Copyrighted 1877, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. Vol. I Lost: A Wife; WEDDED, BUT NOT WON, BY CORINNE CUSHMAN, AUTHOR OF “BLACK EYES AND BLUE,” “WAR OF HEARTS,” ‘BRAVE BARBARA,” ‘“‘MAD- CAP, THE LITTLE QUAKERESS,” ETC. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No. 98 WiLLiamM STREET, New Yorg. Complete in this Number. “Tt would be better for us if we had the cour- age to do so too, Lucille.” “Oh, no! Tina, that is not true courage.” Both sat silent for a time; then Lucille re- sumed: “She expected to keep her place all winter. Many others had been dismissed, but. she was a favorite, and had been with them so long, she hoped for the best.” “This will be a sad winter for the poor, Lu- cille.” “Yes, yo yes! The rich have been reck- CHAPTER IL less and the poor must suffer. It is always so. THE ARTIFICIAL FLOWER. MAKERS. | We pay the penalty of the crimes of those It was a bitterly cold day early in the winter | who walk over us. Poor little Tina, you of 3758. Two young girls were sitting with ' tremble with cold; and you are hungry, I N.ORR-Go. No.4 small and delicate, with her large brown eyes ready to drop tears, sat in her friend’s lap, who chafed and fondled her little thin hands, im- parting to them some of her own superior vitality; for Lucille, though her face was now rather worn and pale, had a vigorous ‘constitu- tion; the fine dark skin, the clear-cut features full bust, and tall and rounded form, told of youth and strength. “How beautiful youare! Youlook handsomer to me every day,” said the child on her knee, caressing her smooth hair, black, like her eyes. “Tes a strange time tobe thinking of beauty,” responded Lucille, with a sad. smile; “‘ by the time we are starved to death, it will matter lit- tle how we once looked.” PRICE 10 CENTS. “NOW IAM READY, MRS. MAXWELL,” AND HE CONTRIVED TO DROP THE NOTE IN LUCILLE’S HAND. know. You are not so strong as I—TI do not feel it so much.” “Don’t mind me, Lucille, don’t.” ° .“Come over and sit in my lap, and I will ly, chafe your hands; they are purple with cold. fared sadly on her face, she would look outofthe | By-and-by, when the men have gone from din window as if there were something to interest | ner, you shall go down to Mrs. Mackaye’s and her in the icy street, or the brick wall opposite. | ask to sit by her fire a while.” It was but a sorrowful ruse to keep from be- Poor children, orphans, whom the | great traying how very sorrowful they felt. world, the rich city, the Christian fireside | their shawls wrapped about them—for they had | no fire—in an upper room of a tenement-house in the lower part of the city, on a street lying back of Broadway. They spoke only occasional- and when one caught the eyes of the other ‘Poor Sarah!” at length said the elder of the should have adopted! they made a picture of two, her thoughts taking speech almost against | sweet forlornness as they sat there together: her will, ‘‘I hear that she was no sooner dis- | Tina—given once by some fond mother the ro- mantic name of Clementina, but called always charged than she went to her boarding-house | and hung herself.” and appropriately by this pet abbreviation—so ““Do you think we really can starve to death, and so many people about ‘us?’ queri Tina, with a shudder, clinging to her riend’ shoulder. “People have met with such a fate, you know, even in this city. But, I didn’t wish to frighten you. You must sit by Mrs. Mackaye’s fire, while I go, out again, and seek work of some kind. Irom our own trade we have nothing to expect, and, indeed, nothing from any other. One can only try and try again, till she dies. However, I may find something. I have energy, and the thought of you, waiting for good tidings, will be a double incentive.” “T ought to go with you.” 2 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. “No; the day is cold, and you are already chilled with hunger. I may walk many niles before I return. Come! I havye.none too much time; the days are short—I hear the men going out from dinner.” She. took her hood and shawl, and the two descended, pausing before a door .on the second floor, where Mrs. Mackaye kept an Trish boarding-house. . “Give Tina a cup of tea and piece of bread ; I will pay you when I come back, Mrs. Mackaye.” : * “Whist, now! don’t be spakin’ oy the pay. The darlin’s welcome to abit o’ bread an’ tay. She luks as if she had the ague, shure. Sit here by the stove, till I bring it to ye.” With a smile of thanks to the warm-heart- ed Irish woman, Lucille paused not to take any of this comfort for herself, but went forth with quick, elastic steps, from which hardship and sorrow had not yet stolen the gtace of youth. In a few moments she mingled with the crowd upon Broadway. It was late in the afternoon, and she had made the last of several applications to a house far up town, when, turning wearily to face the stream of people going up the great thoroughfare at that hour, she met a young man who affected not.to see her as she pass- ed; but she, staring full at him, knew that he did recognize her, by the slight contraction of bis eyelids. itt 2 She turned, and, following him, pressed close to his side. “You make a very good show, Branthope, upon money which does not belong to you. ow may feast; but I’m starving.” “Are you out of work?” he asked un- easily. , ie Yoo, Iam; and do not expect any more this winter. Our employers are sure to take care of themselves—as for us, it is no mat- ter.” “Please don’t talk to me now, Lucille, I’m afraid we shall be observed. I am going to be married next week to arich girl. q expect every moment that her carriage will pass. She has driven down to Wall street to bring her father home from business. Give me your address. I promise you I wlll see youas soon as I have time.” “Perhaps when you have gained another fortune by means of one which does not be- lug to you, xen will be willing to make some restitution. I do not know where my address will be a fortnight from now—maybe Potter’s Field.” The young gentleman’s hand was upon his purse, but at that moment a carriage passed, in which was sitting a portly and pompous middle-aged man, and a stylish, beautiful young lady, who blushed and smiled as she bawed, and he hurried savagely from the girl by hisside. The gas was lighted long before Lucille re- turned to the little friend, who was pressing her pale cheek against the cold glass, watch- ing ‘or her. ; “Nothing—I have made out nothing at all,” was her reply to the eager, look she met as she enteréd their apartment; “ but we will have a fire and something to eat. I have pawned my ring, and haye bought some coals and supper. You know it was a real emerald which was set in the ring; I raised enough money on it to fend off starvation for some time, Tina.” ; _“T thought you said you would never part with it.” : ; “T hardly think I ever would have done it to save myself. But I thought of your pale cheeks and. trembling fingers, little girl. There! don’t feel so badly, It’s only pawn- ed; I have a strong faith that I shall redeem it some day.” “Sit down, while I light the fire,” entreat- | ed Tina, noticing the weary air with which | the other placed upon the floor the basket which she had tugged up two fights of stairs. All the time that Tina was making the fire, putting the tea to steep, and toasting the bread, her companion sate, staring at the grate, lost in moody reflections. Her black eyes gleamed beneath their knitted brows, cold and self-absorbed, and sometimes the hungry teeth would gnaw at the crimson under-lip, Her room-mate stole troubled glances at her, not daring to intrude upon her thoughts. She inferred, child as she was, that Lucille, so handsome, so intelligent, so superior in all things to herself, had a secret history. That ing entifical flowers, as Tina herself had been, she did not think credible. It was true that no girl in the shop—not French Terise even —made more exquisite flowers; but this did not shake her belief that the art had been recently acquired. Out of a hundred companions, Lucille had singled Tina fora friend—her, so quiet, so shy, so patient at her work; they had roomed to- gether to lessen expense; and Tina, the or- phan, had never before felt so happy and protected, so much as if her apartment wasa home, as since this partnership. For Lucille was courageous and kind; pa- tronizing and caring for her little friend in the most delightful way; a sort of mother- sister, though in reality only two years older. The dark moods which sometimes came upon Lucille, during which she seemed to feel harshly toward the whole world, and to keep herself in a chilling silence, awed poor Tina, but did not: lessen her love. Such a mood was upon her to-night; the young girl moved softly about her pleasant work of preparing their evening meal, not speaking until the tea was on the unpainted board, which they dig- nified by the name of table. If there had been any to observe aud ap- preciate, they would have fonnd that Tina herself was not. unlovely, when the heat of the fire had driven the paleness from her face; her cheeks were delicate as the petals of the wild-rose, and her soft brown eyes were such as only belong to loving, clinging natures, The taste constantly cultivated in the work of making flowers, showed itself in the color of her plain dress and the arrangement of her flossy, light-brown hair. _, But there was not one in all the world who cared whether Tina was pretty or ugly, ex- cept, perhaps, Lucille, and. she cared less for’ the orphan girl’s looks than she did for her innocence and timidity, which made her a welcome companion, “Come, darling Lucille, the tea is waiting, and I’m sure you need it,” ventured the friend, after waiting vainly for her to come out of her absent-minded mood. “Yes, I do; I have eaten nothing since last night,” responded Lucille, shaking off her ab- straction, and drawing a chair to the table almost eagerly, for, however pressing may be our mental wants, those of the body are most relentless and -terrible, and Lucille was more nearly famished that our ephilanthropists would like to believe. CHAPTER II. ~ AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. — One day, a fortnight later, Lucille came back from that never-ending, never-successful quest for work, on which she set forth eve morning, to return each evening disappointed. “We have work at last!” she cried, as Tina, her lap full of flowers, whieh she had manu- factured in the hope that she might dispose of them to charitable ladies, flew to open the door. ‘No more freezing, no more starving ! but plenty of fire, plenty of food, soft beds, 7 epene every thing luxurious, my dar- ing! “ What can you mean?” . _ “Not to deceive, I assure you. Don’t look at me as if you suspected me of being insane. I just simply mean that I have secured us places as seryants; you, as lady’s-maid toa young, pretty, and wealthy bride, who is about to go to housekeeping; myself, as child’s nurse to a good-natured baby in an- other well-to-do family. It is better than making flowers, Tina, even if we had them to make. Your service wil! be light, and you will share in the rich crumbs which fall from our lady’s table. We American girls are Oolish, to give up all these excellent places to foreigners, because it goes against the grain of ‘our independent natures to serve. hat are we shop-girls but the servants of most exacting masters, toiling out our lives in close rooms, when we might have comfort, plenty, and comparative ease and liberty? Itell you the house-servants of New York city are about the most favored class. They pay no bills; they do not dread rent-day ; they feast upon | their master’s substance, without care as to how it came or how it is going., No wonder ‘they grow insolent. Go you, too, my dear, and take all the advantage of your situation possible. Work as little and live as wellas she had been brought up to the trade of mak- | you can!” - “You are not in earnest about that last ad- vice, I know, Lucille, for no one is more strict - to do right than yourself. You often make me ashamed. But do you think I shall-give satisfaction ?the work will be so new to me.” “You already dress hair beautifully ; and hands which can fashion stich dainty flowers ought to be swift and.tasteful in the service of lady’s-maid. Mrs. Maxwell will have g¥eat patience with your ignorance, sustained by the delightful .prospect of a neat and con- scientious servant. Besides, she is only a girl herself—married last week, eighteen ; in- experienced and probably very indulgent. It is one place in a thousand, and I feel that I may congratulate you.” “Fortunately, women-servants don’t. have to don a livery,” laughed Tina. “Fancy me in a cape and buttons !” “T do fancy you in a white apron and «French cap.” “ Absurd... But, indeed, I like it, after all. Why didn’t you get a place in the same family, darling Lucille? and you gave me the best one, as usual.” “T have reasons for not wishing to go in the family where I found you a situation, or I might also have hada place there. However, we shall not be far apart. The houses are in the same square; and I was very particular to secure your Thursdays and Sundays out, so that you could come to see me.” Both the girls laughed. It was ridiculous —and ‘yet, in one sense, it was sublime—it saved them from starvation ! “You, haye. such 4 head, Lucille, to man- age things! When are we to go ?” : “To-morrow. Your mistress, Mrs, Max- well, returns to-day from Philadelphia, and takes possession of the elegant house, which was her father’s bridai present, to-morrow.” _ “JT wonder if I shall like her?” mused Tina. : “Tf you don’t you can dismiss her,” re plied Lucille, Etec hie “But I think there is no danger of your not agreeing. She seems amiable—a very happy bride— even a little romantic! As romantic as Fifth avenue ever gets to be. She has made a mis- take, but she does not know it, yet.” Lucille was slipping into one of her day-dreams, and Tina was regarding her with wide-open eyes, ready to devour every word which dropped from lips that often spoke in a strain quite above the level of her class. “It was my duty to have warned her; had I not sup- osed her a mere creature of fashion -like ranthope himself, I should have stepped be- tween them. Now, for her sake I ought to be silent. Hark!” starting suddenly from her soliloquy ; “what-voice is that? ‘Tina, Iam lost! hide me in this closet! Be silent, oh, be still! Don’t appear to be alarmed; and when that persom asks for me, do hie say there is no’such person here. Say that I’ve oe out—that you don’t expect me back to- day—any thing to get him away—there! shut the door and don’t look so pale.” She looked pale herself, though ; and poor little Tina trembled all over as a wary step came to the door, followed by a cautious knock. . “Come in,” she said, striving to look un- concerned. The door opened, admitting a roughly- ‘dressed man, heavy-browed, with cunning, restless eyes, reddish-black beard, dnd a face flushed with brandy. The first glance at him made Tina’s blood curdle, timid little thing as she was; but she looked at him as bravely as if her heart were not almost fluttering out of its cage. a say, miss,” he began, with a smile which increased her dislike, “ where's that other young lady that boards with you ?” “She’s gone out,” gasped poor Tina; gone im would have been the exact truth, but the young girl was certain some frightful emerg- © ency demanded from her this deviation. “ Can I give her your message ey a “No, Miss, you can’t—not very well. I’ve ot business of importance, and I reckon I'd st wait here till she comes;” so saying he helped himself to a chair. “T don’t expect her back sii soon.” “ Well, I guess I can wait. She'll be in by dark, I s’pose; and you look as if you'd be good company.” t The girl was in agony; he saw that she was frightened, and leered at her maliciously ; ‘ but she was alarmed at other matters than LOST: A WIFE. 3 the thought of harm from him. . The closet. into which she had shut and locked her friend, turning the key more by flurry than inten- tion, was very small—so small that she could hardly close the door with Lucille inside. | | with a start, or a terrfied scream, while the | To be shut there for hours was death. Yet | the concealed girl had appéared so agitated, so filled with dread, and the man so desperate a character, that she dared not, upon her own responsibility, bétray Lucille—at least not un- til the very last moment. Fifteen minutes—half an hour passed slow- ly on, The intruder sat and stared at her, en- joying her distress ; the silence was such that she feared some inadvertent’ movement, or even the stifled breath of the prisoner, would betray her. She began, nervously, to talk about the weather and the hard times, getting up and looking out of the window aid won- dering why Lucille did not return. She would have gone out and summoned help to remove the man; but she feared to leave her friend’ alone; she was sure, if she did, that he would go to rummaging the'room ; or, be- ing alone in it, he might detect even a breath. Each moment grew more unendurably long; she gasped” in sympathy ‘with her stifling friend ; the man began to whistle, in an undér- tone, to pass away the time, when suddenly the crash’ of a falling Cish in the fatal closet made her heart stand still. The stranger looked at the closet and at her suspiciously. “ Those troublesome rats!” she exclaimed, and seeing that he sat in such «a position as would prevent his looking inside, she went to the closet and partially unclosed the door, crying out, “husht !” to the imaginary pests, while she looked at Lucille to question her if she would be released. . The wild, imploring look, the gesture commanding her to close the door, caused her to do so despite her fears, and the expression of suffering on the white face. Again she sat down. She arose and again looked out the window. A couple of police ‘officers were standing on the opposite pave- ment. “Perhaps Lucille has stepped into Mrs. Mackaye’s on her way up-stairs,” she said ; “Twill go see,” and passing out, she flew— flew with her utmost speed down the many stairs and out of the main entrance. ““Come, come,” she cried, beckoning to the policemen, “ quick! There is a bad man up- stairs ; he will do harm!” Startled more by her look than words, they followed her back, reaching the room just as its occupant, tired of inaction, was,exploring the premises for himself. ; “Oh, it’s you, is it!” exclaimed one of the officers ; and the two, knowing by former ex- perience that he was as powerful as he was reckless, sprung upon him at once. * Tina shrunk into a corner, while a short, fierce struggle took place, during which the man was overpowered and dragged from the room. Then she sprung to the closet. As she opened it, Lucille, whose face was resting against the door, fell forward against her. “She is dead!” shrieked Tina, sinking to the floor with her burden, unable to make an effort to recover her; but the change of posi- tion sent the blood back to the brain of the unconscious gir who soon unclosed her eyes with a struggle for breath. “ Dear, darling Lucille, I thought you were suffocated,” sobbed Tina, laying her friend’s head from her lap, and bringing water as soon as the thrill of terror was off her limbs. ‘“Tt was close,” was the shivei.ag answer, “hot and close! but it was not that/ When I heard that terrible man's oaths and his struggles, I fainted from fright. There is no- thing on earth that can terrify me like that person. Have you locked the door ?” _“ They have him; you neeu not fear; they will place him in prison,” said her little com- panion soothingly, though herself trembling. “He will get away from them, as he has done before. He will get away, and come back here! Oh, I am so glad that we are to leave this spot in the morning. We will keep the door locked every moment until we 0, Ishall not feel safe until I am far from Rave’ Isupposed him to be in another part of the world, and to think he was so near!” with a prolonged shudder. Mrs. Sackied came up to see what the of- ficers had been after, and finding the girls so nervous and alarmed, made them come down and stay with her until bedtume, When they returned to their room they fastened the ; door, dragged the furniture before it, and crept tremblingly to bed, and into each other’s | arms. Their sleep was broken. If the eld- er one sunk into-slumber she would awake younger, alarmed by sympathy, puzzled her head in wonder as to what connection that | hard-looking man could haye with the for- tunes of Lucille—Lucillé, so setf-possessed, usually so courageous—Lucille, so proud and | bright—so far above others in her station— Lucille, in whose hidden history she began to take the deepest interest. ,dn the morning the two girls prepared themselves for the novel step they were about to take; very little preparation, indeed, was necessary, 2s they had no means of adding to their wardrobes, and the furniture of their room was rented with it. Lucille filled a large paper-box with the flowers they had on hand, and the remaining material. “Take this with you, Tina; Mrs. Maxwell will perhaps purchase the flowers, which will enable you to provide yourself with stuff for | those white aprons; and you, can amuse yourself, ir your leisure hours, in manufactur- ing more.“.Don’t be so saying of coal this morning ;, put’on all there.is, and let us be thoroughly warmed before we set out.” : There was a glowing fire, and the bread-and- butter was unstinted. Tina wishéd to run to the corner-grocer’s for coffee and milk, of which she knew her roopm-mate was fond, but | Lucille would not, hear to her leaving ber | alone.a moment. Her eyes glittered, and the red spot so indicative of intense excitement, burned on either cheek ; her movements were nervously hurried, although she knew they -would not be expected for several hours, in She | ate very little, and spoke less; until, noticing | that her own mood was depressing Tina, | whom she wished to keep in good spirits, she | the houses to which they were to go. suddenly dashed into the opposite extreme of gay and audacious conyersation. “You can pla heart’s content. When your mistress is away you can assume her character—borrow her silken: robes, sparkling jewels, et cetera, and break the hearts of the footman and butler.” “If it were you, now, Lucille, you would not have to play Jady.. You always are a lady, and I believe you have been as rich as any of them, some time. You aren’t angry with me for saying so?” “No, Tina; you can not help your opinions. And you always persist in having very flat- | tering opinions of me. I suppose you are full of curiosity to know bow I coul acquaintance with that man who came here yesterday—how he could have power over me to terrify me so. It is natural that you should wish to understand it; but I can not explain now. Some time, Tina, when I haye | broken my chain—when I am freé, you shall | Now, you must take me on trust.” | know all, “On trust!” echoed the younger girl, re- proachfully. She would as soon have thought | of taking a queen on trust, as Lucille, whom | she respected almost. as much as she adored. “You are a loving little creature, and you | will have your reward,” said Lucille, looking into the brown eyes until something of the | hardness of her own glittering glance was | “J constitute myself your grand-_ melted. mother, little one, and some day I shall come to you in your cinders of servitude, and bring you the glass slippers and the coach-and-four. “And the Prince?” laughed Tina. If you promise me to wait for the Prince, | and not to flirt with any of lower rank in the mean time, I will bring him, too. But come, | Tina, let us be generous, and make Mrs. Mac- kaye a present of every thing for which we have no use—thegtea-pot and spoons, plates, and milk-pitcher. Thank heaven! it is nine o'clock, and we can set forth upon our adven- ture, Mrs. Mackaye wept with true Irish prodi- gality when the “beautiful childer” stopped at her door to say good-by; but. no sooner were they down the stairs than she wiped her eyes on her apron, and went up to console herself with the treasures they had abandoned. “To think of Miss Lucille a-turnin’ nursery maid,” she remarked, as she gathered up the | spoils ; “she'll frighten the poor babby with | her grand airs, quite out of its appetite, I’m | afeard. [’d sooner ask Queen Victory to make pap for me than Miss Lucille. “She ought to go on the Bowery boards, that’s what she ought. She’d mak’ her fortune shure, lady, little one, to your | have any | | How. sweet she'd. be, now, in, fhe Lady: of Lions, or the Buccaneer’s Bride. This opinion of Mrs. Mackaye’s was shared by another—Lucille herself, who was. weil aware that she had talents for the stage, and | who, often, in hours of desperation and’fierce striving with poverty, had resolved to under- take her legitimate occupation; and who had only. been withheld—not by doubts of its pro-. priety, for she had high respect for the genius of the world’s great players, to whom she felt’ ' she might add her own name—by that same’ | great, fear and terror which she had mani- | fested yesterday—the fear of being recognizea and hunted down by one whom it was the set task of her life to avoid. CHAPTER IIL. ONE PART OF A MYSTERY. Mrs. BRawTHOPE MAXxWEL1 was going out to a New Year's Eve festival held in her own father’s house. “We must hurry, Tina,’ she said, as she sat before her mirror, watching the effect of the manipulation to which her beautiful hair was being subjected; “mamma wishes me to assist in receiving the guests, and I ought to be home by eight v’clock. How natural it comes to say ‘home’—as i {is was not my home! What a happy girl I am;‘to have two homes!’ and she laughed with that joyous- | ness which proved her as happy as some care- less child. The bride of a month, married to the man of her choice, surrounded by luxury, and pét- ted by a circle of friends, she had no excuse for being otherwise than very content. .Even if not vain—and she was no more so than circumstances justified—she must have been satisfied with the reflected beauty upon which she gazed. She belonged to one of the most | charming types of pretty American women— | a slight, elegant figure, fair complexion, deli- | cate features, a refined expression mingled of good breeding and intellectual cultivation ; to this addtthe grace of stylish and exquisite costume, (in which, despite the pert remarks of letter-writers, it is evident that our coun- ah ea excel,) and you may believe that Mrs. Maxwell made an agreeable picture in-' side of that elaborate gilt frame. She was already dressed for the festival, and sat with _ a light shawl over her shoulders, while Tina | put the finishing touches to her hair. Her pink silk dress was trimmed with white lace, and embellished with jewels of diamonds and emeralds. 4 “Why, where did thatcome from? Itis per- fect !” she cried,as Tina placed amid her golden- _ brown locks, just above her smooth, low fore- head, a small diadem of moss-rose buds/ which she fastened with one of the jeweled pins. “ Are they real ?” : “No, madam; I made them after I saw your dress. 1vu know it is my business to make flowers.” m ‘Yes; but I never saw any 80 life-like. How delicate the moss is! and the buds just match my dress. Tina, you are a treasure ! I thank you for your pretty New Year’s gift. | Branthope will fall in love with me anew when he sees me!” ; The young bride called her husband “ Bran- , thope” to her dressing-maid, which lapse of dignity was partly owing to her great happi- ness, that overflowed, in confidence, to all _ about her, and partly to Tina’s own gentle, unassuming ways, that drew forth this confi- dence, as naturally as light draws open the hearts of roses. | ~ “‘T am so glad you fancy it, Mrs. Maxwell.” “ Did not someone knock ?” | ‘Tina opened the door, and saw her friend, | Lucille, who drew back when; she perceived | the lady of the house was still in. her cham- | ber, saying that she would return to the kitch- — | en, and wait until Tina was at leisure; but : Mrs. Maxwell, who recognized her as the girl who had recommended her maid to her, asked , her to come in, saying that she was about to | go, and ‘Tina wouid soon be at liberty. _. Locking her jewel casket, and ae up her | fan and handkerchief, the young wife lingered | for another glance in the mirror, when her husband, not waiting for an answer to his tap on the door, entered, saying: ‘ “Tamoafraid we shall be Jate, Violet—the | carriage is at the door. Why, Comings how beautiful youare to-night. You never looked better—not even in your wedding-dress.” 4 THE -FIRESIDE -LLBRARY: “You see things couleur de rose,” laughed | the bride. “T could not see them otherwise to-night. Rose is ‘a favorite color of mine. I used to fancy it with dark hair and eyes; but’I find now, that it harmonizes with blue eyes and golden hair,’ and stepping forward gayly, he was about to place himself by his wife’s side, when his glance fell upon Lucille, who had shrunk to the far end of the room, and was standing quite composed, but pale, hoping to. escape his observation, The sudden change in his demeanor caused Mrs. Maxwell to say, carelessly : “Tt is only a friend of Tina’s. They are to have the evening to themselves after we go out.” “T don’t like it,’ muttered) Mr. Maxwell; but the glance of defiance he shot at the in- truder was met by one as unswerving. He fidgeted a moment about the dressing-bureau, appeared to look for something, tore a leaf out of his note-book, and wrote a few words upon if, saying to his wife, as he did so: “ { forgot to write out that order for Brown. Come, now I am ready, if you are, Mrs. Max- well,” and he contrived, skillfully, to drop the paper in Lucille’s hand, before he left the room. After he had been some time gone, she read it, while Tina’s attention was diverted to other matters : “If yon want money, you shall have it—freely. But don’t begin to make trouble at this late hour of the day. If you do, 1 have a way of revenging my- self. G. N. is in town—do you know it ?~and I will earee on your track if you interfere with my af- The red blood flushed up to the girl’s fore- ~ head. ‘ ‘ “True to his nature,” she thought, while her lip curled with anger and contempt—*‘ al- ways cowardly, always ready to sacrifice me. It is like him to threaten, after 1 have prom- ised him immunity for his base deeds. , If it were not for the innocence of that bride’s soving face, I would ruin him to-morrow. Yes, I would dare all the consequences—I would break the bonds of this fear which have held me back from doing that which I ought to have done for myself. I will appeal to the public for protection from them all. The whole three shall not have power to silence me. Branthope threaten me, indeed, when he quakes with a miserable terror, day and night, lest L should expose him! It will be far bet- ter for him to conciliate and to protect, than to tirge me on to the last extremity. He de- pends too much upon the influence of the past. He ought to know,” sneeringly, “how all that weighs against him, instead of in his favor, with me. Good heavens! what does he suppose I am made of, that I should be so different from other women? I have been a fool to allow him to seein what dread I stood of that other man.” “ What ails you this evening, Lucille? You are growing tired, I know, of work to which you arenot accustomed. Oh, bwish you had taken my place, which is so easy and pleas- ant,” and Trina, sitting on the carpet at Lu- cille’s feet; rested her head on her knee, look- ing oF with affectionate eyes. ‘You are a good and loving little friend, Tina; but, don’t fret yourself about having | | me a scrap of paper I will write my note, | and you must contrive to deliver it to him the easiest situation. told you there were reasons for my not wishing it. Why, Tina, if you knew them, you would laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea! It would make you merry a whole evening,” smiling bitterly. “Tt always has appeared ridiculous to me to see you doing things which are plainly not habitual with you,” answered the other, grave- “ As for me, I have always made flowers —always been poor; but with you it is other- wise.” “ How do you know?” ¥ “ By the evidence of my senses. I wish I knew more about you, dear Lucille, for I love you; yetI feel so far from you. Mrs. Griggs told me once there was a romantic mystery about you.” | “Dear Mrs. Griggs,” said Lucille, softly, the tears springing to her eyes, “how good she was, ih spite of her ignorance énd com- ical sentimentality. I ly I could go to her now. It would be a comfort.” “Can’t I comfort you the least little bit, darling Lucille yi Lucille looked down at her earnestly a few moments. “Tina, I know you love me, but have you discretion to receive a weighty secret and keep it carefully? You might do much harm ‘and do not forget, Tina! thing of our matters. to the happiness of an Innocent person, if you were to do or say any thing unwise—” : “T know I’m not wise; but I shall try not to harm you.” : “Nor one other, who is destined to be a good friend of yours. Mr. Maxwell is a cou- sin of mine; we spent years under the same roof; every dollar of the property of which he has possession—over a hundred thousand dollars—is mine; mine, legally, and so cer- tainly, that I have at any moment only to avow myself, and the law will place it at once in my hands: _ He is as fully aware of it as I am. It is natural that he should not like*to have meabout. But, circumstances may arise which will render it necessary for me to do gome unexpected things; and I have taken you thus far into my confidence, in order, dear Tina, that you may not put a false construc- tion upon evidences, which you will hardly fail to detect, of a previous acquaintance be- tween Mr. Maxwell and myself. I do not wish his wife to observe this, since no expla- nations can be made to her which will not damage her husband in her eyes.” “ How strange it all seems, Lucille, and you absolutely wanting bread !” : “That was an accident. Yet, for all m cousin really cares, I might starve, and wel- come. He knows that I will not harm him— unless driven to it to preserve myself from something which I dread more than hunger, Joneliness, or death itself.” “What is that, dear Lucille?” “Don’t ask me. I can not put my unhap- piness into words. As to my future, I was not designed, as you say, for a nursery-maid. A design which I have long entertained, I in- tend now to carry out. shall soon go to England, and study for the stage. But, listen, Where I go must be known to nobody except yourself. Mr. Maxwell, of all men, must not dream of it. It is of vital importance that I get off with- out my destination being suspected. After I reach London, I shall send my address to you under a fictitious name, so that if there should arise the necessity of any communication on my part, or on yours, some one in this wide world will know where I am. J am under the necessity of going abroad, to avoid recog- nition’ in my new calling. I am now goin to write a note to Mr. Maxwell, to demand o: him a sum sufficient to pay the expenses of the voyage, and my way in a strange city, until Iam able to earn my living as an actress. But he is not to know for what purpose I use the money. He must: believe that I am in this country—at the West, giving lessons as a music-teacher, or something of that kind. I am educated, Tina—accomplished, as the phrase goes—in music and the modern lan- guages, which will be a great assistance to me in my new career, I have #@ good voice —and talent. ’ A “As for you, pretty one, I would advise you to stay where you are, even if your own trade prospers again, so long as Mrs. Max- well likes you and favors ve You will have-a good home, and will be protected from the unpleasant surroundings of an_or- phan girl who has to pay for her board in those cheap places. Now, if you will give without his perceiving that you know any He will naturally sus- pect you of being my confidant, and will wish to get rid of you; you must allow him to perceive that you know nothing whatever of the relations between him and myself. I wish you to remain here, Tina, not only on ae own account, but in order that you may e able to correspond with me, when I desire to learn what happens this side of the water.” “ But I shall see od again? You are not. going so very soon?” “ Just_as quickly as I can bring it about. If I could go this — it would best suit me. But I dare say it will be some time before I really am ready. The paper, please, child, or I shall be reprimanded for late hours,” and |} Lucille laughed in spite of her anxieties. The paper was brought, and she wrote: = “I do know that G.N.is in town. I had a visit from him. [also know that he is in prison, so that he can not harm’me for the present. Before he is let loose, I wish to emigrate. I may go to St. Louis, where I hear there is work for music-teachers. Such a course on my part, will doubtless be a relief to your mind—though [ had no intention of troublin, rs. M.’s happiness at present—and you will be glad to et for me the money promised. A thousand dollars 8 what I want .o support me, until, by efforts in a \ new sphere, Ican support myself. The sooner that sum is furnished, the sooner your mind will be at ~ nase.” This she left for Tina to deliver, by leaving it on his dressing-table, where he could not fail to see it when he came home, or when he dressed in the morning; and then, with an ardent embrace of her little friend, who let her out at the hall-door,she ran down the steps in the dim lamp-light, and was soon in front of the house in which she was serving. As she was about to go down the area, some one grasped her by the arm. “Got you this time,” said a well-known voice, at which she gavé a faint scream. “Didn’t have the pleasure of findin’ you to hum, when I called t’other day.” “TI thought you were in—” “The Tombs? Oh, sol was, till I come to trial and they couldn’t prove nothing, asI knew they couldn’t all the time. Then, of course, I was free to pay my compliments to my lady ag’in. I’ve had great. news for you. You hadn’t ought to keep out o’ my way. Upon my word you hadn’t; you're doin’ yourself an injury.” “Please let go my arm. I have nothing to say to you.” ss Truly, now? But jist let me tell you that T’ve Been down South, and I seen him, and had a good Jong talk with him.” Lucille trembled from head to foot; he could feelit, as he grasped her arm, and he smiled maliciously. “You see it was getting warm weather,” he# went on, in a mocking tone, “an’ I had to take a tower for my health. . Circumstances made it advisable for me to leave town for a time—one 0’ my"passengers lost his pocket- book in an unaccountable manner, an” I understood the police was a-going to hold me responsible—a most unkind proceeding, I must say—for the gentleman’s loss; so I thought twould save trouble all ’round, and be the fashionable thing, too, to take a tower. Now, if a pusson can mix business and pleasure, to the same time, he’s aes two birds with one stone. When I had to decide in what direction, I says, ‘South America, why not? and I ships in a sailing vessel pays my way likea first-class passenger, an anice time I had of it, goin’ down. When we arrived at Maracaibo, I lost no time, missus, in findin’ out the house to which the Senor belonged. “T was a little disappointed to find that he had gone to Panama on some railroad business, and wouldn’t be back for some weeks; but, as I’d nothing to do, I waited. Mighty sight easier a-layin’ arovad here loose in the summer weather, th.n drivin’ a hack in New York. Wal, the Senor cme back, an’ I met him by chance, an’ I had & little talk with him, an’I excited his curiosity to that pitch he was ready to come down handsome with-almost any amount. Fact is he paid me a cool two thousand before my story was all told, he was so surprised and interested.” “Oh, how could you do it?” moaned Lucille, her voice husky as if her throat was parched. ‘Where is he now?” “Shall I write an’ tell him you was so kind as to inquire after him?” “T don’t care what you do. T wish to go in.” “ And go in you shall, my lady, now that , Let me pass, “we know in what nest the bird is.” “ We?” cried Lucille, involuntarily casting a glance about her, as she broke from the man’s hold and hurried down the steps. Hasty as was her glance, she was positive that she saw a figure, wrapped in a cloak, standing in the shadow of the tall brown- stone houses across the way. His figure! It seemed to her as if she were an hour descending the area steps and ringing the bell, and as if it were an age before the sleepy servant admitted her. She pushed wildl past the girl, when the door was opened, cried to her to bolt it fast, and sunk upon a hair, her heart palpitatipgg as if it would eap from her breast. : “TI have hada fright! A rough fellow spoke to me,” she said in explanation, as soon as she could command her voice; then, with- out waiting for more words with her com- panion, she hurried up to her own little room, fastened her door, and flung herself on the bed, saying: “My refuge invaded so soon. It was he! He has returned, and for me! In three days more I should have been away—safe on the © j Se eee f } I LOST: A WIFE. 5 wide ocean. Now, oh, now, where shall I hide. myself ?” But, in order that the reader may under- stand something of this beautiful woman’s distress and despair, we niust go back a little in time, and bring forward other characters. CHAPTER IV. BRANTHOPE VILLA. Tue sole occupants of Branthope Villa, besides the servants, were old Uncle Peter Maxwell, and his niece Margaret. The place was such an one as may he'often found in the Eastern States, and lay along the banks of the Connecticut river, not a hundred miles from New York. Originally, the house had been.only a large old-fashioned stone dwell- ing; but when Uncle — took it in hand, he transformed the structure into a wing, added the main part, two good stories in hight, with a large hall and picturesque roof and tower, and dubbed what had been the plain farm-house of the family, Branthope Villa, at first to the great mirth and contempt of the country people, who were not used to hearing their dwellings called mansions and villas. But as the ivy grew over the tower and -the roses clambered to the dormer- windows, and all the city people, who in summer thronged their lovely valley, talked of and admired Branthope Villa, they gradually ceased to ridicule and in turn grew proud of their neighbor. Peter Maxwell was, like so many other adopted Americans, of English birth. His parents had belonged toa branch of the aristocracy, his mother having been a Bran- thope, but this twig of the Maxwell tree having become too impoverished, his fortunes not matching with his pride, he brought his little orphan sister to America, bought a farm in the Connecticut valley, and strove to make himself at home in his adopted country. But his life was one of disappointment and deprivation ; his beautiful sister, against his will, married a poor, plain young farmer, and entered upon all the hardships of such a life. He remained alone in tke old stone house, never once entrapped by the pretty and intelligent girls who gave him bright glances in church and on the road-—girls who could make butter and read Latin, milk the cows and translate Telemachus, ride on horse- back and sing in “meeting” — girls a thousand times too sensible and handsome and good for the crabbed old bachelor, grow- inggneny more sour and withered. is farm deteriorated instead of improving ; he had no means of lightening the cares and labors of the sister whom he still loved and pitied; though he never did dny thing but quarrel with her; the neighbors began to call him oid Uncle Peter; and his life seemed to fall into ruin, like his fences and farm and buildin when, one day; he hada letter from a London attorney, which caused him ‘to a a tenant on the farm, and to sail for ngland by the next steamer. He was gone two years, during which rumor proclaimed to his friends on this side, that he had. come into possession of a large amount of money willed to him by an uncle who had come home from the East to die. For once, rumor was founded upon truth. Peter Maxwell returned with a considerable inheritance, though not? half what it was reported to be;. but the evil genius of his life again met him as heset foot on our shores, with the news of his sister’s death, to lighten whose heavy burdens had been the chief object in his hurrying back. é es; Margaret, the beautiful Margaret, was dead,-—-a crushed and faded flower, who could not long endure her wintry life. Her eldest child, a boy, had been drowned, while skating, the previous winter; and her only other child, a daughter, four years of age, was alone left to perpetuate her mother’s name and beauty. To this second Margaret, Peter Max- well turned with a sort of passion of love— the hoarded fondness of half a life—at once taking her in place of the sister he had lost and seeming to see in her childish beauty and pretty ways, the little one live again, of whom he had been so tender when she was a little orphan girl like this. But he didnot like her father, nor the family to which she was taken by him; and he made it a condition of his adopting her as his heir, that she should as- sume his name, and tnat he should have the entire guardianship. Her father, knowing that her uncle could promise her a brighter career than he, and already on the point of marrying again, willingly consented; little Maggie Dyer became Margaret Branthope Maxwell, adopted daughter of Peter Max- well; and as soon as Branthope Villa was ready for her reception, the child came to her new home, to reign queen of eVery thing there, including Uncle Peter’s heart. Mr. Maxwell was not so blind to the virtues of New England women. that he could not see the advantage of having one for a house- keeper; his judgment was nevér more tri- umphant than in the sele¢tion of the neat, in- telligent, and competent widow whom he elected to manage his domestic affairs, and to loék after the bodily welfare of tiny Miss Mar- garet. Soon a governess was added to the menage ; a grand piano came out to the-villa ; the little fairy in white frocks and pink sashes, who ruled there, was popularly credited with an unlimited command of foreign tongues, and every accomplishment required to fit her for the most polished society. Probably it was the dream of Uncle Peter’slife to take her to England when she was of a suitable age, and marry her to some titled gentleman, wor- thy of the honor of being married toa Bran- thope Maxwell. Meanwhile he could not ‘lose her from his sight a single day. When free from the restriction of study hours, she was always by his side, walking, riding, driv- ing, or perched on his knee, as they sat, in summer, on the vine-shadowed piazza. He had abundance of reason to be proud of her. Her beauty attracted the most careless eye; and, while ardently, passionately attached to her dear father (as. she always called him), there was just enough of his own pride in her character to prevent her too easily forniing friendships. Her large black eyes, while they melted with love as they beamed upon him, would flash resentment at the too familiar ap- proach of those less favored. She wasa bru- nette, with the mingled fire and ice of that type. Indeed, her uncle, who had the gene- alogy, of the family at his finger-ends, per- ceived in her a startling resemblance to the portrait of his grandmother, a Burmese lady of fabulous wealth and beauty, whom his randfather had married in her native land. His own mother had been fair, short, and mildly pretty. Margaret promised to be tall, ‘dark, and brilliant. The red veins in her cheeks showed through the brown but deli- cate skin; her hair, long, heavy, and shining, was perfectly straight. : A miser never wléated over his go!d more enraptured thar this otherwise solitary man ‘used to dwell upon the perfections of the child Whom he had made his own. When Margaret was about fourteen an un- expected visitor arrived at Branthope Villa— a young gentleman, just of age, who had for- saken his poor relations’ in England, and came over the seas to fasten himself on his prosperous uncle, like a parasite; as he was. Peter Maxwell was-‘no nearer than great-uncle to him, and Margaret was his third or fourth cousin, but his name was John Branthope Maxwell, and this alove was a stout claim upon the old man. He had no desire to turn away one who bore this name, and made the youth warmly welcome ;' but Uncle Peter was shrewd, a sharp observer ‘of character, and soon decided that young Branthope (as they called him) lacked in ‘industry, energy, and some me purpose ‘in living, even if not ab- solutely lacking in principle. He quietly re- linguished the plan which he’ had secretly formed, of uniting the two children in mar- riage, when Margaret should be old enough, and set his wits to work to prevent, instead of making, such a match. argaret, just at the most romantic period of life—when slipping out of childhood into girlhood—and totally unfitted to judge of her cousin by comparison with others, never hay- ing seen any society except that of her native place—was very deeply impressed with the races and gallantries of one who had made it his study to please her. For Branthope, too, was observing, and judged, by the almost idolatrous fondness of ‘the old man for his protege, that to conquer her was to conquer him. His’ task was not a difficult’ one, so far as fascinating the inexperienced’ girl went; he had not been three months'at the villa be- fore the red would spring to her cheek and the light to ber eye at his most ‘careless smile or word. But the effect upon Uncle Peter was not what he had. desired. There. may have been a twinge of jealousy in the disap- proval with which her guardian marked these signs. At all events, there was sufficient rea- son in the character of the young man him- self, why he should break up an eS which might be regretted when too late. It was but fair to the child to give her an op- portunity of knowing the world, and her own heart, before she entangled herself with the first young gentleman thrown in her way. , ene Peter’s decision wassoon made. He sent Branthope to the city to study law, with a liberal allowance for every expense necessary to a young man in his station ;. and with Mar- garet and her governess started on ,a trip to the old world. Afier more than a year spent in Italy and France, the little party returned; the governess, no longer required, was found another home, and Margaret, still not much more than a child, but very womanly for her age took her place as mistress. of Branthope illa—a position not hard to. fill, seeing that all the real duties devolved upon the faithful housekeeper. - The travelers called upon Branthope in New York, and brought him home with them to spend the summer holiday., The most carefill inquiries of Uncle Peter resulted in nothing to his nephew’s disadvantage; he had been tolerably studious, and though gay, and a trifle extravagant, had no bad habits. Therefore he was made more fully at home than he had been on his former visit. The old man almost repented of the resolution he had made, to prevent an alliance between the two, “Blood is stronger than water ;” and this young fellow, so handsome, high-spirited, and fond of the good things of life, was his own kin and bore the family name. It was unreasonable to turn the cold shoulder to him, who had no positive faults, except that he was not.as careful of his word, as Peter, pond and honorable, had always been of his. eter’s word, in all the country about, was as good as his bond—but young Branthope} stories and promises were always taken wit a reservation. So quickly does the difference make itself felt in the innate integrity of, character. ; Still, as we have said, there were no bad habits to be charged to Branthope; his gay- ety and desire for constant amusement made him all the more a fayorite in that quiet country neighborhood into whose stillness he flushed like a gold-fish into a trout-brook. “When he returned to the city, after his six weeks’ vacation, he had told Margaret that he loved her, and had won a similar confes- sion from. her. “But do not say any thing about it to Uncle Peter, just yet, sweet Margaret. You are so very young, and I not yet admitted to practice. Iam afraid he will think we have been rash. Keep our dear secret until I see ou again,” —and she, too shy to own willing- y even to him how she adored him, was glad not to have to open this sacred page of her experiénce to her adopted father. At Christmas-time there was a hurried visit from Branthope, and Margaret wept and wept, after he went away, until ber guardian could not but notice the paleness of her cheeks and the sadness of her voice—Bran- thope had appeared so indifferent, and had never once alluded to their engagement, but talked incessantly about the Drilliant. so- ciety into which he was going, and how much a young man’s future depended upon his beginning the world. aright ; ¢. ¢., obtain- ing a footing in fashionable circles and spend- ing more“hioney than’ belongéd to: him to » maintain it. His principal errand appeared to have been to beg his uncle for a more liberal allowance, which was refused until the young man was obliged to confess to some debts, when his uncle, deeply annoyed, gave him the money to pay them, but Ties him about presuni- ing too far on, his Senerosity, ow that Branthope had saia nothing of the understanding between them, and that her guardian was so incensed against his extrava- gance, the young lady could not confide her unhappiness to her dearest and truest friend. Young and confiding as she was, Margaret yet. hada great deal of strength of character, and could detect and despise the weakness of the man from whom still she could not tear her affections. She saw that his name and con- nections, and the freedom with which he , } } } ’ , + ea that, as he ha 6 THE -FIRESIDE LIBR ARY. spent money, hac secured him the flattering attentions ‘of those whom he was inclined to set before her—though, certainly, Margaret Maxwell could have held her own against all the beauties of ‘New York combined. If, at that time, she had enjoyed other so- ciety suitable to her years, she might have conqtfered her love for Branthope, and made it a thing of the past—one of those fleeting fancies to which very young and enthusiastic girls are given. But in the loneliness of her life at Bran- thope Villa, he filled her thoughts and imag- ination; the more indifferent he became, the more deeply she suffered. All winter she brooded over his neglect, while her pale | cheeks and the absence of that bright, aerial gayety which had been’ so charming in her, pained her fond uncle’s heart. In the spring, a long-slumVering disease awoke to fatal activity in the frame of Peter Maxwell. His physicians gave but little hope of prolonging his life beyond a counle us years, and this short lease was only to be ob- tained by a change of climate. hen Bran- thope received, by letter from Margaret, the bad news, he hastefied home to express his sympathy and to offer to resign the practice upon which he had just entered, and attend upon the invalid during a protracted sojourn in a southern island. - The warmth, the filial tenderness with which the offer was made, touched Uncle Peter sensibly ; but he had grown wily with increasing years, and could not but suspect that a large part of this show of affection was owing to the hope and desire of his speedy death, and the expectation that the nephew would be co-heir with Margaret, to his estates. He declined the proffered service, saying that, as he should bé obliged to keep sw hired nurse, his dear daughter would be all the company he should require. Young Branthope knew well that there was danger of his uncle’s dying while away, in which case he was not certain how he ‘should stand with regard to his property, as he had never been promised any portion of sit. The expectation of ingratiating himself with his rich relative had induced him to of- fer, much against his taste, to be his compagnon du voyage ; this offer being declined, he saw that he had been ‘rash in so soon slighting ‘Margaret. * During the interval which elapsed before uncle and niece sailed for Cuba, he devoted himself to both, with an ardor which result- ed in the one’s leaving him a most generous present, and the other’s forgiving him the past and allowing him to kiss: her lips and clasp her hand on that last night at home, as her affianced husband. : Brightly the moonlight shone in the tower- window, whither the two had gone to whis- ‘per the last sweet but bitter farewell. Mar- garet never forgot that hour. And Branthope never afterward saw a more beautiful face than the young, impassioned one, with its dark eyes‘drinking in the moonlight, its soft, trembling mouth and forehead pile as pearl in that radiant night. But there are other things which some men worship more than beauty—more than “beauty, love, and inno- cence. Wordly success ig the idol of most— and to the yain, ambitious aspirations of | Branthope Maxwell, no other shrine was half so devoutly attended, half so worthy of sacrifice. » CHAPTER VY. ~ A FELLOW-PASSENGER. AND now begins one of the strangest of chapters yet written in the’history of a young girl’s life. After a sojourn of a little over a year in Cuba, old Uncle ‘Peter ea very homesick, to die, whether or no, he preferred to die in his own house; ‘be- « sides, he had a presentiment that’ both him- self and Margaret would be swept off by the yellow fever, if they remained again through the sickly season; so his niece wrote to the their return. Margaret herself was half wild with joy at her uncle’s decision, for she had housekeeper to have the villa prepared for | | situation, and burst. out in, a loud cheer, sig- nificant,.of sympathy with two. lovers. ap- { been ete in that strange country, despite | the attentions which money brou “and she longed, oh, how earnestly! to see Branthope—to hear him say, “T love you!” —which was so’ much sweeter than to read it it them ; | | on the written page. Her devotion to the in- valid had prevented her ever betraying her desire to go home, and she still would have urged him to remain where he was, had she not been sensible that this watm climate was really of no benefit to him. During all of their delightful voyage over the blue and sunny ocean, in the calm sum- mer weather, she anticipated the moment when she should place her foot on the dock, and meet the glance and touch the hand of Branthope. This thought brought the rose to her face, and kept her so smiling and bright, as she sat patiently on deck by the sick man’s side, that the passengers could do little but watch and admire the Anierican girl; and she had a hundred lovers among the men, women and children of the ship, long before it steamed into New York'bay. Among these passengers was a man whose nationality it would be difficult to decide at once. He spoke the Spanish and English equally well; appeared to have plenty of money ; was showily, but elegantly dressed, his velvet vest and cap giving, something of a foreign air to his attire; the veal which he spent was all Spanish gold; and it was generally understood on board, that, if not a gambler by profession, he was greatly addict- ed to cards as an amusement. This person, whose name she had even never heard, made himself very annoying to Margaret Maxwell, by the persistence with which, during those pleasant hours when it was indispensabla,to, her uncle’s health that he should be on deck, he also placed himself near and passed the time in staring at her. There was nothing disrespectful in his glance, nothing of which she could complain, to the officers of the vessel; it just. seemed as if the man was fascinated, and looked when he knew that he,ought not, because the attrac- tion was irresistible. As soon as he met the young lady’s eye, he would drop his own, or affect to be gazing off on the water, but she felt his burning gaze, return to her face the moment she ceased to notice him. . This would not, have been so disagreeable —being, as it was, the spontaneous evidence of his admiration for her youth and beauty, and graceful devotion to her invalid relative szhad the stranger himself made a less un- pssst impression upon her. As it.was, she elt as if she had nearly as soon have fas¢i- nated one of, the poisonous serpents of the South, the consciousness, that he was near causing a cold. thrill of repulsion to run through her veins. This was, the only ac- companiment of the voyage not, entirely de- lightful ; and as,she never lieard the stranger's namé, nor exchanged, words with him, it was singular that, she should :feel impressed with _a painfal expectation that. she should meet and; know him in .the future. Yet, she, did feel such a presentiment, It was. as if he held some power over her to.make her unhap- py——a fecling for which there.seemed not, the slightest foundation. . For how. could he, this unknown, foreigner, moving in a dif- sonep sphere of life, from hers, ever injure