. For ten girls,
Extract from Marino Faliero,

Ma-try-Money. An Acting Charade.

The Six Virtues. For six young ladies,

The Irishman at Home. For two males,
Fashionable Requirements, For three ee.

A Bevy of I’s (Eyes). For eight or less little girls.

Dime Dialogues, No, 6.

The Way They Kept a Secret. For male and females.
The Poet under Difficulties. For five males.
William Tell. For a whole school.

Woman’s Rights. For seven females and two males,
All is not Gold that Glitters. For male and females,
The Generous Jew. For six males.

Shopping, For three males and one female.

The Two Counselors. For three males.

The Votaries of Folly, For a number of females.
Aunt Betsy’s Beaux. For four females and two males,
The Libel Suit. For two females and one male.
Santa Claus. For a number of bore
Christmas Fairies. For several little girls,
The © Rings, For two males,

Dime Dialogues, No. 7.

The Two Best ‘ars. For fourteen females,
The Earth-Child in Fairy-Land. For girls.
Twenty Years Hence. ‘o females, one male.

The Way to Windham. For two males. ~

Woman. A Poetic Passage at Words. Two boys.
The ’Ologies. A Colloquy. For two males.

How to Get Rid of a Bore. For several boys.
Boarding-School. For two males and two females.
Plea for the Pl . For two males.

The Ils of Dram-Drinking. For three boys.

True Pride. A Cores For two females.

The Two Lecturers. For numerous males.

Two Views of Life, A Colloquy. For two females.
The Rights of Music. For two females,

A Hopeless Case. A a in Verse. Two girls.
The Would-be School-Teacher. For two les,
Come to Life too Soon. For three males.

Eight O’clock. For two little girls.

True Dignity. A Colloquy. For two boys.

Grief too Expensive. For two males.

Hamlet and the Ghost. For two persons.

Little Red Riding Hood. For two females.

New cet of an Old Rule. Boys and girls,
Colored Cousins. A Colloquy. For two ji

Dime Dialogues, No. 8.

The Fairy School. For a number of girls.

The Enrolling Officer. For three girls and two boys.

The Base-ball Enthusiast. For three boys.

The Girl of the Period. For three girls.

The Fowl Rebellion. For two males and one female,

Slow but Sure. For several males and two females.

Caudle’s piplocpede: For one male and one female,

The Fi ._ For several small children,

The Trial of Peter Sloper. For seven boys.

Getting a snoipereph. For males and females.

The Society for General Improvement. For girls.

A Nobleman in Disguise. Three girls and six boys,

Great Expectations. For two boys.

Piagne hool. For five females and four males,

Clo’ a for the Heathen. For one male and one fe
male.

A Hard Case. For three boys.

Ghosts. For ten females and one male.

* Dime Dialogues, No, 9.

Advertising for sald For a number of females,
America to England, Greeting. For two boys.
The Old and the New. For four females and one

male.
Choice of Trades. For twelve little boys.
The Lap-Dog. For two females.
The Victim. For four females and one male,
The Duelist. For two boys.
The True Philosophy, For females and males,
A Good Education. For two females.
The Law of Human Kindness. For two females,
Spoiled Children, For a mixed school.
Brutus and Cassius,
Coriolanus and Aufidius.
The New Scholar. For a number of girls,
The Self-made Man. For three males.
The May Queen (No. 2). For a school.
Mrs. Lackland’s Economy. For four boys and three

 

girls.
Should Women be Given the Ballot? For boys.

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THE STANDARD DIME DIALOGUES—Continued.

 

 

Dime Dialogues, No. 10.

Mrs. Mark Twain’s Shoe. One male and one female.
The Old Flag. School Festival. For three boys.
The Court of Folly. For many girls.

Great Lives. For six boys and six girls.

Scandal. For numerous males and females.

The Light of Love. Fortwo boys. .

The Flower Children. For twelve girls,

The Deaf Uncle. For three boys.

A Discussion. For two boys.

The Rehearsal. For a school.

The True Way. For three boys and one girl.

A Practical Life Lesson. For three girls.

The Monk and the Soldier. For two boys.

1776-1876. School Festival. For two girls.

Lord Dundreary’s Visit. For 2 males and 2 females.
Witches in the Cream, For 3 girls and 3 boys.
Frenchman. Charade. Numerous characters,

Dime Dialogues, No. 11.

Appearances are very Deceitful. For six boys.

The Conundrum Family. For male and female.
Curing Betsy. For three males and four females.
Jack and the Beanstalk. For five characters.

The Way to Do it and Not to Doit. For three females.

How to me Healthy, etc. For male andfemale.
The Only True Life. For two girls.
Classic Golloquies. For two boys.

J. Gustavus Vasa and Cristiern.

II. Tamerlane and Bajazet. :
Fashionable Dissipation. For two little girls.
‘A School Charade. For two boys and two girls.
vean Ingelow’s ‘So: of Seven.”’ For seven girls.
A Debate. For four boys.
Ragged Dick’s Lesson. For three boys.
School Charade, with Tableau.

A Very Questionable Story. For two boys.
A Sell. For three males.
The Real Gentleman. For two boys.

Dime Dialogues, No. 12.

Yankee Assurance. For several characters. |
Boarders Wanted. For several characters.

When I was Young. For two girls.

The Most Precious Heritage. For two boys.

The Double Cure. For two males and four females.
The Flower-garden Fairies. For five little girls.
Jemima’s Novel. For three males and two females.
Beware of the Widows. For three girls.

A Family not to Pattern After. For ten characters.
How to a aetoe acting charade.

The Vacation ade. For four boys and teacher.

That Naughty Boy. For three females and a male.
Mad-cap. An acting charade.

Allis not Gold that Glitters, Ac’ proverb.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, Acting c e.

Dime Dialogues No, 18.

Two O’clock in the Morni For three males.

An Indignation Meeting. [or several females.
Before and Behind the Scenes. Several characters.
The Noblest Boy. A number of boys and teacher.
Blue Beard. A Dress Piece. For girls and boys.
Not so Bad as it Seems. For several characters.

A Curbstone Moral. For two males and female.
Sense vs. Sentiment. For Parlor and Exhibition.
Worth, not Wealth. For four boys and a teacher.
No such Word as Fail. For several males.

The ot Beauty. For a school.

An Innocent Intrigue. Two males and a female.
Old Nably, the Fortune-teller. For three girls.
Boy-talk. For several little boys.

Mother is Dead. For several little girls.

A Practical Iustration, For two boys and girl.

Dime Dialogues, No. 14.

Mrs. Jonas Jones. For three gents and two ladies.
The Born Genius. For four gents.

More than One Listener. For four ae and lady,
Who on Airth is He? For three girls.

The Right not to be a Pauper. For two boys.
Woman Nature Will Out. For a girls’ school.
Benedict and Bachelor. For two boys.

The Cost of a Dress. For five a

The Surprise Party. For six little girls.

A Practical Demonstration. For three boys.
Refinement. Acting charade. Several characters.
Conscience the Arbiter, For lady and gent.

How to Make Mothers Happy. For two girls.

 

A Conclusive Argument. For two boy speakers.
A Woman’s Blindness. For three girls.

Rum’s Work. (Temperance). For four gents.
The Fatal Mistake. For two young ladies.

Byes and Nose. For one gent and one lady.
Retribution. For a number of boys.

Dime Dialogues, No. 15,

The Fairies’ Escapade. Numerous characters. B
A Poet’s Perplexities. For six gentlemen.

A Home Cure. For two ladies and one gent.
The Good there isin Each. A number of boys.
Gentleman or Monkey. For two boys.

The Little Philosopher. For two little girls.
Aunt Polly’s Lesson. For four ladies.

A Wind-fall. Acting Charade. For a number.
Willit Pay? For two boys.

The Heir-at-law. For numerous males.

Don’t Believe What You Hear. For three ladies.
A Safety Rule. For three ladies.

The Chief’s Resolve. Extract. For two males.
Testing her Friends. For several characters.
The Foreigner’s Troubles. For two ladies.

The Cat Without an Owner. Several characters,
Natural Selection. For three gentlemen.

Dime Dialogues, No. 16.

Polly Ann. For four ladies and one
The Meeting of the Winds. _ For a school,
The Good They Did. For six ladies.

The Boy Who Wins. For six gentlemen.
Good- yeu A Colloquy. For three girls.
The Sick Well Man. For three boys.

The Investigating Committee. For nine ladies.
A “Corner ” in Rogues. For four boys.

The Imps of the Trunk Room. For five girls. —
The Boasters. A Colloquy. For two little girls.
Kitty’s Funeral. For several little girls.
Stratagem. Charade. For several characters.
Testing Her Scholars. For numerous scholars.
The World is What We Make It. For two girls.
The Old and the New. For gentleman and lady.

entleman,

Dime Dialogues, No. 17.
LITTLE FOLKS’ SPEECHES AND DIALOGUES.

To be Raney You Must be Good. For two little girls
and one oy

Evanescent Glory. For a bevy of boys.

The Little Peacemaker. For two little girls.

What Parts Friends. For two little girls.

Martha Washington Tea Party. For five little girls
in old-time costume.

The Evil There is in it, For two young boys.

Wise and Foolish Little Girl. For two girls.

A Child’s Inquiries. For small child and teacher.

The Cooking Club. For two girls and others.

How to doit. For two boys.

A Hundred Years to Come. For ae and girl.

Don’t Trust Faces. For several small boys.

Above the Skies. For two small girls,

The True Heroism, For three little boys.

Give Us Little oe a Chance; The Story of the Plum
Pudding; I'll Be a Man; A Little Girl’s Rights
Speech; Johnny’s pet 4 of Grandmother; The
Boasting Hen; He Knows der Rest; A Small Boy’s
View of Corns; Robby’s Sermon; Nobody’s Child:
Nutting at Grandpa Gray’s; Little Boy’s View of
How Columbus Discovered America; Little Girl’s
View; Little Boy’s Speech on Time; A Little
Boy’s Pocket; The aeanteuh Murder; Robby Rob’s
Second Sermon; How the Baby Came; A Boy’s
Observations: The New Slate; A Mother’s Love;
The Creownin’ Glory; Baby Lulu; Jos pean
the Bumble-bee, Wren, Alligator; Died Yesterday ;
The Chicken’s Mistake; The Heir Apparent; De-
liver Us from Evil; Don’t Want to’be Good; Only a
Drunken Fellow; The Two Little Robins; Be Slow
to Condemn; A Nonsense Tale; Little Boy’s Decla-
mation; A Child’s Desire: Bogus; The Goblin Cat;
Rub-a-dub; Calumny; Little Chatterbox; Where
are They? A Boy’s View; The Twenty Frogs; Go-
ing to School; A Morning Bath; The Girl of Dun-
dee; A Fancy; In the Sunlight; The New-laid Egg;
bed ae Musician; Idle Ben; Pottery-man; Then
and Now.

Dime Dialogues No. 18,

Ao, Wishes. Several characters, male and female.
No Rose Without a Thorn. Two males, one female.
Too Greedy by Half. Forthree males.

One Good Turn Deserves Another. For six ladies.
Courting Melinda. For three boys and one lady.
The New Scholar. For several boys.

The Little Intercessor. For four ladies.
Antecedents, For three gentlemen and three ladies.
Give a Dog a Bad Name. For four gentlemen.
Spring-Time Wishes. For six little girls.

 

 

 

Lost Charlie: or, the Gipsy’s Revenge.
ous characters.

A little Tramp. For three little boys.

Hard Times. For two ee and four ladies.

The Lesson Well Wort. . For two males
and two females.

For numer:

Dime Dialogues, No. 19.

An Awful Mystery. Fortwo females and two males.

Contentment. For five little boys. :

Who are the Saints? For three young girls.

Callie Uncle. For three males and three fe-
males.

Be Kind to the Poor. A little folks’ play.

How People are Insured. A “duet.”

Mayor. Acting Charade. For four characters.

The Smoke Fiend. For four boys. i

A Kindergarten Dialogue. For a Christmas Festival.

Personated by seven ¢ rs.

The Use of Study. For three girls.

The Refined Simpletons. For four ladies.

Remember Benson. For three males.

Modern Education. Three males and one female,

Mad With Too Much Lore. For three males.

The Fairy’s Warning. Dress Piece. For two girls.

Aunt Eunice’s Experiment. For several.

The Mysterious G. G. For two females and one

male.
We'll Have to Mortgage the Farm. For one male
and two females.
An Old-Fashioned Duet.
The Auction. For numerous characters,

Dime Dialogues, No. 20.

The Wrong Man. For three males and three females.

Afternoon Calls. For two little girls.

Ned’s Present. For four boys.

Jui Not. For teacher and several scholars.

Tel Dreams. For four little folks.

Saved by Love. For two boys.

Mistaken Identity. For two males and three females.

Couldn’t Read English. For three males, one female,

A Little Vesuvius. For six little girls.

“Sold.” For three boys.

An Air Castle. For five males and three females.

City Manners and Country Hearts. For three girls
and one boy.

The Silly Dispute. For two girls and teacher.

Not One There! For four male characters.

Foot-print. For numerous ¢ ters.

Keeping Boarders. For two females and three males,

A Cure for Good. For one lady and two gentlemen

The Credulous Wise-Acre. For two males.

Dime Dialogues, No. 21.

A Successful Donation Party. For several.
Out of Debt Out of Danger. For three males and

three females.
Little Red Ri Hood. For two children.
How She Made Him Propose. A duet.
The House on the Hill. For four females.
Evidence enough. For two males.
Worth and Wealth. For four‘females.
Waterfall. For several.
Mark Hastings’ Return. For four males,
Cinderella. Robseveral children.
Too Much for Aunt Matilda. For three females.
Wit against Wile. For three females and one male,
A Sudden Recovery. For three males.
The Double Sietareres For four females.
Counting Chickens Before They were Hatched. For

four males,

Dime Dialogues, No. 22.
ee Dark Cupid. For three Gentlemen and two

es.

That Ne’er-do-Well. Two males and two females.

High Art. For two girls.

Strange Adventures. For two boys.

The King’s Supper. For four gil

A Practical Exemplification. For two boys.

Titania’s Banquet. For a number of girls.

Monsieur Thiers in America. For four boys.

Doxy’s Diplomacy. For three females and a num-
ber of “ incidentals.”

A Frenchman. For two ladies and one gentleman.

Boys Will Be Bare For two hove and one girl.

A Bain Day. For three young ladies.

God Is Love. For a number of scholars.

The Way He Managed. For two males, two females.

Fandango. For various characters, white and other-

wise.

The Little Doctor. For two tiny girls.

A Sweet Revenge. For four boys.

A May Day. For three little girls,

From The Sublime to The Biticuicies. For fourteen

males.
Heart Not Face. For five boys.

035" For sale by all Newsdealers, everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of

BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers,

price, ten cents,

f No. 98

WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK,

 
  

 

Nos. 1 to 20, inclusive,

THE DIME SPEAKERS.

Each Speaker, 100 pages 12mo., containing from 50 to 75 pieces,

 

 

Dime; American Speaker, No, 1.

Young America,
Birthday of Washington,
Plea for the Maine Law,
Not on the Battlefield,
The Italian Struggle,

ee eae

Our Country,

The Equality of Man,
Character of the Revo’n,
The Fruits of the War,
The Sewing-Machine,
True Manhood,

The Mystery of Life,
The Ups and Downs,
The Truly Great,

Early Retiring and Ris’g,
A, Ward’s Oration,

True Nationality,

Our, Natal Day,
Solferino,

Intelligence the Basis of
The War, (Liberty,
Charge of Light Brigade,
After the Battle,

The Glass Railroad,

Case of Mr. Macbeth,
Prof. on-Phrenology,
Annabel Lee,
Washington’s Name,
The Sailor Boy’s Syren,

Dime National

Union and its Results,
Our Country’s Future,
The Statesman’s Labors,
True Immortality,

Let the Childless Weep,
Our Country’s Glory,
Union a Household,
Independence Bell,

The Scholar’s Dignity,
The Cycles of Progress,
A Christmas Chant, .
Stability of Christianity,
The True Higher Law,
The One Great Need,
The Ship and the Bird,
Tecumseh’s Speech,
Territorial Expansion,
Martha Hopkins,

The Bashful Man’s Story,

- The Matter-of-Fact Man,

Rich and Poor,
Seeing the Eclipse,
Beauties of the Law,

The Rats of Life,
Creowning Glory of U. S.,
Three Fools,
Washington,

Our Great Inheritance,
Eulogy on Henry Clay,

Dime Patriotic
America to the World,
Love of Country,
Right of Self-Preserva-
Our Cause, (tion,
A Kentuckian’s pppeal,
Kentucky Steadfast,
Timidity is Treason,
The Alarum,
April 15, 1861,
The Spirit of ’61,
The Precious Heritage,
The Irish Element,
Train’s Speech.
Ghristy’s Speech,
Let Me Alone,
Prigend je-General,

e Draft,
Union Square Speeches,
The Union, B
Our Country’s Call,
The Story of an Oak Tree,
L-e-g On My Leg,

J. Jeboom’s Oration,
A Dutch Cure,
The Weather,
BER Heated Term,

losophy Applied,
An Ol Ballad,
Penny Wise, Pound Fool-
True Cleanliness, fish,
Sat’d’y Night’s Enjoy’ts,
“Tn a Just Cause,’
No Peace with Oppres-

sion,
A Tale of a Mouse,
A Thanksgiving Sermon,
The Cost of Riches,
Great Lives Imperishable
The Prophecy forthe Y’r
Unfinished Problems,
Honor to the Dead,
Immortality of Patriots,
Webster’s Polit’ System,
A Vision in the Forum,
The Press,
Woman’s ‘Rights,
Right of the Governed,
My Ladder,

oman,

Alone,
The Rebellion of 1861,
Disunion,

Speaker, No, 2.

Ohio,

Oliver Hazard Perry,

Our Domain,

Systems of Belief,

The Indian Chief,

The Independent Farmer

Mrs. Grammar’s Ball,

How the Money Comes,

Future of the Fashions,

Loyalty to Liberty,

Our Country First, Last,
and Always,

British Influence,

Defense of Jefferson,

National Hatreds,

Murder Will Out,

Strive for the Best,

Early Rising,

Deeds of Kindness,

Gates of Sleep,

The Bugle,

A Hoodish Gem,

Purity of the Struggle,

Old Age,

Beautiful and True

The Worm of the Still,

Man and the Infinite,

Language of the Eagle,

Washington,

The Deluge.

Speaker, No. 3.
History of Our Fla;

eta Ticats Bele
We Owe to the Union.
Last Speech of Stephen

A. Douglas,

Lincoln’s Message,
Great Bell Roland,

The New Year and the

King Cotton, [Union,
Battle Anthem,
The Ends of Peace,

Freedom the Watchword

Crisis of Our Nation,

Duty of Christian Pa-
triots,

Turkey Dan’s Oration,

A Fearless Plea,

The Onus of Slavery,

A Foreigner’s Tribute,

The Little Zouave,

Catholic Cathedra

 

The *‘ Speculators,”

Dime Comic Speaker, No, 4.

Klebcyergoss on the War,
Age Bluntly Considered,
Early Rising,

The Wasp and the Bee,
Comic Grammar, No. di
I’m Nota Single Man,
A. Ward’s Advice,
Buzfuz on Pickwick,
Romeo and Juliet,
Happiness,

Dogs,

Pop,
aPexan Euti im,
‘How'to be a Fireman,
The United States,

"s Ace’t of Himself,

‘Practical Phrenology,
Beautiful,

Cabbage,

Disagreeable People.
What is a Bachelor Like?
Funny Folks,

A Song of Woe,

Ward’s Trip to Richm’d,
Parody,

The Mountebank,
Compound Interest,

A Sermon on the Feet,
Old Dye Bode:

The Fishes’ Toilet,

Brian O’Linn,

 

Crockett to Office-seekers

Who Is My Opponent?
Political Stump Reon
Comic Grammar, No. 2,
Farewell to the Bottle,
The Cork Leg,

The Smack in School,

' Slick’s Definition of Wife,

Tale of a Hat,

The Debating Club,

A Dutch Sermon,
Lecture on Locomotion,

Mrs. Caudle on Umbr’lla.

Dime Elocutionist, No. 5.

SEC, I.

PRINCIPLES OF TRUE Enuncration.—Faults

in Enunciation; How to Avoid Them, Special Rules

and Observations.

SEC. Il. Tae Art or Oratory. Sheridan’s List of

the Passions:

elancholy, Despair,
Courage, Boasting,

Commanding,

ing, aTeullg,
e

pendence, neration,

Tranquillity, Cheerfulness, Mirth,

Raillery, Buffoonery, Joy, Delight, Gravity

qe Attention, Moi est Perplexity, Pity, Grief,
e:

In-

ar, Shame, Remorse,

ride, Obstinacy, Authority,
Forbidding,
Difference, Agreeing, Exhortin
ing, gate Condemning,

ismissing, Refusing, Granting, De-

ge co
ig, Judging, Approv-
Teaching, Pardon-

Denying,

ope, Desire, Love, Re-

spect, Giving, Wonder, Admiration, Gratitude, Cu-
riosity, Persuasion, Tempting, Promising, Affecta-

tion

loth, Intoxication, Anger, etc.
SEC. II, Taz Component

‘LEMENTS OF AN ORA-

tT1on.—Rules of Composition as applied to Words

and Phrases, viz.:

rity, Propriety, Precision.

As applied to Sentences, viz.: Length of Sentence,

Clearness, Unity, Stren

h. Figures of Speech; the
Exordium, the Narration, th

e Proposition, the

Confirmation, the Refutation, the Peroration.
SEC. IV. Representative Exercises IN PROSE AND
Verse.—Transition; A Plea for the Ox; Falstaff’s
Soliloquy on Honor; the Burial of Lincoln; the
Call and Response; the Bayonet Charge; Histo

of a Life; the oie the
amlet’s Soliloquy ;
William Rufus; the Eye; an
iscoveries of Galileo.
OBSERVATIONS OF GOoD AUTHORITIES.

and the Dag; er;

Look ‘ipwaet Kin

Essa Onto Musik;
SEC. V.

ells; Byron; Macbet
Old Things;

Dime Humorous Speaker, No. 6.

A Sad er

A hak of Onions,

A Tragic Story,

Cats,

Courtship,

Debt,

Devils

Dow, Jr.'s Lectures,

Ego and Echo.

Fashionable Women,

Fern Thistles,

Good-Nature,

Gottlieb Klebeyergoss.

Schlackenlichter’s snake,

Hosea oe Opinions,

How the Money Goes

Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of
July Oration.

If you Mean No, Say No,

Jo Bows on Leap Year,

Lay of the aoe 7

Lot Skinner’s Elegy,

Matrimony,

Nothing to Do,

Old Caudle’s Umbrella,

Old Grimes’s Son,

“Paddle Your Own Ca-

noe,”
Parody on ‘ Araby’s
Daughter,”

 

Poetry Run Mad,

pee Names,

Scientific Lectures,

The Ager,

The Cockney,

The Codfish,

Fate of Sergeant Thin,
The Features’ Quarrel,
Hamerican Voodchuck,
The Harp of a Thousand

Strings,
The Last of the Sarpints,
The March to Moscow,
The Mysterious Guest,
The Sea-Serpent

e Sea- ni

The Bec ;
The Shoemaker,
The Useful Doctor,
The Waterfa
To the Bachelors’ Union

nited Sta
United States Presidents,
Vagaries of Popping the

uestion,
What I Wouldn’t Be
Yankee Doodle Aladdin,
at Moskeetare,

Dime Standard Speaker, No, 7.

The World We Live In,
Woman’s Claims,
Authors of our Liberty,
The Real Conqueror,
The Citizen’s Heritage,

taly,
The Mechanic,
Nature and Nature’s God
The Modern Good, [Sun,
Ossian’s Address to the
Independence Bell—1777,
John Burns, Gettysburg,
No Sect ‘in Heaven,
Miss. Prude’s Tea-Party,
The Power of an Idea,
The Beneficence of the
Suffrage, 2a,
Dream of the Revelers,
HowCyrus Laid the Cable
The Prettiest Hand,
Paradoxical,
Little Jerry, the Miller,
O88, ‘0 Sy
The Ladies’ an,

Life,
The Idler,

 

The Unbeliever,

 

The Two Lives,

The True Scholar,
Judges not Infallible,
Fanaticism, |

Instability of Successful
Agriculture, (Crime,

Ireland,

The eee Always Con-

Music of Labor, — [quer,

Prussia and Austria,

Wishing,

The Blarney Stone,

The Student of Bonn,

The Broken Household,

The Bible,

The Purse and the Sword

My ears
rue Morel Courage,

hat is War?

Butter,

My Deborah Lee,

Thi

e e,
The Pin and Needle,
The Modern Puritan,
Immortality of the Soul,
Occupation,

Heroism and Daring,
A Shot at the Decanter.

 

Dime Stump Speaker, No, 8.

Hon. J. M. Stubbs’ Views ; Plea for the Republic,

on the Situation,

America, [Fallacy,

Hans Schwackheimer on | ‘“ Right of Secession ”’ a

Woman's Suffrage,
All for a Nomination
Old Ocean,

The Sea,the Sea, the open

Life’s Sunset,
Human Nature,
ers,
Wrongs of the Indians,

The Star Bangled Span- ahaa in' behalf of Am.
A

ner,
Stay Where You Belong,
Life’s What You Make It,
Where’s My Money,

Speech from Conscience,

series of War,[Liberty,
| A Lay Sermon,
| A Dream,
Astronomical,

'' The Moon, [zens,

Man's Rélation'to Society ; Duties of American Citi-

The Limits to Happiness,
Good-nature a Blessing.
Sermon from Hard-she
Tail-enders, (Baptist,
The Value of Money,
Meteoric Disquisition,

Be Sure You are Right,
Be of Good Cheer,
Crabbed Folks, © [Shrew,
Taming a_ Masculine
Farmers, [Our Country,

The True_ Greatness of

New England and the
Union,
The Unseen Battlefield,

Dime Juvenile

A Boy’s Philosophy,
Hoe Out Your Row,
Six-Year-Old’s Protest,
The Suicidal Cat,
ete

opping Corn,
The Editor,
The Same, in rhyme,
The Fairy Shoemaker,
What Was Learned,

,
The Snake in the Grass,
Tale of the Tropics,
Bromley’s Speech,
The Same, second extract
The Fisher’s Child,
Shakspearian Scholar,
A Maiden’s Psalm of Life,
A Mixture,
ee for il

aying Ball,
Ah, Why
Live for Something.
Lay ofthe Hen-Pecked,
The Outside Dog,
Wolf and Lamb,
Lion in Love,
Frogs Asking for a King,
Sick Lion,
Country and Town Mice,
Man and Woman,

Home,

The Lotus-Planter,

Little Things.

A Baby’s Soliloquy,
Repentance.

A Plea for eggs,
Humbug Patriotism,
Night After Christmas,
Short Legs,

Shrimps on Amusements,

, The Man

| Temptations of Cities,

| Broken Resolutions,
There is no Death,

| Races,

| A Fruitful Discourse,

| A Frenchman’s Dinner,

| Unjust National Acqui’n,

| The Amateur Coachman,

| The Cold-water Man,

[evauatoncy of States,

| Liberty of Speech,

| John Thompson's Dau’r,
House Cleaning,

It Is Not Your Business.

Speaker, No. 9.

How the Raven Became

Black,
A Mother’s Work,
The Same,
Who Rules,
A Sheep Story,
A Little Correspondent,
One Good Turn Deserves
My Dream, [Another,

Rain,
Til. Never Use Tobacco,

osaic,

The Old Bachelor,
Prayer'to Light,
Little Jim,
Angelina’s Lament,
Johnny Shrimps on Boots
Mercy,

Choice of Hours,

Poor Richard’s Sayings,
Who Killed Tom Roper,
Nothing to Do.

Honesty Best Policy,
Heaven,

Ho for the Fields,
Fashion on the Brain,

On Shanghais,

A Smile,

Casabianca,
Homeopathic Soup,
Nose and Eyes,

Malt, [Come,
A Hundred Years to
The Madman and his
Little Sermons, [Razor,
Snuffles on Electricity,
The Two Cradles,

The Ocean Storm,

Do Thy Little—Do it Well
Little Puss,
Base-Ball.

[Fever.
Prescription for

Spring

 

Spread-Eagle Speaker, No, 10.

Ben Buster's Oration,
Hans Von Spiegel’s 4th,
Josh-Billings’s Advice,
A Hard-shell Sermon,
The Boots,
The Squeezer,
Noah and the Devil,
A Lover’s‘Luck,
Hifalutin Adolphus,
Digestion and Paradise,
Distinction’s Disadvant-
Smith, [ages,
Gushalina Bendibus,
A Stock of Notions,
Speaking: for the Sheriff,
Daking a Shweat,
Then and Now.
Josh Billings’s ‘Lecturing,
Doctor De Blister’s Ann’t,
Consignments,
ane ives, i i

an Bryant’s Speech,
A Colored View,
Original Maud Muller,
Nobody,
Train of Circumstances,
Good Advice
The Itching Palm,

Drum-head Sermons,
Schnitzerl's Philosopede,
“Woman's Rights,’
Luke Lather,

The Hog,

Jack Spratt,

New England Tragedy,
The Ancient Bachelor,
Jacob Whittle’s Speech,
Jerks Prognosticates,

A Word with Snooks,

| Sut Lovengood,

| A Mule Ride,

Josh Billings on Buzzers,
Il Trovatore,

Kissing in the Street,
Scandalous,

Plishiy Mixed,

The Office-seeker,
Old:Bachelors,

| Woman,

The Niam Niams,
People Will Talk,
Swackhamer’s Ball

Who Wouldn’t be Fire’n,
Don’t Depend on Dadda,
Music of Labor, _

| The American Ensign,

 

it lpg naps eatin +

 

|
¢
|

|

 

 
 

Sy
ty,

ns,
siti-

me

it,
ves
1er,

ots

38,
r;

me,

his
Zor,

Vell

ver.
‘ing

4

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— ‘ ee

 

f

 

THE

DIME SPEAKERS—Continued.

 

Dime Debater and Chairman’s
Guide, No. 11.

I.—DEBATING SOCIETY.
Its Office and Usefulness,
Formation of,
Constitution of,

By-Laws of,

Rules of Government,

Local Rules of Order,

Local Rules of Debate,

Subjects of Discussion.
11.—How To Departs.

Why there are few good
Debaters,

Prerequisites to Oratori-
cal Success.

The Logic of Debate,

The Rhetoric of Debate,

Maxims to Observe,

Yhe Preliminary Premise,

Order of Argument,

Summary,

111.—CHaIRMAN’S GUIDE.

Ordinary Meetings and
Assemblies,

The Organization,

Order of Business and
Proceedings,

The “ Question.” How it
can be Treated,

The “ Question.” How to
be Considered,

Rights to the Floor,

Rights of a Speaker as

gainst the Chair,

Calling Yeas and Nays,

Interrupting a Vote.

Organization of Delibéera-
tive Bodies, Conyen-
tions, Annual or Gen-
eral Assemblies,

ey Organiza-

ion,

Permanent Organization,

The Order of Business,

Considering Reports, Pa-
ers, etc.,

Of Subsidiary Motions,
The Due Order of Con-
sidering Questions,

Committees,

Objects of a Committee,

Their Powers,

How Named,

When Not to Sit,

Rules of Order and Pro-
cedure,

How to Report,

The Committee of the
Whole,

Miscellaneous, .....
Treatment of Petitions,
The Decorum of Debate,
Hints to a Chairman.

Iv.—DEBATES,

Debate in full:

Which is the Greatest
Benefit to his Country

—the Warrior, States-
man, or Poet?

Debates in Brief: ~ ;

I. Is the Reading 0:
Works of Fiction to be
Condemned?

I. Are Lawyers a Bene-
fit or a Curse to So-
ciety?

Y.—QUOTATIONS AND
PHRASES.
Latin.

 

Dime Exhibition Speaker,

No.

The Orator of the Day,

The Heathen Chinee,

The Land we Love,

Jim Bludso.

Be True to Yourself,

Ah Sin’s Reply,

A Plea for Smiles,

The Stanislaus Scientific

Free Italy, Society,

Italy’s Alien Ruler,

The Curse of One Man
Power, [(1814),

The Treaty of Peace

The Critical Moment,

The East and the West,

Is There any Money in it?

Are we a Nation?

Social Science.

Influence of Liberty,

The Patriot’s Choice,

The Right of the People,

The Crowning Glory,

The Pumpkin,

When You’re Down,

What England Has Done

The Right of Neutrality,

The National Flag,

Our True Future,

12.

Gravelotte,

All Hail!

Emancipation of Science,

Spirit of Forgiveness,

Amnesty and Love,

Beauty,

Song of Labor,

Manifest Destiny,

Let It Alone!

Disconcerted Candidate,

Maud Muller After Hans
Breitman,

What Is True Happiness?

The Irish of It. A ceo

What We See in the Sky.
A lecture,

What I Wish,

Good Manners,

A Ballad of Lake Erie,

Suffrage,

The Caucasian Race,

A Review of Situation,

Little Breeches, [ding,

Hans Donderbeck’s Wed-

A Victim of Toothache,

Story of the Twins,

A Cold in the Nose,

My Uncle Adolphus.

Dime School Speaker, No. 13.

PopuLaR ORATOR.
Fanny Butterfly’s Ball,
ieee Uncongenial to

‘eatne:

r 88,
Live'for Something,
Civil and Religious Lib-

erty, .
Second Review of the
Grand aad:
Dishonesty 0: Polities,
The Great Commoner,
Character and Achieve-
ment,
Cin.
ts gat Have Been,”’
Don’t Strike a Man When
own,
On Keep’ at It,
The Treasures of the
i
Keep Cool,
The Pieciods Freight,
A Sketch

The Sword the True Ar-
biter,

Aristocracy,

Baron Grimalkin’s Death
Obed Snipkins,

A Catastrophe,
Cheerfulness,

Mountains,

eee Lay of the Min-

strel,
The Unlucky Lovers,

The Dread Secret,

Civil Service Reform,

The True Gentleman,

The Tragic Pa,
SABBATH-SCHOOL PIECES,

A Cry for Life,

abbath,

A Good Life,
To Whom Shall We Give
Thanks?

Resolutio:

Never Mind,

The Bible,

Christianity Our Bul-
wark,

The Want of the Hour,

The Midnight Train,

The Better View,

Do Thy Little—Do it Well

Jesus Forever,

The Heart,

The World

Beautiful Thoughts,

A Picture of Life.

Be True to Yourself,
Popna sen:

Time is aoa

The Gospel of Autumn,

iS) ot Harshly,
‘ourage,

The Eternal Hymn,

Live for

The Silent City.

 

 

Ludicrous Speaker, No 14.

Courting,

‘her,
The Closing Year,
The Maniac’s Defense,
The Hen Scratches,
Ass and the Violinist,
Views of Married Life,
Bachelors and Flirts,
Job’s Turkey.
A Hardshell Sermon,
My First Knife,
Der Loddery Dicket,
A Canni-Ba.
Woman’s re S,
What’s the Matter,
Mrs, Jones’s Pirate,
De Goose,
Touch of the Sublime,
Blooded Van Snoozle,
Blast Against Tobacco,
Tobacco Boys,
Big Geniuses,
My First haar
Terrible T’-tale,
Silver Wedding,
Prohebishon,

Unlucky,

eer People,

iting One’s Nose Off,
The Singular’ Ma

e Sin; r Man,

Fourth of July Oration,
Cheer Up,
Self-Esteem,
Buckwheat Cakes,
Twain’s Little Boy,
A Word with You,
A Chemical Lament,
The Candy-Pulling,
Contentment,
ae Seca

D) Laug: :
The Tanner Boy,
On Wimmen’s Rights,
The Healer,
The Criminal Lawyer,
Ballad of Matilda Jane,
Water,
The Ballad of.a.Baker,
Good for Something,
A Moving Sermon,

 

Karl Pretzel’s Komikal Speaker

No.

Schandal,

Don’d Been Afraid,
Gamboling,
Indemberance.

Gretchen und Me go Oud,
Hope. Das ish vat it ish,
“ Dot Musquiter,”’

Leedle Gal-child’s Dream
Dhere Vas no Crying,
Leedle Speedches,

Pells, Pells,

The zled Dutchman,
Address to a School,

His Sphere,

Translations from Esop,
The Treachery of Jones,
Don’t Call a Man a Liar,
Man. A Lecture,

Bu’st. A “Dialect,”
Simon Short’s Son Sam,
Reckermember der Poor,
Natural History Views,
The Cart before the Horse
To See Ourselves,

15,

Sorrowful Tale,

The Loafer’s Society,

It’s the Early Bird, etc.,

Music,

Caudigs Wedding D
audle’s ay,

Dot Young Viddow,

The Best Cow in Peril,

Frequent Critters,

In for the Railroad,

Song of the Sink,

Case of young Ban;

The Mlinois Assembly,

The Cannibal Man,

Boss Bagshaw,

Pretzel as a Soldier,

The Raccoon,

My Childhood,

Schneider’s Ride,

Boy Suffrage,

Gardening,

He vas Dhinkin’,

Abner Jones’ Testimony,

By a Money Changer’s.

Dime Youth’s Speaker, No. 16.

A Call to the Field,

To Retailers,

War, War to the Death,
Adjuration to Duty,
The Crusader’s Appeal,
A Boy’s ete

I Have Drank My t,
The Spirit-Siren,

Rum’s Maniac,

Life is What we Make it,
Taste Not.

The Evil Beast,

Help

The Hardest Lot of All,
The Curse of Rum,

The Two Dogs. A fable,
The Source of Reform,
The Rum Fiend

True Law and False,

In Bad ee

The Only True Nobility,
The Inebriate’s End,

A Drunken Soliloquy,
The Work to Do,

To Labor is to Pray,

The Successful Life,
Better Than Gold,
Seed-Time and Harvest,
Invocation to Cold Water
Now, [Learn,
The Great Lesson to
The Toper’s Lament,
God’s uor,

Value of Life Work,

‘9 Paes the Situation,”
Died of Whisky,

A Story with a Moral,
Breakers Ahead,
Ichabod Sly,

Effects of Intemperance,
The Whisky Why is Tt,

 

Be Good to the Bod 5
Worth Makes the ‘Man.

The Dime Eloquent Speaker,

No
An Adjuratio:
The Mie of "Business,
Purity of Speech,
Parson Caldwell,

Value of See
Hand that ‘ks World,
Swelling Manhood,
Summer,

Woman's Love,

The Bricklayers,

Words of Silver,

Drive on! Drive on!

The Pg

The State Immortal,

The Moral Factor,
Walking with the World,
The only Safety,
Knowledge,

Be Careful what you Say
Stand by the Constit’n,
A True Frien

The Mocki Bird,

The Want of the Country

ee

The Value of Virtue,
She Would be a Mason,
Evils of Ignorance,
The Use of Time,
Come Down.
Anatomical

e Printing Press,
The Sabbath,
Busybodies,
Anatomica’ Lecture 2,
a Bey _ ae Dark,

e cter Caravan,
The True Saviors,
ae ae

mething to Sh
Plea for Teland.”
Smile Whene’er you Can,
The Wood of Stars,
A Thought, |
The Housemaid,

jure,

 

The Goblin Cat,
Aristocrats,

 

The Knightly Newsboy,
e ern Frau
Running for Legislature,

To a Young Man,

Heads,

The New Dispensation,
Turning the Grindstone,
Short Sermon,

Hail Columbia Speaker, No. 18.

Columbia,

Washington,
Appeal iss Liberty,
The American Hero,
Resistance to Oppression,
Patriotism,
Green Mountain Boys,
Eloquence of Otis,
Washington,
America Must be Free,
Freedom the Oaly Hope,
Day of Disinthrallment,
No Alternative but Liber-
Carmen Bellicosum, [ty,
Sword of Bunker Hill,
The Fourth of July,
Warren’s Address,
A Call to Liberty,
Good Faith,
Revolutionary Soldiers,
Our Responsibility,
British Barbarity.
How Freedom is Won,
Adams and Liberty,
Our Duties,
ie Destiny,

e American Flag,
The True Union,
American Independence,
Washington and Franklin

 

Sink or Swim,

The Buff and Blue,

The Mang Ss

The rSpy,
Lexingto!

Our Only Hope.
Declaration of Independ-
The Liberty Bell, [ence,
th weg Sa *s Attributes,
What We Are,

Our Great Trust,

God Bless our States,
Looking Backward.
Marion and His Men.
Liberty and Union,

A Noble Plea,

em Yankee Doodle,
Wolfe’s Addréss,
Watching for Montgom-
The National Ensign, [ery
God Save the Union,

Our Natal Day,

The 22d of February.
New England’s D
Repeal! Repeal!

The True Hero,

Old irons

Our Gifts to History,
Uncle Sam’s a Hundred,
Centennial. Oration,

Serio-Comic Speaker, No. 19.

The American Phalanx,
The Same,

The Old Canoe,

Room at the ap

New England Weather,

luges,

Leedle Yawcob Strauss,
A Fable,

The Tramp’s Views,
Moral Littleness,
Yawcob Hoffeltegobble,
The Setting Sachem,
Street Arab’s Sermon,

Man,

The Test of Friendship,
The Price of Pleasure,
Sour Grapes,

The Unwritten ‘“ Claws,”
The Ager,

Fish,

Judge Not Thy Brother,
The Dog St. Bernard,
The Liberal Candidate,
A Boy’s Opinion of Hens,
Good Alone are Great,
The Great Napoleon,
The Two Lives,

The Present Age,

At Midnight,

i t,

Truth,
The Funny Man,
The Little Orator,

 

Pom Squash,

Mr. % New Version,
The ae Express,
Morality’s Worst Enemy,
The Silent Teacher,

The Working People,
The Moneyless Man.
Strike Through the Knot,
An Agricultural Address,
The New Scriptures,

The Trombone,

Don’t Despond,

The Mill Cannot Grind,
What Became of a Lie,
Now and Then,

How Ub vos Dot for High
Early Rising,

Smart Boy’s Opinion,
The Venomous Worm,

Dead Beat Politics,
War and Dueling,
Horses. A Protest,
Excelsior,
Paddy’s Version of Ex.

celsior,
s oe ee

es and Application,

0} d' Scrooge,
Man, Generically Consid

ered,
A Chemical Wedding.

Dime Select Speaker, No, 20.

Save the Republi

ave the Republic

Watches of Bho Night,

The Closing Year,

Wrong and Right Road,

An Enemy to Society,

Barbara Freitche,

The Most Precious Gift,

Intellectual and Moral
Power,

Thanatopsis,

New Era of Labor,

Work of Faith,

A Dream,
La Dame Aux Camelias,
Penalty of Selfishness,
Lights Out,
Clothes Don’t Make the
Man,
The Last Man,
Mind Your Own Business
My ¥Yourth of July Senti-
nyc eT
y uimaux end.
Storyod the Little Rid Hin
My Castle in Spain,
Shonny Schwartz,
Artest) Young i
oun;
Beautiful Snow, eae

 

Now is the Time.

Exhortation to Patriots,

He Is Eve: ‘here,

sph Pare
on the Keystone,

Scorn of Office, :

Who are the Free

The City on the Hill,

How to Save the Repub-

lic,
The Good Old Tim:
Monmouth, oe

Hope. a
Moral Desolation,
Self-evident Truths,
Won't you let my Papa
Work,
Conscience the

Patera
e Mui
The Hero. )

lage Them,
Time’s Soliloquy
ime’s Solilog Make Tt,

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1 Was She His Wife? Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 10¢ 27-28 Charlotte’s Inheritance. M. E. Braddon 10c¢
2 Fleeing From Love. By Harriet Irving.... 10¢ 29 A Girl’s Heart. By Rett Winwood........ 10e
3 Did He Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell.... 10¢ 30-31 Red as a Rose is She. Rhoda Broughton. 10¢
4 A Strange Woman. By Rett Winwood...... 10¢ 32 The Lily of St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow....... 10¢
5 Nadia, The Russian Spy. F. Whittaker.... 10¢ 33 Strangely Wed. By Mrs. J. D. Burton...... 10¢
6 Two Girls’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell 10¢ 34 The Gipsy Bride. By M. E. 0. Malen ..... 10¢
7-8 Lady Audley’s Seeret. Miss M. KE. Braddon 10¢ 35 Annie Temple. By Rey. J. H. Ingraham... 10¢
9 The War of Hearts. Corinne Cushman..... 10¢ 36 Without Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell.. 10¢
10 Leighton Grange. Miss M. E. Braddon.... 10¢ 37 Black Eyesand Blue. By Corinne Cushman. 10¢
11 The False Widow. Mrs. J. D. Burton...... 10¢ 38 Brave Barbara. By Corinne Cushman...... 10¢
12-13 Lost for Love. Miss M. E. Braddon...... 10¢ 39 A Dangerous Woman. By Margaret Blount. 10¢
14-15 Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo.... 10¢ 40 QOuida’s Love. By Henrietta E. DeConde.... 10¢
16 The Quadroon. By Mrs. C. A. Warfield.... 10¢ 41 Lost: A Wife. By Corinne Cushman...... 10¢
17-18 Uncle Silas. By J. 8S. Le Fanu.......... 10¢ 42 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount...... 10¢
19-20 Dead-Sea Fruit. Miss M. E. Braddon.... 10¢ 43 A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.. 10¢
21-22 Little Kate Kirby. F. W. Robinson.... 10¢ 44 The Dead Letter. By Seeley Regester...... 10¢
23 Sowing the Wind. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell... 10¢ 45 Lord Lisle’s Daughter. - 10¢
24.25 Birds of Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon..... 10¢ 46 A Woman’s Hand. By the author of “ The
26 That Boy of Norcott’s. Charles Lever...... 10¢ Dead Letter.” Ready Dee. 5th............. 10¢

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