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February 10, 1881.

 

 

Entered at the Post Oftice at New York, N. Y.,at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

$2.50 a Year. : v
“Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number.
Vol. VI. Two Weeks. No. 98 Wri11AM Street, New York. Price, Ten Cents. N 0. 83

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE,

MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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““YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME—NOTHING! YOU WERE CURSED BEFORE YOU EVER SAW THE LIGHT!”

 
  

The Inheritance of Hate:
Wilma Wilde, The Doctor's Ward.

BY MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON,
AUTHOR OF ‘‘ CORAL AND RUBY,”’ “‘ADRIA, THE ADOPTED,”
“THE BITTER FHUD,”’ ‘‘ THE FALSE WIDOW,” ETO.

CHAPTER I.
INTO THE SHADOW.

Dytna, Alone except for the elfin-faced girl shrink-
ing back into the shadow, awed by the presence
creeping closer as the minutes passed, with a greater
dread of the hard face outlined against the pillow
than she had experienced hitherto, and yet she had
never known anything differing from dread and awe
of that hard-featured old_man, dying there in the
late afternoon of the late October day.

A chill, clouded day, with ghostly lights and shades
chasing across the outer landscape already sere with
heavy frosts. The chill and the clouds were dis-
solving together as the hours wore on, and a fine
mist filled the atmosphere, gathering faster and
heavier and breaking with a dash and a burst at last
against the dark old house, rattling the windows of
the room in which these two waited.

The gray head on the pillow stirred, and two great
hollow eyes opened with the vacant stare of half-
unconsciousness changing to a vague comprehension
as familiar objects about met his sight.

“What was that?” he asked, in a voice sharp and

7
‘Rain,”.the girl answered. “A storm has been
all the day gathering.”

“Rain and storm,” muttered the dying man, ‘rain
and storm, devastatioa, ruin, waste—good! Winds
blow, lightnings burn, thunders crash; I-can die
easier with them tearing their way through the
world. “Curse the world and all in the world, I say!”
Ths vehemence with which the last words were ut-
tered was appalling, considering how close he was

m that verge of the world which breaks into
eternity. It was exhaustive as well, and he caught
gasping! for the breath which gurgled through his

hroat with a harsh rattle. The girl made haste to
put a cordial to his lips which he swallowed with an
effort. The hollow eyes glared up at her in a way
which sent a shiver curdling the blood in her veins.

“You! Why is not Gerrit here? You know I
never want you.”

No need to tell her that with all the years of her
remembrance passed in thse gloomy place, and not
one affectionate word which she could recall he had
ever addressed to her. She had been an object of
aversion to him, banished from his sight sometimes
for days together, but always as carefully secluded
from contact with that outer world which he was
cursing with his dying breath. What a morbidly un-
healthy atmosphere for the girl-nature to expand
in! One might question if the taint of it would not
cling to and corrode the entire after-life. But this

rl carried a pathetic appeal stamped on the thin

ark features, and looking out of the big, wistful
eyes which must have struck asadder chord than
any the careless worldly heart often responds to, a
look which might have struck a chill of apprehen-
sion in a generous heart, a foreboding of an unhappy
life darkling ahead, a desire to ward off the brooding
trouble, whatever it might be, from that childish
ee timid and shrinking, still and self-contained
with the mastery of habitual reserve.

She answered his harsh words quietly.

“Mrs. Gerrit has gone for the medicine which was
ordered. It is so near the doctor’s hour I think she
must be waiting for him, She had no umbrella, and
itis raining fast. Shall I sit by your side?—I will be
very. quiet.”
ac e turned his head slightly with an impatient ges-

r

2.
“No, no. Go away out of my sight. God knows
there’s no comfort in the sight of you; no comfort
that you ever came into life, and less loss than even
I be when you quit it.”

She drew back a step, clasping her hands, a quick
pallor sweeping across her small dark face. |

“Oh, why do you hate me so?” she cried, in alow,
breathless way. ‘‘Why is there no one in all the
world to care for me? Who am IJ—what am I, that
the only being in the world on whom I have any
claim can find no comfort that I ever came into life?
Imust be something to you, or hating me as you do

‘ou would not have kept me here. Why am Iso

ept away from other people; why do you dislike
me so, Mr. Gregory; oh, do tell me—zhy fF”

A deepening purplish tint was in the harsh face
upon the pillow; his labored respiration was shorter
and louder. With aneffort he raised himself in the
bed, stretching out one quivering hand, his difficult
articulation intense with a bitterness which burned
every cruel word upon the girl’s remembrance with
an ineffaveable stamp. “

“You are nothing to ees te You were
cursed before you ever saw the light. If there be any
one in all this world upon whom you have any claim,
that one of all living mortals has greatest cause for
hate and dread of you. If ever you fancy you have
found such a one, tear your own heart out rather
than attempt to press any such claim, if you would
not call other curses Eon the hour you were born,
Yours is a dead life. If you ever pray for anything,

rn t you may never be the cause of a living

He fell back again, pale, trembling, the breath
wn faint upon his lips, but this time she did not stir
attempting to revive him. She shrunk back into
the deeper shadows, with a dull pain and terror
called up by his words, the last of which repeated
themselves eee and again in her mind like some
es anger which her comprehension could
Dp.

“Yours is a dead life; if vou ever pray for any-
thing, pray that a may never be the cause of a
li death.” at could that mean? Why, oh,
why had sho been born at all, since her very exist-
ence must be a curse to herself and to any other
who might be allied to her? What a fate to be hers
at the time when other lives would be putting forth

best buds of promise, when they would be

 

blossoming with the hope and happiness which only
young lives know! She

drawn close to a window

 

and was pressing her forehead um a pane, with
those painfully numbing thoughts stirring within
her, the raindrops, now falling heavily without,
dashing at intervals against the glass and trickling
down before the great, mournful, unheeding eyes,
If she observed them at all it may have been with a
vague fancy that even the clouds were more blessed
than she since they could weep and she could not.

She heard the opening door without turning her
head, but a moment of silence and an advanciug
step drew her gaze suddenly that way.

A woman’s form was framed in the doorway,
which was certainly not the form of Mrs. Gerrit.
This shape was tall, and though loosely cloaked,
slender and graceful as she couldsee. A falling vail
concealed the face, and while she gazed the form
moved Be forward across the floor to the bed-
side to the dying man. His eyes went up with a
startled light in them to meet the woman's eyes
looking down as she put out a small gloved hand to
touch him. Some unintelligible words bubbled up
to his lips, but without noticing his apparent effort
to speak the unannounced visitor addressed him.

“) heard that you were dying, and I have come
once more to ask for those treasures of mine which
you took from me long ago. I could have forgiven
you all -Sebont harshness and all your cruelty more
readily than that. They have never been anything
to you; they have done you no good; they might be
turned to do me harm. For the sake of the tie which
should have bound us closer once, will you not give
them to me now that you are upon your deathbed?”

The voice was low, clear and sweet, but of such an
even intonation that it seemed incapable of convey-
ing jarring emotious. The harsh, aged, wasted face
upon the pillow had changed strangely. Some look
had come into it which the girl by the window had
never seen there before, and which seemed a strug-
gle even at that time between bitterness and yearn-
ing, between upspringing tenderness and hard re-
solve.

“T told you before that I had not kept them, that
they were destroyed years ago,”’ he answered, speak-
ing with difficulty eds stinctly, while his eyes
never wavered from her face. ‘ You would have
kept them and pored over them, and been discovered
at last. I was wise in putting it out of your power to
bring harm upon yourself.”

“You will not give them tome? I thought if you
would ever soften it might me at this hour.”

“And you have no R ty,” he whispered, hoarsely.
“Tt is a mournful, pare life which will be
ended soon, and its pitiful close does not touch you.
Dying alone—as much alone since-you have come.”

“It is a perverted and willfully wasted life,” said
the low, steady voice. ‘Whatever motive may
have actuated, or whatever mistaken sense of duty
may have prompted, it was a wrong, hard, unsym-
pathetic life from the very first. I cannot find fault
with myself for having learned my lesson too well.

hat Iam you made me, and Iam no more ice or
marble—feelingless—now than you were in the days
gone by. Ihave come on a fruitless mission, but I
vee cee come hopeful, and I shall not go despon-

en

She turned from him and a bitter spasm convulsed
his features, but he made no motion, and in a second
more the heavy lids dropped over his eyes, dimming
already with the dead numbness creeping over him.
The presence of the girl in the room had not been
observed by the visitor, until in oe she caught
a fee of the slight figure outlined against the
dull gray outer light. At the same instant suppressed
sounds became audible from without, a door opened
and shut, and footsteps came nearer through the
bare corridor.

The girl glided silently forward to admit the new-
comers to the room, while the lady, sweeping the
falling vail closer over her features, stood still, await-
ing a passageway. Two persons entered. <A tall,
thin man in advance whose keen light eyes swept
the room and absorbed the situation presented there
with a single glance. Following him, the quiet
elderly person who was the one servant of that di
old house. When the chamber door closed it shut
the other two out, and the lady paused to drop her
hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

“Who are you?” she asked abruptly. ‘How do
you come to be here?”
“T am Wilma Wilde, and I live with Mr. Gregory.”

“What are you to him?” ’

“ Nothing, he said. Lam nothing to any one in the
wide world, so far as I know.”

‘* Not strange since you live here. Yours is not an
entirely new experience, Wilma. What will be done
with you when he is gone?”

“T don’t know. I suppose I shall live on here with
Mrs. Gerrit.”

4 bY was she?” with a glance at the closed door

es.

‘And the other?”

“Was Mr. Dallas.”

“Ah, well, Wilma; some one will probably look
om ral you. How dusk it is getting here! Good-by,
child.’

She touched her gloved finger-tips to the girl’s
cheek, but so gently and lingeringly that the touch
seemed acaress, then walked the lenge of the bare
corridor and let herself out into the stormy late
afternoon without once glancing back. Wilma fol-
lowed after slowly, her heart swelling and throbbing
from that genie ouch, and stood in the entrance-
way watching the shape growing dim in the dis-
tanee, For a moment the rain had almost ceased,
and through a rift in the clouds a gleam of yellow
sunset touched the sere damp earth’and illuminated
the upright graceful figure—for a moment only, and
then the glow faded suddenly as it had come, and
the swift dusk succeeding blotted the retreating
shape from her view. 5

A dash of mist in her face gave Wilma a chill, and
she drew back into the corridor, but held aloof from
the room where the d. ing man lay. Mrs. Gerrit
came out presently, taking er way to her own more
particular domain, and Wilma crept away to her
cheerless chamber, feeling the awful silence of the
always silent house too oppressive to be borne.

Aninterval of silence h ean in the sick-room,
broken only by the heavy respiration of the sufferer.
A shaded lamp had been placed on a stand at the
bed’s head, and with his back to it, his face in dee)
shadow, Dr. Dallas waited for the end which his
practiced eye detected to be very close. He was
watching as well, those keen light eyes fixed intently

 

2 THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

==

upon the patient’s face, shaded also, but less ob-
scured than hisown. The short heavy slecy into
which the other had fallen passed suddenly as it had
come. The hollow eyes opened and the gaunt form
on the bed raised itself with a spasmodic effort.

“I must do my work,” he said, hoarsely. ‘‘ Give
me something to keep up my strength fora moment
—only for a moment.’ The physician put a draught
to his lips, but the effort to swallow convulsed the
old man with a painful spasm and he pushed it back
with a wild fear coming into his face.

“The little desk there,” be whispered, pointing
prayesinels to the article he wished. ‘ Quick, bring
it!”

It was brought in an instant. His hands fumbling
at his breast brought fcrth a key suspended on a
ribbon from his neck, but his trembling fingers re-
fused to fit it to the lock. ‘

The doctor’s deft ones did, however, but even then
the sharp light eyes scarcely left his patient’s face.
A little box within pave eet lock nor key came
beneath the fumbling fingers, but he was sinking
back, the sustaining nerve power was almost gone,
He realized this with an agony plainly apparent in
the hollow, imploring eyes.” .

“Let me—see it—burn; let me—” he gasped
brokenly. ‘‘My God—Quick!” Those light, steady
eyes were on him still and the doctor did not move.

“Ts there anything more to be done?’ he asked.

‘“* Be quick if there is.” :
ite Yes— Wilma. Burn the box—Wilma— guar-

an—”’

“You want to name me as Wilma’s guardian and
iH to burn the box. Yes, I see that isit. Is that

?

Some unintelligible utterances were checked b;
the death-rattle in the throat; the gray head fe:
back; a spasm, a groan, and then utter, eternal
stillness of the wasted form.

CHAPTER II.
WAS IT WISE?

BREAKFAST was laid in the morning room of the
Richland mansion—one of those modern palaces
which lift their stately fronts upon Western avenue
in the city of Allegheny. It was a cheery, ruddy
room, small rather than the opposite, with a polished
black sideboard where silver and crystal threw out
cold sparkles vieing with other crystal and silver
and delicate porcelain disposed upon the snowy
nt damask which draped the round breakfast-
able.

The table was laid for three, and at precisely the
second the little marble clock upon the mantle
trembled upon the first stroke of nine, the door
turned upon its noiseless hinges to admit the first
of these. A middle-aged man having a slight ten-
dency toward obesity, with a ruddy, rather heavy
countenance shaved perfectly smooth, bright, caleu-
lating eyes under well-arched brows, and brown,
short hair brushed smoothly across his heavy fore-
head. An open, honest countenance was this of the
master of the Richland mansion, the face of a man
who carried no phases of his life hidden out of sight
of the world, one whose self-pride and self-suffi-
ciency were his worst faults.

He stood for a moment rubbing his soft white
hands before the ee blaze glowing in the grate,
for this was the first day of November, and though
clear there was a wintry chill in the air without,
and Mr. Richland clung with the persistency of a
fixed affection to cheery open fires. He took out
his watch and wound it, glancing up at the little
clock whose silvery chime had ceased, and turning
to face the door as he returned it to his pocket.
This was his habitual custom, repeated as often as
nine of the morning came around, and varied sim-
ply. through the different seasons and changes of
location. If ever man was rigid in the observance of
ee habits, Mr. Richland was open to the impu-

on. :

“Three minutes past,” he said to himself. ‘‘Mrs,
Richland is unusually late this morning. Ethel never
is very punctual—_ Ah, good-morning, my dears! I
was remarking it that you are almost behind time
for an occasion, Gertrude.”

Two ladies had entered together, and a servant
ne an appearance with the coffee, the little
pert ropped into their places after an exchange of

he custom greetings. Mrs. Richland, Pee
than her husband by a full decade, was tall, with a
slender, graceful shape and languid carriage which
matched the quiet repose of her striking face. It
was an oval face, the skin marble-white and smooth;
eyes, hair and lashes, a soft jetty black; the only
break of color in the firm close lips. If any kindred
emotion rivaled Mr. Richland’s individual self-suffi-
ciency it was pride of his wife’s beauty and culture,

The other, a girl of eighteen, was his sister. Also
tall, she lacked half a head of Mrs. Richland’s hight,
and the round supple form may have been a trifle
less perfect in its modulations, yet Ethel Richland’s
was not a beauty to pale even by the side of the
other matchless face. Hers was a fair sweet face,
framed in by glittering yellow hair confined loosely
this morning in'a wide-meshed net—the blue cash-
mere morning robe she wore bringing out the exqui-
site tints of her fine complexion. Some points of re-
sembance there were between sister and brother,
but so modified that they lay rather in the ie
reminder one sometimes recognizes than in any like-
ness to be analyzed or defined. A ca belle of
this season scarcely yet opened Miss chiand was,
no less so now than when her deiut, a year before,
had created a furore not often equi in the high-
est circles where the Richlands moved. Sitting at
his breakfast-table, that bright morning, with the
delicate viands for which he had an epicurean taste
before him, with the two lovely contrasting faces on
either hand, Mr. Richland felt himself a superla-
tively contented man.

‘‘And now what may be the newest sensation?”
he asked, as he broke his eee with neat dexterity.
“You are generally ready with a budget, Ethel.
there a new star disputing the horizon with you, or
a reaction begin with the first outgoing of the

ime?”

“Nothing of the kind, brother, A dearth of news
perhaps, since I do not recall an item of late intelli-

ence, There will be plenty with next week and the
ttham opening.”

“Then, for once, fashionable intelligence ig behind
the times, or one of the pet votaries has dropped
voluntarily into our groove. Who do you suppose is

 

 

 

 
 

 

‘
o

 

3

 

 

back in town, who.
ed

after a year’s absence, is pre-
pared to be lioniz

and favoritized in the way some

|

of you ladies lavish upon the Beau Brummel of our |

date? Guess, my dear?”

“ Really,” Mrs. Richland’s delicate brows arched
in a vainly reflective way. ‘‘ There are so many late
tourists putting in an appearance just now that I
cannot even hazard a guess.’

“And you, Ethel; what have you to say in de-
fense of intuition and presentiments? You should
surely have been warned by one or the other. Itis
Hetherville, Erle Hetherville, Gertrude, and_ there
have been sly thrusts made at me already, hints of
sackcloth and ashes for us, and wedding favors at
no great distance. How is it, Ethel? Have you
young le been outreaching our knowledge of

this delicate affaire de ceur? Now that is hardly
generous when so much of it is due to me.”

“T assure you, Howard, this is my first intimation
that Mr. Hetherville had returned. Rumor as usual

| mine has proved, yours will be that one.

|

be no more perfect fitness of things than is exempli- |

fied in the case of youtwo. I believe if any other
union in the world can be blissfully comp! ae as

oung
and naturally adapted to each other, no circum-
stance has been wanting to

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

perfect. the mutual at- |

traction, nothing will be lacking to make it complete |
| to the end. One possible flaw which I warrant you |

two have never considered at all, I shall take the
precaution to avoid. You have nothing in your own

| right, my dear Ethel, but Hetherville’s bride will

| have a dower of which she need not be ashamed.

is far too fast. I thought he was not expected until

later in the month.”
* Youthful impetuosity, I presume.”

Mrs. Richland cast a glance of interest across at |

ber young sister-in-law. The fair face opposite
might have caught her own usual expression of re-
se at that moment, so far was it from_telling the
Je she half-expected to read there. Ethel’s eyes

were upon her plate, her hand OT ee with her |

china cup. Much or little as Erle Hetherville might
be to her, she was equal to meeting the announce-
ment of his return with unmoved roman

“You have seen him?” Mrs. Richland asked.

“Unfortunately, no. He called at the bank, yes-
terday, after I had left, it appears. Late last night
came his note of apology. He is busy with his agent,
with a duty trip out of town before he can report
here, but will make his own apology in person on
the earliest possible occasion.”

“He will be quite an acquisition, a general favor-
ite of a year ago, as yourecall. Have youany plans
for to-day, Ethel?”

* None, T believe.”

**T have been thinking ’"—she was addressing her
husband again—‘if you have no objection, there is
ayoung girl in whom I have taken rather an inter-
est, whose services might be made available in the
house. She is an orphan, quite without relatives, I
believe.”

“Certainly, my dear Gertrude, certainly. You
should be assured of my approving any decision of
yours, and your ee philanthropy is a credit
whichI am_ proud to acknowledge. Any orders of
yours I shall be most happy to put into execution.”’

Fifteen years of wedded life had not tended to
make him unobservant of the tender courtesies
which too often close with the honeymoon; but
society, which ferrets out more of private life than
itis always pleasart to find afloat, had long ago
tactily acknowledged that the Richland honeymoon
was perennial. Apparently the lady had entertained
no doubt of his gracious concurrence,

“You are very kind, but I will not trouble you. 1
meant to have remarked that I was not proposing
the girl’s coming here in the capacity of a servant.
She was a ward of Mr. ee Cane Gregory,
lately deceased, who resided some miles out on the
old Manchester road,”

Ethel, listening with no personal interest in the
subject, was surprised at the annoyed, impatient
shade sweeping into her brother’s face—surprised
as well at the doubt and questioning in his eyes as
they rested for an instant in sharp scrutiny upon his
wife. Her dark orbs met the gaze ee and her
p So features were not disturbed by a fluctuation

rom their habitual re .

$ ae well, Gertrude; do as you think best in
Re tl ing, of course. Your judgment is to trusted,
my dear.’

A was not often that Mrs, Richland troubled him
for an opinion on such a minor point, and his last
words seemed spoken as an intimation that the sub-
ject dropped there. She was content to let it be so,
with the added observation:

**T shall call at your solicitor’s during my drive
to-day and leave the matter in his hands to be ar-
ranged. There may be some legal forms to be ob-
served, though I think not probable. If you care
to accompany me, Ethel, you may direct the drive
afterward.” -

Ethel cared sufficiently to signify her acquies-
cence as they rose from the bi fast-table.

“Will you come into the library, if you are at
liberty for a moment?” her brother requested. “TI
have a word for your private ear which may as well
be said now as at any later time.”’ 4

She cast a ae ees glance into his face
and hesitated with a half-protest.

“‘Now, Howard? Will you not be detained?”

“My dear, no; I have fully a half-hour at my dis-
posal. Unless you prefer another time, in which
case I can defer to you.”

She made a gesture of dissent and followed him,
a quiver of nervousness upon her, a certain intui-
tion of what manner of interview his request pre-

‘aced.

“T think you must know what there is to be said,
Ethel. You know what Erle Hetherville’s coming
must mean for you. Let me be the first to give you
congratulation of the fair prospect which will be
speedily yours. I don’t know another man to whom
I could resign you so willingly.”

“But there need be no haste,” she protested,
faintly. ‘‘ There is no question of resigning me yet
Howard. I hope you are not wishing to do so soon.”

“Oo for your own sake. It is my desire and
my advice that this marriage which has been in
contemplation so long, shall be consummated at the
time first named, and that time is nearly here. You
are eighteen, Erle is six years your senior, and your
betrothal has been of just that length of duration.
My one occupied just six weeks, and it is by
the light of my own experience that I would urge
you to flitter away none of the coming years that
will be ee for being shared together.”

Holding his head erect, and with the glow of ear-
nestness shinin

in his honest face one could com-
prehend how t

man’s heart spoke in his wo
Fa be a wealth of peaceful content his own ifs

“Erle will come expecting it,’ he continued after
® moment, during which she had not made a reply.
“T-wanted to urge you to let no coy spirit interfere
with whatever proposal he may ®. There could

{

 

{

 

| There, not a word! it is my privilege to do that

much for you, since my little sister was left to fill
the place in my heart which must have been a void
otherwise, My affection has been fatherly as well
as brotherly, I fancy.”

“Best and dearest of brothers,”’ she said, softly,
her fair face eloquent with love and gratitude. ‘“‘ You
would never urge me to any thing which would not
forward my ae Iam sure. You would never
ask me to sacrifice that, Howard?”

“T would advise nothing which would not insure
it, Ethel. You don’t mean, though ’—with a wave
of doubt and apprehension struggling into his face—
“vou surely can’t mean—” 3

*T can’t and don’t mean to disappoint you if I can
avoid it, dear brother.

of Erle. I may become so—who knows?—when I
have seen him again,”

“T think I may be sure of you,” Mr. Richland
said, with a fond glance down into the fair, wistful
face. ‘‘A girl’s natural shyness, that is all.”

Was it all, oh, Howard Richland, wise in your own
way as you may have been, but blinded by your own
light of fancied secure content?

A small sketch-portfolio lay upon the table by
which Ethel was standing, and she turned the loose
leaves absently after he had left her, a far-away
look in the soft hazel eyes, a closer setting than was
habitual to the red lips. One of the leaves fluttered
from beneath her hand to the floor. It was the
merest outline of a sketch, a masculine head in =
file, carefully begun it would appear—a fine, firm
outline of feature, bold and clear as seen in even
that unfinished pence: She stooped to raise it
after one glance swiftly averted, and, crossi to
the hearth, paused there, the bit of paper held
loosely in her fingers, undecided and wavering for a
moment,

Was it only girlish shyness that caused her to
shrink at thought of Erle Hetherville, then? Oh,
Howard Richland, wise in your own belief, generous
in your own inflexible way, was it wise and generous
of you to prevail upon a child’s unreasoning assur-
ance and unthinking consent to
of the most important steps of her life? But she
had consented, she was Erle Hetherville’s promised
wife, and Erle Hetherville was doubtless here to
claim the fulfillment of that standing promise.
The indecision and the wavering seemed to pass;
the paper held so loosely dropped without any ap-
perek effort from her into the grate, where a low

re smoldered.

A few hours later the two ladies settled back amid
the azure cushions of the barouche, enjoyed the
fresh air and mellow sunshine of the bright fall

day.

Yin you wait?” Mrs. Richland asked, as, obe-
dient to her order, the carriage was brought toa
stand ‘before the tall building, where the lawyer’s
office was sandwiched in between numerous other
offices of more or less pretentious appearance. ‘I
will be back in five minutes, or, less perhaps.””

“I shall wait here then, of course, Take your own
time, Gertrude.”

Ethel could not have told whether it was five min-
utes merely or five times five that passed before her
sister-in-law’s return. She had fallen into a reverie
with the sounds of the street unheeded about her
when Mrs. Richland’s voice spoke at her side.

“Twas longer than I intended, but I think I shall
not need to plead an excuse. am fortunate in
chancing upon an old friend of ours. Miss Richland,
there is certainly not a possibility of your having
toes Mr. Lenoir.”

thel lifted her eyes with the slightest start, a
light of surprise in their hazel depths, a soft glow
coming into her cheeks as she saw in the face before
her the original of that imperfect sketch which
crisped on the library coals so few hours ago.

CHAPTER II.

4 AFTERNOON AT THE RICHLANDS.

Miss RicHLanp may not have estimated the num-
ber of weeks since we clambered over the mountain
hights together, but I trust to her leniency to spare
me the pain of utter forgetfulness.”

Ishould be sorry to claim a memory so short-
reaching as that, and this meeting is an unexpected
aa Mr. Lenoir. And you are looking better

‘or those wild scrambles over the rough roads, or is
it the time since has lent the improvement of that
bronze and health tinge?”

She leaned forward to give him her slim, gloved
hand, and a bright smile, which seconded the pleas-
ure she had expressed.

“The entire time, I think; Iam_only back from
the ane these past two days. You saw me first
in my most spectral gauntness after a hard season
of hard work and a siege of fever to follow it. Iam
my natural self again, thonomahly, rejuvenated. To
ce self, are you finding it very dull in the semi-un-
settled state which prevails until the season is’fairly
ushered in?”

“We possess that RerEE faculty of seldom admit-
ting dullness. I think Howard is careful to

 

tures.’

“To guard still further against the chance, can we
not Hers upon you to favor us with your compan-
ionship for the rest of the day? We are two lonely
females, drifting without aim or object just nw,
and it will be a pleasure to dispense with formalities
by introducing you direct to our place upon Western
avenue. You surely cannot refuse to return and
dine with us, Mr. Lenoir?’ Mrs. Richland’s invita-
tion was cordially given, but it is to be questioned if
Ethel’s smile and glance did not weigh most in the
scale where his momentary indecision balanced.
She almost doubted if it had been indecision he was
80 positive, despite the unmistakable regret of his
response.

I scarcely know what I do |
mean, except that I am not quite sure of myself or |

our mapping out |

 

ave NO
room in the household for that perverter of all na- |

, subtle spells.

s parole herr prin are always doubly en-
ticing, I think. This one is too brilliant to be tempt-
ed by any dereliction of duty, and you will pardon
the necessity which demands my declining your
kindness with warmest thanks. [am back to dut;
again on the editorial staff of one of our dailies;
have cultivated the habit of reading my own proofs,
and am satisfied there are some at this moment
awaiting my attention. After a season of unwonted
pleasuring I must pin close to my post for a time.”

“Let us see, then, if we cannot effect a compro-
mise between inexorable duty and our brief expec-
tations for the afternoon. Suppose we call for you
an hour or two from this? We can drive, meantime,
or find other amusement until ge are at liberty.
ee and where shall we call for you, Mr. Le-
noir
ge ou are too kind, Mrs. Richland; and the trou-

eae

“Please don’t attempt to make another objection.
Gertrude can be persistent when she likes, and to
change the old order of things this once, consider us
at your service for the afternoon. It is not like our
friend of the mountains to turn disobliging.”’ The
trifle of imperiousness was that of the belle who was
accustomed to have her wish recognized as law, and
said as plainly as words might have done—“ You
will come because / wish it.” The glance of oi
was all sweet and shy and womanly, irresistible to
him as the soft light of those hazel eyes had been to
others at Rae many a time.

‘I would be a churl to refuse after such gracious
condescension. I am happy to accept, Mrs. Rich-
land, and I will be at liberty within the hour. The
iain rooms are just opposite, the reading room

ow.

“In an hour then. And in the meantime, Ethel,
did you mention the Industrial Fair? As well there
as anywhere.”

The carriage rolled on, but there was a misty pic-
ture before noir’s mind still of a pearly face and
soft, appealing eyes, and tiny spirals of bright hair
clinging to the temples—a picture which was dissi-

ated as a hand descended by no means lightly upon
is shoulder.

“ Sky-gazing, Lenoir? More profitable than sky-
larking perhaps, but not precisely the occupation
suit our chief just now. So you are acquainted with
la beiic Invincible?” It was a reporter from his own
office who bad addressed him so unceremoniously.

“ With whom, Crayton?”

“The Richland, to be sure.
if any one does.

She deserves the title
Circe herself never wove more
I wonder if I need to tell you how
fatal her reign has been?—how doubly fatal, since
to fall a victim once is to exemplify the old tale
of the moth and the flame; the fascination endures
to the end, always a fatal end to the silly moth.”

“You need to give me the first evidence that Miss
Richland merits the character you have ascribed to
her through any willful or intended trifling. It is
not so hard to imagine her the worshi among
men and the envied among women.”

‘““My dear fellow, are you susceptible to friendly
advice? I have a fancy you may need it yet—be-
ware of the flame! You can never be more mis-

| taken in life than in hanging your faith upon out”

ward appearances. She is the greatest coquette, the
most heartless flirt and unmerciful despot of the
day, and to have that truthfully averred is to have
ained notorious celebrity among the coquettes,

irts and despots, of our twin-cities, that I tell you.
Better to trust yourself to the tender mercies of
shi rs and knaves than to have fallen—”

“Than to have fallen into the unpardonable
error of discussing a Jady acquaintance in the street
—moreover one whose simple acquaintance is an
honor conferred on a poor St ack with sense
enough not to presume upon it. It strikes me that
these floating ‘they says, from which you have
gathered your opinion doubtless, have little or
nothing to do with our business, Crayton.”

“Mistaken again,” the reporter answered, with
imperturbable calmness. ‘ Every thing belongs to
our business, my boy, even to the private opivions

| and public appearances of these two fair beings just
| gues and

others of the same class. Bless you!

enkins would be lost without them, which reminds
me that our Jenkins has an item in to-day’s issue,
with a hope of lengthening it indefinitely, and
regarding the invincible Richland. Like this: ‘A
rumor is afloat that the brave, lucky and _ handsome
Mr. E—— H—-, lately returned from his stately
country home and wide _ possessions in the at
heart of fertile, enticing Maryland, is soon to ful
the expectations of his friends Foe the
matrimonial honors with his otherwise already per-
fect felicities. The fair lady of his choice. has been
a favorite since last season, the lovely Miss E——
R—,,’ with further reference to her charms and
hints of her conquests, ad infinitum.”

“And probably as correct as two-thirds of such
notices are nowadays. No wonder the fashionable

ublic has decried them as intolerable nuisances,”

noir answered, chillingly. Crayton gave him a
sharp glance, half-knowing and half-pityine.

“Reserve your detestation of the nuisance for
Jenkins then, or better still run in a square or so in
sympathetic condolence with the injured public.

at wouldn’t be consistent perhaps, but effective
certainly from the pen of Justin Lenoir. Trust Jen-
kins in his harmless range to make much out of
little, but never give me the cold shoulder on his ac-
count, my dear fellow.”

They had walked slowly side by side across the
square and ascended the steps leading to the edito-
rial rooms. Crayton turned in one direction as he
spoke, and Lenoir passed through to his own desk.
corachow all the brightness and misty glory of the
day had passed away fromhim. There was a pain-
ful contraction in his forehead—a broad, intellec-
tual forehead it was, his features firm and fine, the
rather thin, dark face full of nervous power and
energy. ae his eyes were fixed upon the proofs
of his own articles awaiting him, it was a moment
before he recalled his thoughts to his task.

“Ts she all the world says of her?” he was_think-
ing ‘* Whether or no, why should it be anything to
me? Have I forgotten myself so far as to have need
of Crayton’s warning? I have had the warning at
any rate and it remains for me to profit by it.’’ And
there Justin Lenoir turned to his work with a will
that for the time left him too absorbed to admit
perplexities,

 
  

4

 

 

 

There was only the softest glow roseate lingering
in the Richland parlor. The light filtered over the
two forms drawn close to one of the west windows,
talking in softened tones together, and watching the
glitter of a little gilded cross surmounting the spire
of a small gray chapel, all but the dome of which
already lay in the shadow. Mrs. Richland had with-
drawn fora moment. Her husband had not made

his appearance yet, and the cook had remarked |
Thompson, the footman, that inten |

twice to William
7 she had served in the family no three dinners
spoiled through waiting for the master,

The two left in the oe together had felt the
embarrassment of that constrained silence which
may drop for an instant upon the most self-possessed
belle of the season, the most brilliant and promisin;

oung journalist of the times; a silence which Ethe
haha by rising and crossing to her present et

“T am sure you will agree with me in thinking it a
pity to ruin the effect of this entre sunset by |
ordering lights fora few moments yet. The peaceful |
quiet of this time and the tinted atmosphere always
remind me of the ‘dim religious light,’ as I saw it |
once streaming through painted windows over kneel-
pete in St. Paul’s. I wasa very little child, but
I think I shall never forget the strains of soft distant
music swelling and rising in a grand pean, or the
vivid solemnity of the chant ringing from column to
column and echoing through the vast space. The
music of our own churches has never seemed so
complete.” ;

He joined her, speaking of the various cathedrals
of the world, their architecture and adornment, and

, remarking how impossible it is to point out the fine
line of demarcation which separates the perfection
of sensuous delights of eye and ear from the enthu-
siastic fervor of the spirit service in religious de-
votees.

Listening to his rich, low voice, her earnest eyes
looking out to the golden sparkle of the little cross,
perhaps that same doubt of herself to which she had |
given sq ely utterance that very morning, stirred |
again in her breast. She did not hear the opening |
door—they were all orderly, uncreaking doors in the |
Richland mansion—nor the double footfall on the
thick velvet pile, heard nothing until her brother’s |
voice broke suddenly audible at her back.

“Ethel, are you too absorbed to welcome another
friend, an unexpected friend, after my_communica-
tion of the morning, and I assure you I had trouble
enough to secure him, unflattering as the fact may
seem to you.” |

Ethel turned, and at the same instant the gasoliers |
were set ablaze with the full glare shining down |
upon the little group.

Another gentleman who had entered with Mr.
Richland stood there; a handsome, blonde face
looked down from his superior hight upon her, a |
pair of bold, laughing blue eyes seemed to be raat
marine amusement in the conscious guilty loo!
sprin,

ing into hers.
iss Richland will believe me that the on
was not of my making. If she could know how
have sacrificed my impatient inclinations to the rigid
consultation of an exact conscience she would ap-
plaud rather than reprove.”’

“With the support of that be 2 conscience
ape did quite properly to consult your own conven-
ence; Mr. Hetherville. Nevertheless I am glad that
the qpyorineity of giving you oe has not been

indefinitely en as we were led to expect.
And_ here ertrude ready to add her more
wei hty assurance to mine.”

rst let me present Mr. Lenoir, Mr. Hetherville.
According to all rules of contrast you two ought to
be excellent friends.”

Two minutes afterward Ethel went out to dinner |
on the arm of this tall, blonde young man, this scion
of the old school aristocracy whose family posses-
sions, coming down through five generations, were
se! by voracious Jenkinses in furnishing sub-
stance for those items of morbid interest which feed
the minds of the envious hangers-on of that little
central hub of society, about which the circles widen
and widen until they are lost at last in the vulgar
current of the masses.

A ‘htfully demoralized scion, I am afraid,”
Mr. Erle Hetherville was accustomed to say in his
cheery, off-hand fashion. ‘‘I find the family dignity
a burden too pigaty to be borne by these tender and
inexperienced s. er ene said shoulders a

is six feet of well-

whimsical shrug, and looking in
developed manhood fully equal to the bearing of a
burden of far greater reality than the old family

‘ity he laughingly deplored.

e gentlemen were still at table after the ladies
had left them, when a card was brought to Mrs,
Richland. She had sunk back in an easy-chair, and
with a languid glance at the name looked across at
her sister-in-law.

“Have you any objection to my seeing him here,
Ethel?, The person is a stranger to me, a profes-
sional gentlemen, Dr.—ah!—Dr. Craven Dallas”
with a reference to the card. ,

“No objection whatever, Gertrude. I was about
to excuse myself in case it was a private interview
desired.”

“Don’t think of going, my dear. These strange
callers are very apt to turu out bores, and I have a
presentiment that this one will prove such.”

The visitor bowed himself in, a tall, thin man, |
d keen, light |

very sallow, with sparse sandy hair an

gray eyes which swept the entire surface of his ob-

servation at a glance, and fixed themselves with
iar intentness upon Mrs. Richland’s face,

She peaniced up without rising.

““ Will you be seated, Mr. Dallas?”—with a wave of
her hand, indicating a chair—‘‘and pardon me for
reverting at once to the object of your visit. Iam
at liberty only for a brief time.”

“Tt is in reference to a communication I received
from your solicitor, madame, when I chanced to
drop in upon him this afternoon. Lam guardian to
the 7 girl, Wilma Wilde.”

“Her guardian! I understood she had been left
eee a sneriied.! oa a

e keen, it eyes nee ardedly toward
Ethel, but wandered face to their subtle faispection
of Mrs. Richland’s quietly, unconscious attitude, of
the htly weary face so perfect in its repose, the
white hands lying idly in her Jap, the soft, dark orbs
finding so little to interest her about him that they

simply turned their languid surprise upon him and
went back to the space Te a

fore her,

| and his

| “TT was appointed her guardian after the late
| Matthew Gregory. I am most anxious to acquit my-
self of the trust in a manner to satisfy my own per-
ceptions of right and to meet the confidence reposed
in me by my old friend.” i

“Am Ito understand then that you object to my
proposal regarding the girl?” The soft, black eyes
| met his fully for the first, the listlessness was stirred
by a little faint bewilderment rather than any dis-
appointed expression. 5 ‘

“T am not sure that I object, Mrs, Richland; in
fact it might not be wise for me to object. [hope I
do not appear too zealous in assuring myself that
this is the best advantage offering to Wilma before
Ican give my consent. 1 am a bachelor, maintain-
ps a bachelor’s primitive establishment, and it is

uite out of the question that I should receive her
there. Ihave been thinking that the child may need
schooling; she has not had many opportunities, poor
thing! along with my friend who grew pape rapt
toward the last. She has nothing at all, as Mr
Gregory, against my wishes I assure you, willed his
little property to me; but no pecuniary trifle should
stand between me and her best welfare.”

‘You are very considerate,” said the lady, quietly.
“T explained to my lawyer that my intention was to
give the girl all ordinary reasonable advantages.
She will ane, no stated position in the household,
though I shall expect _her to hold herself in obedi-
ence to my own and Miss Richland’s wishes. The
solicitor, who is fully instructed I have no doubt, can
ie you any satisfaction you require. You may

ke to think further of the matter, in which case
you can report your decision to him. Of course I
should assume all expense in receiving her.”

“T could not consent to Seat my guardian-
ship or occasional communication with my ward.
Assured of those points, I am quite willing that
Wilma shall be received into your household—quite
positive that a lady of Mrs. Richland’s generosity
and kindliness will be nothing which is not consider-
ate toward the friendless orphan.”

“For the time, upon those or any terms. I be-
came interested through hearing of her utter desola-
tion, perhaps I mentioned. Should the first arrange-
ment prove unsatisfactory in any point, the freedom

| of retreating from it may be wisely accorded. That

is sufficient, I hope.

“ All-sufficient, my dear madame. And, by the by.”
—with another glance toward Ethel, simply unob-
servant of them, as he rose to go—''T believe you
visited my friend when he was too_low to be intel-
ligibly consulted on any matter. He was intrusted
with considerable independent business at one time,

papers have all reverted to me. If any
ae was left unsettled J may be able to attend to
t.?

“You are mistaken,’ Mrs. Richland answered,
her dark eyes opening in cool surprise. “Some
other visitor, perhaps. I had not the pleasure of
any dealing with the late Mr. Gregory.”

“ Ah—strange! Let me beg that you will pardon
the mistake.” With a few more words Dr. Craven
Dallas bowed himself out, and Mrs. Richland turned
her quiet face toward her sister-in-law.

“You are something of a physiognomist, I believe,
it dear. What is your opinion of that man?”

thel gave an expressive little shudder.

“He is a person I never could tolerate with any
degree of composure, I fancy. He looks to have the
inclination of a sycophant; he is cunning and in-
sincere, I am sure.”

‘““My impression of him was almost the same,”
Gertrude said, slowly. To herself she added—"* Tt
was like coming into contact with the slimy coil of a
serpent.”

 

CHAPTER IV.
TOO MUCH CONFIDENCE.

‘* AnD you will not be here for next week’s enter:
tainments, Mr. Hetherville! Not for Lotta, nor the
Clinton dinner, nor the Latham reception, which
last will be recognized as the positive opening of the
campaign. And how heroically you appear to bear
- under the weight of disappointment that degree
of sacrifice must necessarily Impose! Your mascu-
line stoicism puts our little feminine logic to shame;
ave could not willingly turn our backs upon such an

alluring eae a
It was Ethel speaking. Torta grouped in the
parlor still. Mr, Richland in easy-chair before

the fire had lapsed into drowsy unconsciousness of
all but the genial warmth and the low murmur of
voices that blended in with the dreams floating
mistily through his mind. His wife was looking
at some stereoscopic views with Justin Lenoir,
while Miss Richland was engaged ¢ete-a-tete with
the blonde young Marylander, whose blue, bright
eyes, and rippling golden beard, and general easy
nonchalance had worked as much havoc in his own

field, as Miss Richland’s feminine charms had ef- | in

fected in hers.

“T shall miss them—yes, but I am not without
solace. The greater attraction of the three, Lotta,
remains, and I have my return for the sacrifice be-
fore itis made. But for Mr. Richland’s persistent
interposition I should be lodged in a little sleepy
village up in Westmoreland eed now, where a
queer old aunt of mine has the odd taste to make

| her abode. She has avast amount of superfluous
energy which couldn’t be better employed than in
overawing her humbler peipihor by the state she
| maintains, and by turning Lady Benefactress to the
villagers, who submit with less protest than might
be aa She is a dear old soul, under all her
vagaries, and quite fond of me, with reason or in
spite of it as you like, She would never forgive the
oversight if I neglected
launching upon the tide here, and she is sure to let
| me off with not less than a week, by which time the
odor of my offensive cigar in the scrupulous sancti-
ty of her household precincts,my odd fowling-
pieces, resurrected to temporary service, my ho’

man’s carelessness and general ungainliness wear the
good old et down to that fine edge
when she is willing to see me depart with a sigh
which mingles regret with sublime reconciliation.
The sacrifice, which is no very great sacrifice, after
all, is the delay of my journey for a day, which will
throw my return just too late for the last attraction
on your list, the Latham reception. I am more than
consoled by the thought of the hundred following
receptions, all likely to be as much of a jam, where
one sees the same people and hears the same ree

aying my respects before |
ve, citi 6 Lei | ner Lenoir paused, saying:

‘THE INHERITANCE Preah,

 

 

 

 

marks, and eats the same indigestible conglomera-
tion of salads and creams confections, ices and pas-
try, and generally tops off the matter by imbibing
too freely of New Jersey cham page, and wakes
next morning with the identical hea ache, the same
good resolutions which go off with the headache—
all of which have been a recurring experience a hun-
dred times before. ae don’t commiserate me
upon the loss of that delightful prospect.”

_‘ You forfeit your right to any commiseration by
viewing such a phase of it. But then it is charac-
teristic of Mr. Hetherville to be independent of all
considerations.”

“You are too severe; I disclaim most emphatical-
ly in individual cases—yours for instance. You
can’t question that Iam anxious to propitiate my-
self in your favor, Ethel. You don’t imagine that I
have been any thing but eager to break the strain of
reserve which has been holding me afar off from my
tiny lady-love of six years ago? I find it almost hard
to reconcile the noted, quoted Miss Richland now
with the joyous little Ethie of that time; I wonder if
you realize all the difference?”

A quick nervous dread was under all her compla-
cent quiet, a dread which was touched by that
change in his light, careless manner to one earnest
and tenderly reflective, more nearly approaching

the tenor of the thoughts she felt must be dwelling :

in his mind,

“T should hope fora difference,” she answered,
hastily, ‘‘from the silly little hoyden in pinafores of
those old recollections. If you have any regard for
my feelings, pray spare those obscure reminiscences
which will not gain in their resurrection. There,
Mr. Lenoir has reached the last_of those no doubt
vastly entertaining views, and Gertrude I know is
waiting to make inquiry of all our Maryland friends,
and to compare notes in disposing of the time to
come,’

“Tam at Mrs. Richland’s service after one mo-
ment. You have not forgotten, Ethel; you wear my
ring yet, the ring which was so much too large when
Foy tried it first. The time which was agreed upon
by my father and your brother, who were interested
in and desirous of aiding this final consummation,
has come close at last. Ihad my own reasons for
remaining quite out of your society in this year
past. I wanted you, of your own unbiased judg-
ment, to determine if your woman’s heart could
wholly and freely second your childish choice. I say
this to you to-night because in strict honor I can not
defer one than my next visit here speaking to

our brother upon this subject, which I have cher-
shed first in my thoughts—tenderly cherished it—
for six big past. If you can assure me that your
heart has not wavered from the letter of truth
spoken in that childish betrothal, if no other love
has usurped the place of that attachment of long

‘0, my happiness and my pride will be complete
when I have truly gained—my wife. I want you,
Ethel; and Hetherlands is sadly in need of its future
mistress. Havel your permission to consult your
brother—your assurance that no flaw will mark the
perfectness of our long-laid plans?”

The blonde, manly face was handsomer in its ten-
der earnestness; the flashing, mocking blue eyes had
eer still and deep, and the hand into which he

ad drawn hers, wearing his ring, was close and firm
in its clasp—strong and tender and true as she knew
his nature was; there could be no exception taken
to Erle Hetherville as he presented his cause in such
plain, deliberate words. More unimpassioned, one
might have Shunt, than the full of his aroused
earnestness should warrant; but then this a epect
had been one of daily consideration with him for
years past, and if a little folly is indispensable in ro-
mantic love-making, their folly and their romancing
had occurred six years ago, when the boy of eighteen
and the girl of twelve had been thrown together in
an old Alan. homestead, and turned their whole
souls, as they fondly fancied, their silly heads and
susceptible young hearts it is very sure, to the pretty
farce which in their case had been made abiding by
the delighted approbatlog of other older heads,

After one swift glance Ethel’s eyes had been per-
sistently downcast. A little lor displaced the
bright rose-flush which had lingered in her cheeks;
a little weight Pes upon her heart and seemed to
still the warm blood which had thrilled there. With
those clear, bold and tender eyes upon her, with her
brother’s words of the morning—“I think I can be
sure of you, Ethel,” ringi n her hearing again.
what could she do, what could she say, but give that
consent they were both confident in expecting from
her!

She spoke, and her voice sounded to her own ears
like a tone far off and independent of herself. Her
words did not seem of her own volition, they were
so broken and unintelligible, until his face bent
closer and his firmer pressure of the hand he held
terpreted them to her.
$6 You have never thought of doing other than ful-
filling your part—Heaven bless you, darling! And I
never had a real fear that you would fail, Ethel.”
He loosed the little hand, and while she was still in
that mazy trance, which doubts the reality of all
around, he had turned to speaks gayly across the
room to the other two just leaving the places by
the book-strewn side-table.

Mr. Richland, waking suddenly out of his nap,
they formed cne central group after that, and at a
later hour the two ene men took their leave to-
gether. They had iceman to linger late, and
the gas burned with a dull glare now in the silent
streets. A policeman pacing his ldnery. beat glanced
that way as the two descended the wide white steps,
touched his cap and passed on down the long line o:
alternate blocks of light and shade. At the first cor-

“T hope you regret heartily, as Ido, the fact that
my Way tales me oft in this diverse direction. Do
you_cross the river, Bay, Task?”

“Yes; I am staying at the Monongahela now. My
old lodgings are something out of repair, with no
Prosnecs of being ready for days yet. A bore to live
in apartments, but better than to be at the mercy of
a set of knavish hangers-on in an establishment of
one’s own.””

Lenoir, with a very correct fancy in his mind of
what aspect this luxury-loving, lavish-fortuned
young gentleman’s apartments might present in
extravagant detail, smiled and turned back, check-
ing hia words of good-night which had trembled upon

is lips.

 

ne

 
 

 

Cc

“Second inspirations are often the best, and if
you do not object,I will change my route and attend
yom far as the bridge. It isa long, lonely walk at

his time of night.’

““My dear fellow, I positively do object if your way
lies in that other direction, It strikes me that the
long, lonely walk might be longer and lonelier by
the time you made the return, It is now five min-
utes of twelve,’’ glancing at his watch by the light
of the street lamp near which they had paused,
‘‘time that honest men were in their own quarters,
when thieves do walk and deeds of darkness shall be
done. Idon’t fancy that either are in waiting in
this quiet and eminently respectable neighborhood,
and Lfeel ae equal to the task of taking care of
myself if they were. Take a cigar to cheer your
way, Mr. Lenoir, and let me hope to welcome
yeu to my quarters when I’m once established

ere.””

Lenoir took the cigar and turned his own wey

Jancing back to see Hetherville still standing in

e circle of light, puffing slowly at his own weed—
a tall, well-built manly re as defined there, his
frank, open face, with its rippling luxuriant olden
beard in full pled his dark overcoat, fastened by a
single button, etting the gleam of the diamond_pin
refract in broken darts, while a costly ring sparkled
upon the hand from which he had removed his glove
to reach his cigar-case.

“Brave and honorable, rich and handsome,” Le-
noir thought. ‘What woman’s heart would fail to
be won by him?”

Hetherville, lacking his eulogistic attributes, was
thinking something in not an utterly dissimilar
strain,

“T fancyI am one of the luckiest saps. men,”
he reflected. ‘‘ With such a fair, sweet bride to
finish off other excellent advantages, I ought to be
the happiest of men, and s be, of course.”

It is not probable that there was a qualm of doubt
stirring Mr. Hetherville’s mind at that moment,
Earnestly in his heart he believed that the devotion
which had been nurtured and kept blossoming
through these past six years was the one passion
which could widen to complete his after life—a pas-
sion wn calm long ago; but then, all passions
cool, he assured himself, and this was the calm of
lasting, peaceful contentment.

It had been five minutes of twelve when he paused
in that circle of light. Ata quarter past, the watch-
man, returning on his beat, Sone suddenly in the
block of shade lying beyond, and stooped down over
a dark, moveless body stretched upon the pavement,
the unconscious face turned toward the sky, a little
trickle of blood dabbling the bright hair and staining
the stone beneath.

Erle Hetherville,shorn of his pee and his strength
in that brief interval, with sparkling ring and gleam-
ing diamond pin. and costly gold chronometer, with
kindred valuables, gone from his person, and
ominous purple marks appearing upon his throat,
from which his collar had been torn away.

CHAPTER V.
THE ELF-FACE,.

Erie HeTHERvILie opened his eyes with a feeling
of intense languor, with a sense of pressure upon his
brain, but except that, with no painful or disagree-
able pone: in his physical sensations—with
only the laziest and earns impressions mistily
apparent to hismind. His head was pressing dainty
lace-ruffled pillows, his oe opened upon white
filmy tala, and a blending of blue-and-gold be-

one which were ge tp not natural to his room at

he Monongahela. Neither was this quiet chamber,
with some soft, sweet perfume just perceptible in
its atmosphere, one of his own suite of handsome
apartments he had ordered prepared. It came to
him slowly that this was a totally unfamiliar place.
He made a vague attempt to remember how he had
come there, but with the effort lost sight of misty
draperies and blue-and-gold tints beyond, faint per-
fume and strange, indistinct objects about him.
Then, in a dreamy way, he had found the blue-and-
gold again in floating, oaey forms, and very much
nearer and clearer, but looking out from them down
upon him a face like no other face he had ever seen,
unless, perhaps, in other dreams.

Anelf-like face, with wistful, pathetic, pitying eyes,
that gave him a thrill as of something intangibly
mournful about her, even in his dream. A soft,
cool little hand fell upon his forehead, brushing back
the clusters of thick bright hair, and with that, face
and clouds vanished, but the cool, soothing touch
lingered still. When he found himself again, there
was subdued ee in the room. The reign of
quiet was broken at his first movement, as his head
turned, and his wide eyes unclosed with the vague
wonder in them deepening to amazement as a stiff
little rustle of silk heralded the uprising of an erect,
spare form stationed by his bedside.

os dear aunt Erle!’’ said his weak, eset
voice. ‘‘Then I am in Westmoreland, after all?”

“Bless my dear boy, he knows meat last. And he
is not going to have a fever, or a relapse, or any-
thing of the sort, so there must be no agitation and
no effort. Awake and sensible and hungry—I do
hope you are hungry, Erle. It’s the best of signs.”

“Be comforted by the best of signs then, my dear
aunt; I’m voracious as though [ hadn’t had a mouth-
ful for a week. I’m puzzled to know how I came
here and how everything seems metamorphosed,
and how to account for all the weird fancies I’ve
been having. Did I come with an incipient fever
throwing me helpless on your hands from the first?
I’m just rational brmet to know that I’ve had an
illness of some description.”

“But you're not here and you didn’t come—I
mean that you did come, but you are not here—wo
are not in Westmoreland, at all, that is. How the
boy is talking, and 1 sitively cannot permit him to
Say another word, e is just to have some chicken-
broth and go to sleep again, and have no worry in
his poor brain till he has a little more strength.
There, not a word; / should know, I imagine.”

He was quite content to be silent as the stiff silk
rustled away. He heard her speak at the door of
the room, and a moment after she came back with
a little tray covered with a snow-white napkin, Not-
withstanding his assertion of a voracious appetite, it
was almost satiated by a sight of the delicate, light

* little lunch. The attempt to lift his head brought a

whirl and a sense of faintness he had not ex-

enced in hig quiet state,

 

|THE INNERITANCE OF HATE. 5

 

“Tinsist, Erle! you must be obedient. You must
sip the broth I give you, with a mouthful of bread
and a little wine, but for these other things you are
not to think of them at all. Just like the aera
of people to send up a lot of syllabubs for a sic!
man, as though his stomach was poiee by a con-
trasting rule from the rest of his body.”

When the tray had been sent away again, and she
resumed her seat by the bedside, his eyes, quite un-
touched by any symptoms of sleepiness, came back
from their interested survey of the room to rest in-
quiringly upon her face.

“T’m coming back slowly, aunt Erle. I’ve got as
faras a circle of light under a street-lamp, but there
I’m stuck. Do give me a lift out of the mire.”

“You were garroted and robbed, and the police-
mar who found you—poor, dear fellow!—senseless
and helpless, brought you back_here to Mrs. Rich-
land’s. They sent word to me; I came, of course,
and here we have been ever since, and that’s all of
it in a nutshell.”

“* And that ‘ever since’ has been how long?”

“A week—just. And now not another word.
Somebody has been asking for you, and I shouldn’t
besurprised if somebody came in to see you, if you
are not tired orasleep, before she goes to the ball.”’

“Somebody ’’ did come—Ethel Richland, in her
rich evening dress, white and decollete, with
jewels sparkling at every turn, the purest, sweetest,
fee yee surely to grace the Latham reception

at night.

“The favorable report I have heard of our invalid
is all true. How rejoiced Iam to know you are
fairly recovering, Erle. You ought to recover if
faithful attendance and rigid observance of the
physician’s orders of seclusion and quiet can enforce
that end. Since Miss Erle’s arrival you have had
the most indefatigable of nurses, and we less effi-
cient ones must admit the wisdom which has ban-
ished us in her favor.” ; ;

“Odd how our sick vagaries affect familiar faces,
is it not, and how vivid the workings of a distem-

red fancy? I could sketch out a face I saw linger-
ng over me looking out of floating clouds. So kind
aunt Erle took sole possession of me? I should
have known it through the mere fact of finding her
here. Atleast I am glad that I have not been a tax
utterly aren the generous consideration of your
brother’s household,”

“Don’t imagine that we submitted to the extreme
letter of the law which would have banished us en-
tirely. I thought you ee the appearance of
being -half-awake and half-conscious when I was
here, some three hours ago. Miss Erle has flattered
me more than once by trusting you to my watchful-
ness for a half-hour or so when she could be per-
suaded to leave this chamber.”

Mrs. Richland came quietly in at that, also in
evening dress, and with solicitous inquiry after the

invalid.

“So kind of you to pire me a glimpse of all your
magnificence,”’ he said, from his propped-up position
among the pillows. ‘*Even enforced confinement,
that breeder of general discontent, does not tempt
me to Fase with ae present delightful location —
apart from the disability attending—or to envy you.
A pleasant evening, ladies; a triumphant evening to
you, da belle Ethel. This quite the proper thing for me
to wish it you, as whether or no you can not fail to
realize it.”

“Was my elf-face a dream-fancy only?’ he asked
himself, as he watched them depart. ‘I could no
more imagine Ethel’s fair face appearing like that

than I could fancy aunt Erle changed, young and
strange, and with such mournful traces the big
dark eyes and weirdly sweet young face. I wonder

if dreamland will conjure that fancy up again.”

Dreamland failed to do so, either then or after-
ward, except in vague, elusive ways which no
sooner took that form than they faded into air
again, or wavered like a will-o’-the-wisp just beyond
the power of his comprehension to grasp.

‘** And now,”’ said aunt Erle, three days days after
this, ‘‘you are well enough quite to sit up in your
room. You shall go down to the parlor to-morrow,
pone you conduct yourself properly mean-
while.’

“You don’t know how pleasant this being an in-
valid proves itself,” protested her nephew, lazily.
“Upon my word, lam not sure that I don’t owea
debt of gratitude to the unknown party or parties
who manifested their kind regard for me in such a
deucedly close-handed manner. I’m not at all sure
but I can forgive them that, after experiencing
these new sensations of comfort—this having my
wishes anticipated before they come to be wishes,
the exercise of the whole household’s ingenuity to
keep me amused. You should all be highly grati-
fied by your grand success. Like all perfect pros-
pects in life it has been too fair to last. Very well
aunt Erle; if you insist, there can be no question of
my routing out from this indolent enjoyment.”

“Much you deserve sympathy!” retorted aunt
Erle, with as much impatience as she offen mani-
fested toward him; “‘much, indeed, if that is the
hight of your consideration. Forgive the ruffians
for walking off with your valuables after coming
within an tach of taking your life. I hope ’ma
Christian, but I don’t long to equal that stretch of
generosity.”

“And ali because I instead of you was the sufferer.
You would bear up with the most sublime fortitude
in a merely individual case.”

“Brle,”’said his aunt, facing about suddenly, the
stiff silk crackling with an abrupt movement, an
anxious emotion come into her face, ‘“‘ have you re-
membered that the ring was_among the valuables
lost? It’s unlucky—a bad, bad sign.”

“T have remembered it, and I regret it more than
all the rest. My mother’s ring—the dearest signifi-
cance it could hold forme. I am not in danger of
being troubled by any superstitious fancy attaching;
rather, I can afford to defy such.”

Miss Erle closed her lips and spoke no remon-
strance, but the anxiety was not cleared out of her
face. That same afternoon as Ethel sat by him, the
book which she had been reading aloud dropped in-
to her lap, the subject came to his mind again. He
reclined upon a sofa, in dishabille of purple-brocaded
dressing-gown and embroidered slippers, lookin,
none the worse in his ae and languor and gene:
poe invalidism. He put out his hand and drew

ers into it, turning a heavy ring she wore, having
the device of a heart wrought in diamonds flaming

out from an incrustation of rubies which burned
like a sullen glow upon the taper white hand.

“T have lost the mate to it,” he said—‘‘the ee
with which the Hethervilles have been accustom:
to wed their brides. Have you faith in evil omen-?
ne say—that is, tradition says, such a loss foretells
the breaking of the betrothal, though where tradi-
tion found authority for the same Iam at a loss to
surmise, since there is no record of either ring hav-
ing ever from the family possession be-
fore this.”

“Yours may not be irrecoverably lost,” she sug-

g 3
“A happy reminder. It would be quite out of
pee , and a marriage in the family probably
e voted no marriage without the Hetherville ring.
Failing it, I think I can answer for our independence
of old customs, and assert as emblematic a degree
of -onstancy in any new substitute.”

The hazel eyes were looking at him with an intent
expression, and the slim hand drew away from his
clasp. There was a feeling astir in her heart, a half-
impulse to confess the misgivings which even now
were not wholly at rest, a longing to cast herself w
on his cree and gain the release which would
surely be given for the asking. But after all, how
much better would she be for breaking this bond
which had united them since distant childhood?
Would she not be miserable, instead, for bringi
such a misery upon him? She respected his
manly principles, and liked him so much; he was so
unmistakably handsome as he lay there, supporting
his head in his white, shapely hand, his hair gleam-
ing a darker shade but almost as intensely golden as
her own, and Ethel was no Sphinx among women to
be insensible to such masculine beauty. How could
she endure to witness her brother’s apa ointment
with the Brree debt of gratitude she ow im upon
her? And, with meee gained, would she not be
miserable in her own right at relinquishing the ex-
pectation which had been held constantly in her
sight during these six years? It was a morbid im-
pulse, one which her better judgment would repudi-
ate as it had done in calm deliberation once before.

Ah, Ethel, was it the better judgment which had
rebelled, or was it an upspringing of that inexorable
pride—the same, however, modified and unsuspect-
ed under your gentler exterior, that had been the
ruling power of Howard Richland’s life? Was it
more a shrinking from the acknowledgment even to
herself of having given unasked the heart which
was not hers to give, and to aman who had never
spoken one word of love, who had never ventured
upon a speech of gallantry, or by any act of his in-
terpreted more than in civil intercourse he would
give to any other woman?

“Where had you gone?” he asked, smiling, at her
absorbed, perplexed expression, dissipated by a re-
membrance of his immediate facing of her. ‘ Not
on a clairvoyant quest of the missing ring?”

“No, indeed,” with a little feminine shiver. “I
have a dread of those subtle powers which so far
outreach our ordinary understanding. I would
rather agree with you in ignoring the old supersti-
tions, if for no better reason than may be found in
consulting newer ones. have a faney I would
rather not be wedded with the Hetherville ring.
There, spare me that glance of sad reproach—I
know quite well what a coveted honor it has been.”

He was alone shortly after that with his thoughts
wandering back to the eupeene Re result their con-
versation had indirectly touched.

““What reason for deferring the understanding
which must be arrived at soon?” he asked himself.
““Why not make haste to complete the bliss which
has been so long in prospective? To-morrow aunt
Erle set aside for my appearance below, but I think
I shall anticipate the good old lady’s permission by
finding my way to the library now and awaiting the
return of my brother-inlaw in juturo close at
hand, accord: to his regular hour. I have Ethel’s
authority for the treaty; so let it be brief and
mutualk satisfactory, as it lies in the nature of the
pleasant affair to be.’

He went out through the corridor where his steps
fell ae: on the thick pile, down the stai
and with his hand upon the library door, swung i
: silently back, then stood as if transfixed upon the
threshold—stood gazing silently down at a little
figure that curled in one of the great library chairs,
her hands crossed upon the arm, her head lyi
against the back with the small elfin-face fu ly in
view, soft, dark hair clinging about the rather low
brow, and the eyes sealed in sleep.

CHAPTER VI.
THE DOCTOR’S PATIENT.

Dr, CRAVEN Dauuas lost no time in establis!
himself in the old house on the Manchester road.
There was no one to dispute the bequest with him
and no tedious formalities to be observed in as-
suming the responsibilities of his new situation.
Some might have wondered at the doctor’s taste as
well as his haste in taking occupancy of the dull,
rambling, shadowy place, from which the death-
} shadow had scarcely lifted, where ghostly, dispiri-

ting shadows lurked in odd corners in the brightest
weather. But Dr. Craven Dallas was not affected
by morbid sentiments any more than he was superior
to the collatera! consideration which would have
adapted him to worse quarters had any personal ad-
vantage demanded it. Perhaps no more fit suc-
cessor could have taken up old Matthew Gregory’s
relinquished reign.

Alone as he had kept himself during his life, alone
from all kindred pity or sympathy or affection as he
had been in his dying hour, so he had been hurried
from under the shadow of the roof which had
sheltered ‘him for two-score years into an obscure
corner of a dark, damp old cemetery, shut in by such
forbidding walls, so overhung by the shadow of the
old stone church upon the one side, so crowded in
by the tall tenement-houses upon the other, that
none of heaven's brightness or earth’s fairness ever
straggled by any chance into that dark inclosure.
which was more like a spot accursed than hallowed
ground. A few followers there were, drawn by that
insatiate craving of morbid curiosity which makes
great leveler of all distinctions—so
familiar a discussion with the common classes. Dr.
Dallas with a fold of crape surrounding his hat, Mrs,
| Gerrit with a co. nding badge in the mow

yail she wore, and the lonely orphan ward, were

 

 
 

  

 

in the little knot gathered near the long, narrow
fea who, having any interest with the departed
ife, might be supposed to experience an emotion at
these last observances paid to the body.

The impassive faces of the first two were stolidily
tundemonstrative in all expression, and the few bit-
ter tears Wilma shed were more in pity for her own
utter friendlessness than grief for the hard, harsh
man who had repelled every advance she made to
him in life, whose cruel assertion, in response to her
last appeal, had fallen upon her lke a parting curse,
That she was not to be left friendless and destitute,
that she was to be transplanted to a healthier at-
mosphere of kindness and care for her welfare,
touched her with such unexpected happiness after-
ward—filled her ate chilled, starved heart with
such a warmth of thankful gratitude, that, for the
first time, the shadows which had burdened her
sone life let through a rift of the sunshine which
should be the natural allotment of all young lives.

So her first glimpse of a quiet, deep joy had come
to Wilma over that lonely grave in the darkened
churchyard.

A wood fire crackled on the hearth of Dr. Dallas’s
sitting-room, as the evening which ciosed the first
week of November came down. It was cold and
clear without. There had been a little rain on the
previous night, and patches of ice and slippe:
glares upon the sidewalks were deceptive pitfal
under feet of unwary pedestrians. The house, set
back from the thoroughfare, caught none but the
deadened echo of noises from the surrounding
streets encroaching fast upon this which had been,
not long ago, beyond the extreme outskirts of the
city limits. To the south, the dense smoke which
pean overhangs the twin city could be traced
like an immense heavy cloud against the clear night-
sky, and the red eyes of the furnaces came out, one
by one, as the darkness deepened. This sitting-room,
with the cheerful flame sending a ruddy glow over
its bare extent, communicated with the chamber
where old Matthew Gregory had spent his last
breath, just too soon to enforce that prompting
which seemed suddenly to have become such a fe-
verish desire. Scarcely changed in detail, it was the
doctor's sleeping apartment now, and no ghost of a
broken trust haunted him there.

He was smoking his ae before the fire, his eyes
fixed upon it, his thin form seeming even thinner in
his dingy loose dressing-gown, his sallow face, with
the scant hair giving his forehead an appearance of
ca width than the reality, was inscrutable in
its repose.

“Domiciled under a roof of my own, thanks to my
skillful generalship rather than my very dear friend
Gregory’s kindness,” he soliloquized. “‘A good ad-
dition to my practice, which, though small, is toler-
ably lucrative.” There were some to say that the
secret of Dr. Dallas’s success was not owing alone to
his medical ee but rather to the knowledge of
the nature of skeletons inhabiting certain rich men’s
closets than his intimate knowledge of practical
skeletons strung upon wires, like the one in a cur-
tained niche of this very room, the sight of which
had given Mrs. Gerrit, who remained in her capacity
of housekeeper in the place, such a fright that she
was hours in recovering from it. ‘I fancy that my
legacy is not the single good fortune which comes
down to me through Matthew Gregory. A discreet
man, but one who was mistaken in supposing him-
self an impenetrable mystery to other men.”

The fire sunk fitfully, and as he stirred himself to
poke it vigorously, he lost the sound of the gate
creaking on its rusty hinges-and of heavy, uneven
Te on the paved walk without. A loud knocking
at the door, repeated almost before the first_echoes
died away, bore so unmistakably the sound of an
urgent summons, that, hastily lighting a lamp which
stood in readiness, he went out with it in his hand to
himself give the required admittance.

Two men stood upon the steps; one, the taller,
leaning heavily upon the shoulder of the other.

“You are Dr. Dallas?” he asked. “I met with a
confounded accident out here by your gate, that has
given me a sprain or a wrench of some sort. I sup-

se I can come in and have the thing attended to.

‘his gentleman, who was so kind as to pick me up
from my tumble in the gutter, recommended me
here, you'll kindly give me your arm a little fur-
ther, sir—so! Curse the awkwardness of this, to say
nothing of the inconvenience! Who would have
thought that such a two-penny bit of ice could give
such a deuce of a twist? Thank you, my man, and
that to drink to my chance of speedy dependence up-
on my own limbs.’

The man, who was probably a mechanic from his
ee would have declined the coin proffered

, but, being pressed, accepted it, and thankin
the donor, withdrew. The doctor was already kneel-
ing, making a swift examination of the injured
limb, but the keen light eyes, that never let any
thing escape them, had seen the golden gleam and
heard the chink of coins carried loosely in the
other’s petro

“A dislocated ankle,” he said. ‘‘ It was somethin,
of a feat, that of limping in upon it, and I see thai
the pain is having its ae It is badly swollen;
the sooner ova into place the better, Can you en-
dure the added twinge?”

“Go ahead!” was the brief reply.

The doctor did go ahead, after a glance into the
other’s face, a trifle pale under the deep bronze of
the skin, but with every muscle firm, not a quiver of
anerve anywhere to manifest the acute agony he
must have suffered. When the limb was fairl
dressed and easily placed, Dr, Dallas stood with his
hand upon the chair he had lately eee not
pea a directly at his unceremonious patient, and

“You will do very well after that, and you stood
it bravely. Will you have a carriage ordered, or

ay I offer you my own poor hospitality for the
night? I can find some one to take any message
you may desire to your friends, in that case.”

“If you can accommodate me for a day or so,
until I’m about again, I will be happy to square ac-
counts with you for the advantage derived. I'll

ve you no further trouble than that. I’ve no
riends to communicate with—not even acquaint-
ances in the city.” x

“In that case I'li order preparations made tor
your _ here. The best at my disposal is plain
enough, but we'll endeavor to make you comforta-

*” He went out to consult with his housekeeper,

 

 

ee

iat S after a few minutes, resumed his
chair,

“You were smoking,”’ said the other, glancing at
the half-filled pipe which he had put down hastily
and still alight. ‘‘Take another pipe in my com-
ay ,and favor me with an opinion of this brand.

ther fine, I consider it.”

He passed a heavy silver tobacco box, and draw-
ing a short meerschaum from his pocket, filled it
after the other.

“From the West?” the doctor asked, between his

puffs,

“You think so? Quite right! Odd how one car-
ries the flavor of a locality about with him.”

“Not so odd while you carry jingling currency.
We don’t have many ‘yellow boys’ turned loose
about here in these days. Been in the service out
there? That inference is clear enough; a military
man is recognizable anywhere.”

“So it would appear. I was in the frontier service
not a great while since. You said something a mo-
ment ago of my bearing that little operation without
an ado over it, but by the time a man goes through
the mill I’ve been ground in, he isn’t apt to fliach at
such a trifle. Little enough to come to the fact of |
the accident, but a devilish inconvenience into which
you are thrown for your share.”

“Don’t speak of it,” said the doctor, blandly. In
this new patient he was positive he would not find
an illiberal debtor. Ethel’s reading of this man’s
character had not been far wrong. A dozen ordi-
nary men might have dislocated their ankles before |
his gate, and he would not have disturbed his |
domestic arrangements to have received one of
them, But this was not an ordinary man; his first
glance had shown him that and that clink of gold and
silver coins in his pocket had assured him of as much
more as he had cared to know at first. He wasa
soldierly-looking man, erect, well built, broad-
shouldered, and muscular, and with a bronzed, |
bearded face and curling hair, that had been chest-
nut but was turning grizzled along with his heavy
military mustache and lower whiskers. :

‘Don’t speak of it,” the doctor said. ‘‘My regret |
is that I have not better to offer you. Mrs. Gerrit,
my housekeeper, will arrange my sleeping-room |
yonder for your occupancy. Ihave a medley piece
of furniture here,” pointing to a nondescript object
at the back of the room, ‘which can be metamor- |
phosed into a sofa or a bed, or a table at pleasure,
which will serve my turn asit has done many a time
before. The truth is that I have very recently estab-
lished myself here, and the place remains in almost
the state preserved by its late occupant. By the
way, you have not favored me with your name.”

“An oversight. Iam Leigh Bernham, late captain
in the 10th cavalry. Do you succeed a brother prac-
titioner here?”

“No; the place was left me by a patient, partly as
areminder of old friendship, partly in return for
services rendered. Matthew Gregory seemed as
much a fixture as the old house itself, apparently,
but he was buried from here a couple of weeks ago. |
Of course you are not interested in any of this.”

Captain Leigh Bernham, late of the 10th, smoking |
his pipe contemplatively, presented a steady aspeci
of feature which one who runs might not read, |
which might baffle those keen bright eyes, under*®
which he was for the time being placed with more |
object: than they yet had to look him through.

“T am interested in anything,” he answered.
* Having no interests of my own, I am led to take
up those of other people. is Mr. Gregory had no
blood-heirs, Iam to presume; or is it possible that
rara avis has been discovered at last, a surviving
relative who is not ready to squabble for ‘dead men’s
shoes?” :

‘There are no relatives, Did I understand you to
say you kad left the service, Captain Ber itty

‘Some time since. I sent in my resignation when
my brother, more sensible than I had been, though |
less lucky in one way, died up among the Nevada
mines. He had gone in with the California excite- |
ment of *54, and never could rid himself of the
rather inexplicable fascinations of the rough mining |
life. Iwas his heir by law, and he left enough to |
make the change rather marked between the poor
devil of an army captain and a stock-holding nabob
of the Far West.” f

“ For all which,” thought Dr. Dallas, during the in-
terval of silence which elapsed, ‘‘there’s somethin
more behind the reserve that says so little of himself.
Trust Time and Craven Dallas to bring out the con-
vincing proof of that if nothing else.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE DOCTOR’S COFFEE,

“ Lonety? Well, no sir; I can’t say that it seems
so tome. I’ve lived here for a matter of seventeen
years, and now I’ve grown used to the place, just as

have asort of fancy that it has grown used to me,
Icouldn’t feel quite at home anywhere else after
this, and I think the old house wouldn’t be quite
the same with me out of it.”

“There’s no doubt of that, Mrs. Gerrit. Knocking
about the world as I have done, I’ve had little
enough experience with home-comforts of any sort;
but with the evidence presented before my eyes
here, I can understand the advantages of having a
competent person thoroughly _ devoted to one’s
affairs as domestic manager. You look decidedly
comfortable in there now. I wonder if you would
object to my coming in for a little sociable chat? If
you don’t find it lonely I do—confoundedly so!”

Captain Leigh Berehiain had limped back through
the long dark corridor, which stretched between the
two parts of the building — one occupied by Dr.
Dallas, and containing, besides the two apartments,
which already have been seen, two others, one used
as an office, the second fitted with the appliances of
a laboratory; the other part, a fac-simile of the
first, was divided into kitchen and dining-room,
Mrs. Gerrit’s own room, and another not now in use.

Some days had passed since his untoward ac-
cident, and Captain Bernham was about again, tak-
ing the freedom of his host’s establishment ina
very matter-of-fact fashion, and saying nothing as
ree of moving his quarters. ‘Saying no more to Dr.

allas’s concealed disappointment regarding himself
his experiences of the past, or his prospect of the
fulure, Some subtle attempts to draw him out had

 

 

been bluffly ignored, and the doctor found himself
in affected by an uncomfortable sense of
qafer

ority, with all his eraft and cunning, mai

| here.

 

 

against the quiet discipline of feature that was
proof against all surprises, and the simple open
candor fortified at the back by such close reserve,
More than once in these days he had repeated that
first conviction ‘and half-promise made to himself:
“There’s more behind his reserve. Trust Time
and Craven Dallas to bring out the convincing proof
of that, if nothing else.” His slow progress made
on the way poet have shaken the faith of a less
shrewd and subtle spirit, but the doctor’s was only
hightened by his own lack of success. He was out
visiting patients now, and Captain Bernham had the
whole morning before him to while away.

.“ Begging your pardon, sir, T'll take it as a great
kindness. I overlooked invitmg you in through so
long habit to the old master’s ways. It’s a great
change since he’s gone—a great change—but it’s not

| for me to complain of it since I'm kept on. That
| chair, sir, you’ll find an easy resting-place, with the

hassock tor your lame foot.
comfortable now?”

“Very ccmfortable, thank you. Your old master,
the late Mr. Gregory, must have been quite strongly
attached to you.”

“Hardly that; it wasn’t his way to be attached to
any one. He was never any thing but distant to
even them one might think would have won upon
him closer. He never interfered in the household
arrangement, which was a great thing fora lone
map, and one so set in his own opinions. He left
me a remembrance in his will, only a small matter,
but enough to show that he thought kindly of me.’

“ Quite the proper thing to be done after seven-
teen years of iaithful service, I should say. My Only:
inclination to quarrel with the late Mr. Gregory
that he did not make it more considerable, no im-
possible matter since there were no heirs-at-law in
the case. A woman’s tact in the house is invaluable
and you have excellent skill, Mrs. Gerrit. Upon my
word you force me to mark the difference between

Do you find yourself

| your cozy snug, oy here, and my own and the
ache!

Roan speedy
er.

He cast an admiring glance about the room, plain
enough in all reality, but with those little touches
apparent which speak loud as words of a woman’s
handiwork. A little round stand in a corner witha
coarse but snow-white cover holding a wicker-work
basket, with a medley of bright worsted coutained
init, A vase of dried flowerson the mantel, one or
two graceful prints in rustic frames upon the wall,
the embroidered cover of the hassock, fine touches

lor disarrangement over yon-

_ which afterall were not traceable in any apt degree

to that good plain person, Mrs, Gerrit. She followed
his glance with some gratified pride beaming in her
face, and something like a sigh agitating the hand-
kerchief crossed upon her ample breast.

“They’re not my doing,” she Srpiatiede ae
haven't any faculty that way, for all I like to see
the pretty things around. They’re all Wilma’s work,
and they seem more like a part of herself now tha

| she too is gone. See had cunning fingers, and she

always would put the little ornaments she made in
Her own room yonder is nigh about as bare
as the rest of the house, Poor thing! poor thing!
‘They only make my own loneliness harder,’ she
used to Bey ‘I can enjoy them out here with yon
to share them along with me.’ The most affection-
ate little thing,and for all that the saddest—it makes
my heart ache yet, poor dear! The change was a
Reppy one for her, I’m sure.”’

“Dead?” asked the captain, changing his position
before the fire, his tone quiet through sympathy.
“Was she your daughter?

‘Oh, dear, no, sir; to both questions. She’s Wil-
ma Wilde, r. Gregory’s ward that was; Dr. D.
is her guardian now. She left here something like
aweek before you came. A kind, rich lady who
had heard of her took a fancy to befriend he!
Wilma h s goneto her house for a time, though I've
an idea that Dr, Dallas don’t mean to let her go en-
tirely. I’ve missed her sorely, but it was far away
for the child’s good. It’s not natural fora young

. creature to take kindly to the sort of life she h

here. Mr. Gregory was distant to every one, as I
said, but he was more than distant to her. There
were those who said, and I sometimes used to thin!
he knew her to be something besides the little wai
he brought up for charity’s sake, I’ve known him
to give a crust ora penny to a beggar at his door,
but never a kind look ora tender wordfor her. And
she, poor lamb! so patient under it and so Nery

ou would think no human heart could withsta: d

er,””

‘““A waif, yousay? Thatis a yitiful lot indeed. I
have an idea that bad parents are better than
no parents, or what amounts to the same
thing, after the rule that certainty of any sort
is always preferable to suspense.” Captain
Bernham kept the ball rolling with that sleight
which betrayed no great amount of curiosity on his
part, yet encouraged Mrs. Gerrit, who could wax
a little voluble at times, to offer a more explicit
statement. Matthew Gregory had found a guiet
bed in the old corner cemetery; and, released from
his influence—from the presence which had served
to chill the atmosphere of the whole house—she was
blossoming out quite a changed Mrs. Gerrit from
the late master’s reign. Wilma herself would have
had her full heart touched anew could she have
heard the housekeeper’s tender references; she had
been uniformly kind to the little waif, but she was
not of a demonstrative nature, and the affectionate
outbursts which had not been checked in the bud by
her master’s example, were kept under effectual
control by the express order which had been issued
when the child Wilma would surely otherwise have
won the expression of them, That order was that
no moddley-coddley display of weak sentiment
should ever be lavished, beneath his roof, upon that
Sree ee from all kindred humanity, and it was
an order to be enforced, for with it came allusion to
the prompt dismissal which would follow any vio-
lation of his expressed wishes. Mrs. Gerrit’s strict
seclusion, too, and acne from kindred sym-
ad of her own, had turned the milk of human

indness in her breast to curd and whey; sweet

curd though it may have been, there was little
flavor to it until now, released trom the cold, en-
forced discipline, her natural good - heartedness
served it up with spiced cream-and-sugar dressing.

“Tt’s certain ec that she’s an o' phan, on the
one side at least, and if hints to the other might. be

taken for truth—ah, well! the less said of that tha —

 

-

 
 

 

ao eee

better.’ It was when I was new in my place—a mat-
ter of seventeen years ago almost, something later
in the season, for it was bitter cold and stormi:
without, and the Christmas fires were alight, tha’
little Wilma came under this roof.” The captain’s
lips moved after her as though he had repeated an
inaudible ‘‘ seventeen years,”” but they closed in their
accustomed firm line under his heavy mustache, and
his quietly interested expression remained quietl
interested as she told her story. ‘There was little
enough Christmas cheer inside except for the bi
blazing woodfires. I was sillier in those days than
have grown to be since. It was the first Christmas
I had ever passed outside a house of my own, and a
wide mark between it and the last one when Tom
‘Gerrit—as good and thrifty a husband as woman
ever was blest with!—sat with me over our plum
pudding and roast and great Christmas cake. He
was taken down a week after that and lingered on

into the summer.

“We had started r,and the long illness took
away what little we had saved ahead, so when the
housekeeper’s place was like to be vacant here I
thought it a bit of rare good luck that I was the one
to get it. Ihad the heart taken out of me by brood-
ing over my sorrow, and through having no soul to
say as much asa Merry Christmas. It set in as
desolate a ee as you’d care to see, two feet of
snow on the level, and with the big flakes that had
fallen all the day changing at dusk to a sharp sleet,

\and the wind tearing up through the hollows with

the wail in it that turns one’s blood cold. I turned

timid at the sound of it and at the lonesomeness of

the empty house. I went in through the corridor

ae toward Mr. Gregory’s with no notion except
o get nearer some human presence,

“But, while I stood outside, with a little chink of
light through the keyhole and his steady tramp,
tramp, going up and down the bare boards inside.
there came a dull thud against the outer door an
something like a cry. BeforeI could stir toward it
the sitting-room door came open with a crash, and
Mr. Gregory passed so close that we touched with-
out his ever seeing I stood there. I’ve never sup-
posed any thing but that he knew all in a second
what had fallen there. He had the door wide and
was looking down at what was lying there, stretched
across the threshold, before I had brought a thought
out of my first start and surprise.

“Tt was a woman with her head bare, and the
long, black hair streaming about her face, all matted
with the sleet and torn by the storm. A woman, I
said, but she was no more than a girl; I should have
taken her for one but for the tiny bundle she held at
her breast that stirred and cried while the storm
beat down upon them both. That roused me, and
the master too. We had them into the light and the
warmth, and we did what we could for them with
the means we had at hand, It was the tiniest of
babies I ee een but a few days old I should
have thought, but from the poor mother’s haying
strength to be out it must have been more. She
poor thing! had the color of death in her face and
the chill at her heart too strong to recover. She
lived pikes the night and into the day when it
came, and died without having a rational moment.
Mr. Gregory had her buried from the house in the
very churchyard where he lies now, and little Wilma
never left here through his time, never up to the
a week before you came. Dol weary you, sir,
with such a prose?” A

“No, you have interested me in this little Wilma,
who began life in that pitiable way. Did you say
there were proofs of her identity?”

“Not the least, but the woman who had served
here before me paid a visit to the house long after-
ward, and when I told her about it said there wasn’
the slightest doubt that the girl-mother had been
Mr. Gregory’s own daughter, She had come to grief
ed some handsome, wild young scamp and ran
away from home months before. I never been
told that he had a daughter, orI should have known
the truth from the first. Her father swore a bitter
oath, so they say, that he would never forgive her,
and he never did, for a harder face than his as he
stood beside her dead body I never saw on mortal
man. D.d you give your ankle a twist, sir? Iwas
sure you groaned.”

“Nothing to speak of, but I begin to feel the need
of limbering up again. So this little Wilma—what
did you say her name was?—Wilma Wilde has been
taken into a rich lady’s house? A very benevolent
lady, I dare say!”

“A very kind one, Dr. Dallas said. I’ve nomemory
for names, and I’ve forgotten hers, but any change
would be better for Wilma, If you’d care to come
in here any time again, sir, I’d be glad to make you
welcome.”

Captain Leigh Bernham lIlmped back through the
long corridor into the doctor's sitting-room, which
was still empty, with the result of Simbering his
stiff joint so effectually that he dropped into his ac-
customed place by the side of the fire, and sat there
looking steadfast! ., down into the coals for the next
half-hour, as stirless and expressionless as a life-
size cast of bronze,

That eee. he sat in the same place with Dr.
Dallas, opposite, smoking with hard puffs until his

ipe was in a red glow, he removed it from between
bi teeth to sa; Te

“You'll be glad to know, I dare say, that I consider
myself so nearly recovered as to warrant a speedy
rehira to my prospects which have been in statu
quo for some time past. Oblige me by making out
your bill, not too light, mind you, for all the trouble
and expense of which I’ve been the occasion.”

“My dear sir, I really must protest,” the doctor
egan,

pray don’t, Dr. Dallas. I never listen to protests
after I’ve once made up my mind—a persistency, by
the way, which has brought me into many a scra;
before to-day. It suited my state of mind at the
moment to take up my temporary abode here, and it
suits my plans now to follow up my original intent,
if reo are willing we will dispense with the bill and
call it square on that.”

He drew a handful of money from his pocket and
dropped if altogether into the other's by no means
laggard hand,

“A deuce of a sight easier and ae as satisfac-
tory, I hope as the formality of a bill I'll say good-
by to our pleasant companionship and my own satis-
factory sojourn here rather early to-morrow.”

“Y& suits your plans,” Dr. Dallas thought, with a

 

 

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE. 7

contraction of those sharp, catty eyes—“ but I’m
sorry to admit it, my dear Captain Bernham, sucha
precipitate movement does no? suit my inclination in
the least. To defer your going or to get some ink-
ling of what those plans of yours may be, are im-
portant items of consideration now, and it does not
require your assurance that the first might prove no
easy matter to accomplish. The fellow sleeps with
one eye open or I should have discovered all his
effects will tell me before this. Let me hope he
may sleep soundly, this last night of his stay.”
There was a disagreeable gleam in the light orbs,
which did not pass unnoticed by Captain ernham,
unobservant as he appeared—a passing gleam which
settled the single point of indecision he had carried
in his mind.

-“J’ve read that man too thorahity to trust any
thing to him,” he thought,” and I’m not quite a
fool to give a clew which may be followed into his
possession. No, no, Dr. Craven Dallas! much as I
might gain by the assistance you could afford me, I

ill not trouble you by evenan appeal for informa-
tion. Let me help myself to such aid as I can, and
trust to less slippery probity if I find myself lacking.
What did that side-look mean? Nothing good, as I
eon judged by a better record than my own
merits.’

Dr. Dallas put out his hand and reached the bell
pull as he met the other’s eyes,

“ One of the few items of renovation and improve-
ment I have added since taking possession here,” he
said, with an upward glance at the cord. ‘Fane:
going the distance of a quarter square to communi-
cate with one’s own kitchen. Ican’t tell you how 1
regret this sudden determination of yours, but,
since you declare it incombatible, I must hold my-
self resigned. Isit up late to-night, and I ordered
coffee for us both. Let me flavor yours with brandy
in company with my own and wish you undisturbed
repose for your last night here!’

rs. Gerrit had answered his summons with two
coffee-cups on a tray, and, putting it down upon a
little stand between them, withdrew again. Dr.
Dallas rose, approached a closet at the side and
came back with a flask in his hand, He poured a por-
tion into each cup and turned to replace the fiack, all
done carelessly and with no attempt at shirking tho
other’s observation, but then Captain Bernham was
not at the moment glancing that way. In the few
seconds the doctor’s back was turned, however, he
reached swiftly and turned the little tray upon the
stand. The doctor came back, and, motioning his
guest to y himself, took up the remaining cup,
sipping the liquid with slow, ree zest. Bern-
pes ta his at a single draught and pulled out his
pe again.
Pt To neutralize the effects of your coffee, doctor.
It was deucedly bitter to my taste.”

“T drink it so pu sely,” the doctor answered.
en then, coffee is the only stimulant I allow my-
self.”

“Smoke?” The captain pushed his tobacco-
box, always well filled, across the other. “And
by the way, in case you are not astir after your
night’s vigil, suppose I make my adieux over night.”

e doctor’s thin lips were just stirred by the
slightest sneering smile, and ina moment both men
were absorbed in watching the clouds of smoke
wreathing hazily about their heads. Unconsciously
Dr. Dallas lost sight of another intention he had
fixed in his mind, an intention of shifting his obser-
vation from the y mists to his companion. Pres-
ently it was arity ah arent to him that the other
had anticipated the intention and was calmly watch-
ing him. Then, with no thought of resistance, he seem-
edt to feel ahand searching his pockets and something
withdrawn, but all so vague and so separated from
any eare of his own that, with not even an attempt
to shake off his helpless languor, he slid into deep, un-
broken sleep.

Had he followed further the facts of those vague
forerunning fancies, he would have seen Captain
ae Bernham leisurely trying his keys in the desk,
which had been returned to its old place in the other
room—the room in which Matthew Gregory had died,
He would have seen him successful after atime, and,
searching the interior, bring forth a little box having
neither lock nor key, but a spring with which his
fingers seemed perfectly familiar. He would have
seen the man’s head go suddenly down upon the
senseless little thing, the bronzed face convulse, the
whole strong figure shake and quiver, and have
heard a hoarse, unnatural voice in no more than a
bei 09 repeat.

" » dead! Poor little Rose! Poor, poor girl!"

CHAPTER VII.
SHAPES OF AIR.

Ertm Heraeryire stood looking down into the
small, dark, sleeping face, with a sensation new to
all his previous life struggling at his heart—an in-
voluntary recognition of that mournful influence
which had preyed upon her life until the stamp of it
was s0 pay apparent in her face that it was
always the first impression to strike an observer—a
tender ae ns and a desire to extend protection
to that little creature, who looked too childlike and
delicate to buffet with any rough fortunes of chance
in our rough world. The long dark lashes quivered
and the lids went wide, leaving the startled dark
eyes looking up at him in turn with an uncertain,
doubting expression as if his presence there was
scarcel settled in her mind fora fact. His words
assured her of it, after the space of a breath.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as her timid eyes
fell before his bright, bold, blue ones, and though it
was no new experience for Erle Hetherville to have
the eyes of woraen droop before his gaze, the shy
grace of this girl made the nae now a delight
wortky of his accomplishment. ‘‘I would not have
intruded had I aes that the library already
had an occupant. I can’t hope my appearance has
not disturbed you, since I am a witness to the fact,
but I can and will make such amends as lie in my

ower by taking myself out of the way immediate-

 

“Oh, no, pray don't. Twas asleep, I suppose, and
not quite ine hat I was not dearly on lwhen I

waked suddenly and saw you there. I shall go right
ei all the same.”

“T will agree to stay only on condition—that I am
not the cause of frightening you away. By the
way, it would be only according to the

law of natural

 

= ar =o
recompense, though a rather heer coincidence, if
you really had seen me in on ams, Ihave met
you in that misty region—let me see, something like
three days or so ago.”

He was lounging in the open door, with the slight
form standing where she had risen first, a smile
breaking over the little red mouth. .

.“It would not have been so strange if I should
have seen you in my sleep. I am accustomed to
dream of things which have made a recent itm-
pression on_ my mind, and your illness would suffice
for that, Mr. Hetherville. Perhaps you dream
also that I magnetized you back to slumber when
you were yielding to wild fancies and going a fair
way to ae on the fever which was dreaded? If

ou will be Kind enough to let me pass; Mrs. Rich-
nd will be expecting me before this.”

“ After I thank you for the DOs kindness,
And won’t you tell me whom Mrs. Richland will be
expecting? If we are dwellers beneath the same
roof for a short time may we not be friends as well?”

There was the sweep of a dress at his back, and
the maid who shared her services between Ethel and
the mistress of the mansion, stood there.

Mrs. Richland had sent in search of Miss W:
and would she see to arranging the cpergne for the
dinner-table before she came up-stairs? Mr. Hether-
ville made way for the little figure, and Miss Wilma
disappeared from before his eyes, but leaving a vivid
impression of the small, dark, pathetic face, lighted
and brightened by its winning smile, lingering in his

mind.

He sat down in the same deep chair of purple
morocco and solid oak which she had occupied, and
turned the leaves of a book with a scarlet mark
fluttering between, that lay on the table at his side.
He was there still when Mr. Richland made his ap-
pearance in the doorway, a few moments later.

“Why, bless my life, Hetherville, this is more of
an improvement than lhad hoped for. Below, and
equal to Owen Meredith, a poet whom I thought
men only affected when inspired by the presence of
alady. Iwonderif these favorable symptoms are
to be cha: in any case to Ethel’s ney? At
any rate, ’m heartly glad of your rapid recovery,
my dear fellow.”

ot a man of fine tact, the host, but honest to the
core, Erle Hetherville found himself struck with a
guilty sensation as though he had been tried and
ound wanting in some deplorable measure by the
side of the other's strictly honorable principle. With
Mr. Richland’s words had come his first recollection
of his own mission here, the first reminder of how
near he was, in all probability, to setting his seal to
his own future destiny, and with the reminder came
his first inclination to shirk the issue for a time—to
hold to himself yet a little longer his indefinite sense
of freedom. He turned his back upon the prompt-
ing with the quick recollection that he was not free,
that he was bound only less firmly and surely than
by the marriage vow, with a sudden, fierce, angry
contempt of himself that his devotion to Ethel
should have wavered for the first at this supreme
moment. He plunged into his subject almost with-
out eee

« Thanks, Mr, Richland, There's very much owing
to Ethel, I assure you. It is with her permission
that you find me here, waiting the chance of a few
private worcs with you. You were a kindly ap-

pate party to our betrothal of six years ago, and

trust Tam correct in assuming that you have not
ceprecated your favor of me. ‘The extreme limit of
the time agreed upon then is now almost reached,
and Iam hero to urge the strict fulfillment of the
old plans. Iam anxious to make Ethel my wife at
as early a day as you may approve and she agree
to. Ihave not accustomed myself to this end for so
long a time to urge unceremonious haste now, but I
do beg that there may be no unnecessary delay.”

“Spoken with the spirit 1 expected from you,”
responded Mr, Richland, warmly. ‘TI should’ have
been immeasurably disappointed at hearing any
different proposition from you. And Ethel is of the
same mind, hey? Well, then, there’s no reason, not
the slightest, for any delay whatever, except the
small time necessary for preparations which must
be made. Upon my word, Hetherville, I was never
more rejoiced in all my life except once—when I
stood upon the same ground you occupy now.”

He wrung the young man’s hand with all the
warmth of his own Spa and that same guilty
sensation returned to Erle that he was not more
elated over the smooth, fair fortune which had at-
tended his wooing and winning, if wooing and win-
ning it could be called which had brought no exer-
tion of his own into play, which had been attended
by none of that painfully blissfully uncertainty
that hopes much, and is magnified to a heaven of
ected rapture when certainty is sweetly and shy-

€.

“Tf you don’t object,” said Mr. Richland, “to
leave the management of the whole affair to me,
I'll see that those same prepeteoms are not drag-
ged through the entire length some people consider
necessary before they settle to even the contempla-
tion of the final ceremony. Ethel is one of the
of girls, but not utterly free woman's general
habit of dallying. Ill give a (te blanche for the
trousseau, and have it ordered the largest im-
porn house in New York. After that there'll be
no difficulty in naming an early aay Tl Begone
eee oe to part with my dear 1, but, my
own late experience to the Shean believe in
early marriages. If you are to be all in all to each
other, give the peel pent of your lives to yourmutual
happiness, I say. you have any objection tomy
turning such an urgent generalissimo, don’t hesitate
to make the fact known,”

“Not any objection in the world. On the con-

trary, 4 must know how great the obligation ca
the

my side will be.” Yet now, as once befo!
words lacked the fire, the hasty iration o
enthusiastic suitor who lives in the light of his in-
amorata’s smile.

The result of so much exertion on his of
mental perplexity more than pies action, was
the return of some slightly feverish symptoms that
were triumphantly seized upon by Miss Erle as what
might have been anticipated from the violaticn of
her rule, as he was taken into unquestioned charge
again and impressed with the necessity of resuming
the invalided role in his own apartment for the
evening. It was by no means so desirable a situa-
tion to his thoughts, that night, as it had been when
   
 

 

8

eae
——— ta

   

the blue-and-gold of the walls had tangled into

cloudy forms and had elfin faces limned in their
tuidst—not so desirable as during the later days of
his convalescence, when the world without and the
world within that dainty chamber had no links of
connection disagreeably apparent, In fact, the
kind of night he passed, sleepless, until the late
watches, and restless then with grotesque, distorted
dream-forms haunting him, was not at all the kind
of night that a happy young lover, just assured of
the apeedy, realization of his dearest hopes, is sup-
pose

very night. It was one of their very quiet evenings
below stairs. There had been invitations to balls
and dinner parties and operas and select receptions
to occupy every one of the six nights of the week
but these, with the exception of two or three, ha

been declined in deference to the invalid beneath |

their roof. This night with Lotta—that bright, brief
star—at the New Opera House as an irresistible
mate of attraction, and two after balls, the Rich-
land mansion escaped even a-casual caller during
the evening. These domestic evenings, in a house-
hold little accustomed to the kind, are commonly
such tiresome affairs that no precedent is ever
established sufficiently favorable to warrant their
frequent repetition. This one was proving no ex-
ception, although, as Ethel had asserted once, they
were seldom pe preys to dullness even when
thrown peo their own resources, for the members
of this little group were knit in habits of companion-
ship and consultation of each other’s tastes more
than is often found in our so-called first families,

Ethel had taken refuge at the piano and lost her-
self fora moment in the mazes of ‘‘ Faust,” while
her brother sat over a chess-board, matching his
skill against his wife’s random, absent moves.

““My dear, my dear!’’ he remon:trated, after one
of her least-guarded ventures.
to play so_ badly. a you have virtually given
the game into my hands, and you generally match
me 5s! arply to the end. See how easily I am going
to gain the victory.”

. Richland’s white jeweled hand, coming up,
struck the corner of the board, jumbling the pieces
into a mass of mingling colors. ;

“There, what a pity! I have spoiled your vic-
tory; but, as_you said, the game was all in your
on) hands. Iam quite willing to yield the inevitable

lefeat.””

‘“ What a pity all women aren’t as sensible as yo
Gertrude! You are looking wearily; I am a raid
you are not as strong as you were—you are not ap-
pearing to bear the excitement of the season as we!
as heretofore.”

“Tam quite well and quite strong, but a little en-
nuied, Iam afraid. If you will spare my further in-
fliction, I think I shall retire early for once.”’

“By all means, do. Nothing like a good night’s
rest to bring you to yourself again, and bless me!
the evening has gone rapidly, after all,” glancing
at his watch, where the bands pointed at a quarter
toeleven. ‘“Good-night, my dear! No, don’t follow
for a moment, Ethel. I presume you are not in ig-
nora ce of a petition which was made to me, this
aiternoon.”

“A petition, brother? Not—surely, not already?”
—her troubled gaze turned upon him and the faint
flush upon her cheek paling would have been evi-
dence of her apprehension to quicker eyes than his
kindly ones, but Mr. Richland saw nothing more
than a rather sensitive young lady’s embarrassment
over a delicate love affair.

“Surely and already, and quite the proper action,
just as I expected it on Hetherville’s part. He was
confiding enough to leave the whole affair of ar-
rangement to my dictation, with the stipulation that
there should be no delay. What do you say to
pe as much confidence in Gertrude? Let her

ake the whole onerous burden of the trousseau,
and when the Ree arrive at a state of gen-
eral satisfaction, Erle and yourself can settle the
i re of naming the day. What might
be assumed as undue haste in another case will not
be in this, after your long engagement. Hetherville
claimed your permission to speak, so of course you
are quite willing to agree. A noble fellow, Ethel,
and one I shall be proud to claim as my brother-in-

“But I did not expect more than simply the un-
derstanding yet. Idon’t want to be rushed into a
matter requiring so much careful consideration.”

‘Rushed, Ethel, after six years’ standing choice?
What would vey women call taking your own time,
I wonder? There, there; you quite exhaust my

atience with you. If it were not for my respect

or Hetherville’s feelings, to say nothing of his

rights, and if my heart hadn’t been set upon your
marrying him at this time, I’d be tempted to throw
up the sponge at this late date and leave you to ma-
neuver the affair, for the mere curiosity of seeing
what turn it would take to the end,”’

His voice carried a nearer approach to fretfulness
init than Howard Richland’s general contentment
often expressed. ‘‘ After all, it might be the surest
means oO bringing a qr result. Why not throw
the matter of a little time on the best side of the
scale, I should like iow???

‘The matter of a le time,” Ethel echoed, in her
mind, drearily. ‘It is no more than that, indeed,
so why should I hesitate for the matter of a little
time?. And how selfish to grieve Howard, who has
been both father and brother to me!”

She ed over the space between and touched
her quiet lips to his forehead.

+ “Tam willing to trust everything to you, Howard.
Forgive me for having seemed irresolute; you shall
not find me so again, with two such steadfast ex-
anaes in Erle and yourself,”

She was gone at that, before he had time to reply
aword. She paused at Mrs. Richland’s door in pass-
ing, but all seemed still and dark there, and she was
turning away in the direction of her own chamber,
when a thread of light still further on caught her

os She moved toward it, her light footstep lost on

the thick carpeting of the passage. The thread-like
gleam came from the crevice of Wilma’s door, but
with her silent touch pushing it ajar, it was not

Wilma awake there as she had expected to find.

Seeing only the back of the tall, graceful form

standing with a little shaded night-lamp dispensing a

softened glow upon the sleeper’s face, Ethel drew

back and turned away.

0 eee.
Mrs. Richland broached the subject to Ethel that |

“T never knew you |

“Like Gertrude,” she thought; ‘‘ always interested
in the comfort of others.”

so lightly had she caught a view of the hidden face,
the features locked in their usual marble-like repose,

with an absorbed fascination on that unconscious
head upon the pillow,

there, seeming the frozen symbolic statue of that
pride which the world both worshiped and decried,
mocked by those burning, passionful eyes. The lips
of the sleeper parted with a smile, and the woman's
hand closed tightly over her heart, as if some sharp
| agony was tearing there, and she turned away, but
with the firm line of her own mouth blanched to a
dead whiteness.

 

CHAPTER IX.
THE LIBRARY.

Tue Richland library epperenny, ossessed a
peculiar fascination for Erle Hetherville after this
time. He grew to a habit of dropping in there at
odd hours of the day, and before many days had
passed was well conversant not so much with the

ledge of what other members of the household
visited that treasury of literature with any regular
Hegeeney for. i

The symptoms of the relapse which Miss Erle had
COOH apy ates wore Off during the night, and
Mr. Erle Hetherville made his appearance in the
breakfast-room next morning a little thinner and a

giant, in morning undress, whose eyes went over the
arrangements the room with a swift, searching
lance.
z His aunt was there discussing general philanthro-
py with Mr. Richland, the stiff black silk of her
hariood wear exchanged for a soft, neutral cash-
mere of the morning. _ Hthel, who would have looked
more like a ghost of herself than the bri cht, fair
‘pelle of two seasons but for the rose-pink of her

Mrs. Richland looking as she always did, a strikingly
statuesque face and form, appeared simultaneously
with himself by the opposite doorway. If he had
entertained an expectation of seeing the slender
little figure and elfin face that had lingered with
such strange persistency in his thoughts he was not
destined to be gratified.

“You must let us do the honors for you, Miss
Erle,” said Mrs, Richland during the breakfast hour,
“now that you are released_trom your faithful at-
tendance in the sick-room, Iam quite at your ser-
vice, and I think Mr. Hetherville may be safely
trusted to the liberty of the house during the day.
No fear of a relapse now, I imagine.”

‘By all means, aunt Erle, provide yourself with a
full complement of tracts and bitter pills, quiet little
purses, and big bundles and papers of sugar-plums,
and new installments of fresh logic, for those nu-
merous dependents of yours up among the West-
moreland hills. If I'm to give you a safe-conduct
back into that benighted region, I stipulate to be
fortified with the whole array of introductory arti-
cles needed to gain any sort of recognition from
those calculating lambs of your village flock.”

“You incorrigible Erle! Because all my efforts
for the bettered condition, moral and physical, of
my poor people are not immediately recognized, it
is no proof that the case will always stand so; and,
indeed, generally speaking, they are most grateful
for my endeavors,”

“Big bundles and little purses and See Bae,
inserted Erle. ‘Small favors thankfully received,
and larger ones in proportion. I must commission
you with my mite, all in the way of sugar-plums,

owever.”’

ville growing melancholy in his seclusion,” said Mr.
Richland, with a complacent glance across at his
sister and very satisfied good-nature beaming in his
smooth, florid face. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, Miss
Erle, if you were petitioned to bear a hand in other
commissions, shopping excursions and the like, af-
ter we persuade you to remain on here until a cer-
tain happy event has been consummated. West-
moreland and your poor people must spare you
until after the holidays, I’m thinking. Has this
hopeful nephew of yours imparted the secret of the
understanding arrived at during our interview of
yesterday?”

Until after the holidays! Ethel caught her breath
with an upward glance, quickly dropped again. So
soon, so very soon! Even Erle was surprised al-
most to expression. He had stipulated for no delay,
and had entertained some vague thought of etnly
spring and a voyage across the ocean, with the
honeymoon passed in South France and Italy.

“Not told you? Is it possible? Ethel, my dear,
no need of that shy reserve. It is ail in the family
among us here. Gertrude and I have quite agreed
in relieving you of all responsibility, so that all you
two young people are expected to do is simply to
amuse yourselves in any way you like, and avoid
becoming too much absorbed in each other. Com-
ing back to you, Miss Erle—we all hold ourselves of
second importance—you surely will not contemplate
eae us now?”

But Miss Erle, wavering for a moment between
her own delight and her sense of ences duty, de-
cided conscientiously in favor of the latter.

“T could not be of use here,’’ she said, “and I
would be lost at advisi for a wedding. I am
wanted at home, missed I am sure, now; why, I
haven’t been out of Westmoreland for two consecu-
tive weeks for the last ten years. Just as soon as
Erle is fit to travel he shall go back with me, I'll
not insist on keeping him very long, my dear, and
T'll come down to the wedding with more happiness
than I can express.” With that she kissed Ethel
tenderly, with a smiling assertion that she was the
only young lady in the whole circle of her acquaint-
ance quite good enough for her own dear boy. The
dear boy sauntered around the table to receive his
share of the caresses, and stood with his hand on
the back of Ethel’s chair, chatting gayly until the
little breakfast party broke up, its members dispers-
ing in their own various directions.

 

but with all the intensity of a strong consuming |
emotion concentrated in the wide eyes, dwelling |

THE, INHERITANCE. OF HATE.

 

li was three hours later in the day, and_the car-

| Triage containing Mrs. Richland and Miss Erl. had

She would searcely have passed the little incident |

“Does my heart lie, or have I gone mad in all |
reality?’ was the wild thought in the soul of this |
proud, emotionless woman of society, as she stood |

rows upon rows of volumes lining the walls as know- |

little paler for his illness, a handsome, blonde young |

trailing ‘wrapper which reflected a color to her quiet _
face, gazed out upon the still, silent atmosphere j and |

rolled away from the door, when, in his restless
wandering from place to place, he let himself un-
ceremoniously into the library.

Those well-ordered doors with exemplary hinges

were surely a great institution in the mansion. Erle
Hetherville was more than ever inclined to bestow a
silent benediction, upon them as he stood, unseen,
looking in at the two occupants of the room,
' Ethel lay back in the great chair now, her fair
hands holding some scrap of needlework dropped
into her lap, her soft, hazel eyes fixed upon her
companion. The latter was in a window-seat, with
an open book in her hands. She turned a leaf, read-
ing:

“ Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null—’”
and glanced up with a deprecatory little motion.

“7 don’t like it,” she said, with simple candor,

*“ And neither do I like it, Wilma. Women are not:
created so feelingless as the poet would have us.
think. You may leave ‘Maud’ and read something
else if you like.

But the reading was not immediately resumed.
As if his proximity affected her as she had vividly
impressed him with her sweet, shy timidity, her un-
affected, child-like grace, her trusting, innocent
candor and the reflection of the sadness and_loneli-
ness which had shadow ed her life heretofore, Wilma’s
fine sense had detected his piesence. Ethel, follow-
ing the direction the dark eyes had taken, saw him
standing there.

“Comein,”’ she said. ‘‘ No, don’t stir, Wilma; Mr.
Hetherville can accommodate himself on the sofa
here without interfering with your light. Miss
Wilde, Mr. Hetherville!—you two are strangers, I

resume, though you should not be, with almost a
forti ight since you have both been inmates of the
house. I hope that you understand you are admit-
ted here on sufferance oniy, Erle; this is our course
of regular discipline of late. Wilma reads to me or
‘with me in the mornings, and I play. rad for
her when the time comes for her music or marug e
lessons. Then I teagh: her a little of my wonderful
proficiency in drawing—by the way, did you know
that I sketch? {t’s one of my accomplishments
taken up since our ‘childhood days together.’ I'll
give you convincing proof of the fact presently,
And in return Wilma does wonderful lace embroi-
dery, and ie up all my fallen stitches so unob-
trusively that I have been actually deluding myself
into the belief of late that Iam oue of the most ex-
onlay of careful mortals.”

. Hetherville, bowing his acknowledgment to
one SS RACE: sunk lazily into the place indi-
cated, .

“On sufferance though it may be, I assure you I
would suffer any penalty rather than deprive my-
self willingly of so much unexpected pleasure.
Don’t let me, I beg of you, interfere with the usual
exercise, and, indeed, you quite charm me with the

| description of that mutually beneficial companion-

‘* And, meantime, don’t have any fear of Hether- |

 

|

ship.”

Both were thankful now for that open discussion
of the breakfast time, which divested this encounter
of the embarrassment each must have felt had it
been otherwise.

“TI don’t mean that you shall interrupt,” Ethel
averred. ‘In that case, however, you are entitled
to an equal privilege. I dare say you came in here
to enjoy a cigar, and I shall certainly insist upon the
indulgence,”

‘“ With thanks for the permission, then. What an
extremely sensible young lady! Did you really
chance to know there isn’t a more cflicient way of
silencing any of us masculine bipeds than by ac-
cording such a liberty? Truth, assure you. If Miss
Wilde will favor us with anything she likes from
the poet laureate, I'll be happy to respond in the
same way myself presently.”

The Teeding was resumed, and Erle, blowing fan-
tastic wreathing clouds about his head, watched
them rise and fall, take form and melt away, while
he listened to the clear, vibrant, expressive voice
rendering the full sentiment of all that was to be
conveyed. Watching the changing face between
whiles and with all his own indolent sense of con-
tentment come suddenly back to him.

“Tt never occurred to me before this to wonder
what she may be in the household,” he thought.
“*Miss Wilma’ of last night, 1 remember—Wilma
Wilde. Odd little name, harmonizing admirabl
with the odd little creature she seems to be. felf-
possessed under all her shy reserve, fine-featured
and. slender-handed and musical-voiced, Wilma
Wilde, whatever she may be, is no less a lady than
my own unmistakably high-bred fiancee.”

tt was the pleasantest of hours that ever flew on
incredibly swift wings. Erle redeemed himself of
his voluntary promise by relieving her presently;
and at last, when Wilma went away to oversee the
arrangement of their lunch, recalled Ethel’s laugh-
ing reference to her sketches.

‘T shall surely pass the keenest of critical judg-
meat,” he said, walking across to the little ckete
portfolio where it lay upon a neighboring table.
‘Tremble for the result if you care.”

He turned the leaves with amusing comments, and
Ethel spared them perhaps half her attention from
the work she had taken up again, caring little
enough for the really meritorious efforts to bear his
light raillery with perfect indifference. His own af-
fectation of ludicrous criticism changed suddenly to
an involuntary low whistle as he tank up one of the
later pages. Glancing up, she saw what he held
with a vivid return of the color to her cheeks, a little
mirthful smile breaking over her Lps. It was the
cartoon of a youth, with the faintest trace of a mus-
tache over his mouth, on his knees by the side of a
short-skirted, simpering little miss—the very evident
burlesque of a first love confession, But the hu-
morous resemblance, the surroundings faithfully
executed, came up before him as something differ-
ent from burlesque; as very well remembered en-
thusiastic reality in fact, and a flush of annoyance
rose to his forehead. No man cares to know that
his own earnest feeling, even when changed by the
remote distance to a ’s folly, has furnished
amusement to any other. e slight annoyance was
very quickly passed, however, and he met her eyes
with a comical expression.

“T dare say you areright. It was a rather ludi-
crous affair as seen from our standpoint now,” and
folding the offending leaf, took calm possession of

,

 

 
,

 

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

 

it. ‘A warning that I shall not fail in asserting my | Lenoir’s frank laugh had not a measure of appre-

lawful degree of authority when the proper time |

comes.” i

“And be overruled by submission, That is the

way it is done, I believe.”

they had passed into an easy reco;
their old familiar terms, and with no further refer-
ence to the future in which they were mutually in-
volved, oe for the time the disquiet which had
separately haunted both.

‘Bthel uttered an exclamation of surprise as she
lanced at the little gold watch at her belt, while
hey were lingering yet over the lunch-table as the

bell rung a sharp, unmistakable business summons.
$ ae music-teacher, Wilma.
one

The music-lesson was over, and the excitable little

French professor gone again. Wilma was above
stairs now in Ethel’s company still, and in Ethel’s
room, her deft fingers looping up Ethél’s sea-green
dinner-dress with knots of rose-ribbon, when a
tremulous sigh escaping her lips drew the other's
observation. Ethel was capes tenderly consider-
ee) especially soto this heretofore neglected young

girl. ‘
“You are not wabeeny here, I hope, Wilma?”
Wilma’s smile would have been answer enough

despite the tears standing in the big, soft dark

eyes.
wf Lola I am so wonderfully. thankfully

PP , Miss Ethel, that it seemed so much jo
col n't be intended to last forme. So much kind-
ness from every one in the house, I don’t know how
I have ever deserved or can repay it.”

“Dear child, if ever unassuming worth deserved.
yours is well deserving. There’s not oneof us coul
afford to lose you now.”

Happy, happy change indeed from the loveless,
lonely life of so few weeks ago! It was no new
thing for Wilma’s eyes to be suffused with grateful
tears, or for her full heart to swell almost beyond
containing her present joy.

There were a number of callers that evening
Lenoir and Crayton among them. The former ha
been at the house almost daily during Hetherville’s
first precarious week of illness, and he expressed his
pleasure now in warm terms at his recovery, very
much re than had been even hoped. Crayton,
one of those true Bohemians who are at home in
any society, who know everybody, and whose im-
measurable impudence is counterbalanced by real
ee of a certain sort, put himself forw: with

sublime unconcern.

“My dear Hetherville, take my
along with the rest. I didn’t trouble
when you weren’t in a state to appreciate the atten-
tion, but I'll promise to make up the omission when

ou get back to those old jovial bachelor quarters—

congratulation

f you ever do get back, I an I ought to add. |

ata windpipe you must be the lucky possessor
of to come out so little the worse from the close em-
brace it got the other night. Isuppose you saw the
account of the affair.
in as many different ways, and I threw in sensation-
al head-lines by the half-column. What a blessing
those head-lines are, by the way! Saves us poor
devils of pen-scratchers many a long, close column,
and is a deuce more inspiring to the eye. And, by
the way, I put forward a hypothesis—not in print
out of consideration for Lenoir there. I am quite
convinced, since striking it, that my proper sphere
in life should have been in the detective corps rather
than on the editorial staff!” Mr. Crayton was a lit-
tle given to enlarging upon his own merits, and mag-
nifying the importance of his own position when
outside the office.

ei oe my word, I wish you were in tho corps if
that fact would return my missing valuables. “Pray
how would you trap the slippery rogues, Mr. Cray-
ton?

“My dear fellow I would quite slip over all slip-
pery rogues. Take the casein abstract now. Two
young men are walking home through the streets.
One turns off and leaves the other standing under
the glare of a street-light. The first kills the echo
of his footstep as he goes, is lost in the darkness,
darts around the first corner afterward, down one
alley and up another one, and comes out breathless
halt: a square ahead. There’s time enough to re-
cover breath, however, and—the remainder can be
better imagined than described. Rather a remarka-
ble hypothesis, is it not?”

Erle’s eyes opened wide with ng, ee surprise.

“Remarkable, I should say, Mr. Crayton. hope
you have overlooked the fact that a breath of that
sort ‘ht affect Mr. Lenoir ae Le gree te I
sincerely hope you have not referred to your hy-

thesis as a possibility?”

“Outside, certainly not. I have quite too much
consideration for Justin as I just now remarked.
But why not between ourselves?”

“Why, Mr. Crayton, I would as soon suspect any
one—you for instance as Lenoir.”

“ And with the same facts to point the ease so you
might,”’ responded Crayton, coolly. ‘‘’Pon honor,
with only that much incentive I’d'throttle any man
+ 250 HET to rid myself of a reported successful

eel

He nodded familiarly toward Lenoir and Ethel, at
quite the opposite end of the long room, Lenoir with
his elbow on some convenient support, leaning to-
ward her and talking animatedly, Ethel with her
face raised, listening intently with a rapt ex-
pression—such an expression as he had never been
the means of calling there.

“And she caricatures my love making,” he
thought. ‘She even avoids words apart with me. It
looks—it certainly does look—” Earle Hetherville’s
brows contracted ever so slightly. Something more
than twenty-four. hours previous 10 this he had
wished almost for some disturbance of the too
smooth course their love had taken. With what
might have been the slightest foreshadowing of a
storm ahead, he had a grieved sense of injury astir
in an instant. He was immeasurably vexed at him-
self, and more than immeasurably vexed at Cray-
ton when Lenoir came back to join them a few mo-
a a z

‘‘T’'ve been demonstrating my hypothesis to Heth-
erville,”’ said the imperturbable: jerbrven.° the same
I explained to you as we came down. Oddly enough
he turns your advocate on the second.”

myself to call |

ur three locals dished it up |

How the day has | ble references and illustrative cases. 3
No, Erle, in pity to this child’s timidity, | really good public library is a blemish upon the fair

must excuse you from further attendance upon |
us

hension in it. .

“T trust to Mr. Hetherville’s better estimation to
exonerate me from all suspicion. You carry your
absurdities uncomfortably close sometimes, Cray-

 

ition of | ton.”

At that Mr. Richland turned about to face the
young man. :

“What is thisI hear of you, Lenoir? That you
aren’t content grinding out your brains on a daily
newspaper, but you must go to grinding them closer
| over some abstruse work on domestic economy?
How do you get along with it?”

= Slowly, Iam sorry to say. Iam in need of relia-
The lack of a

 

record of our Semmes: as ,
‘Suppose you should try a private library then—
mine for instance. I’ve an idea you may find almost
anything there; Ihad it well filled in by a connois-
seur last year. T’ll be happy to place it at your free
disposal.”

 

CHAPTER X.
ONLY A TOUCH,

‘*Can you tell me where Mr. Hetherville is, Cicely?
Or if you would find him and ask him to step here
fora moment.” Miss Erle looked a little flushed
and es annoyed. There was a clear protest in
the quivering ribbons of her Bent little headdress, an
indignant rustle of the stiff black silk, as she smoothed
down its folds with a nervously impatient hand. She
had gone down the stairs with a letter in her hand,
on the look-out for Erle to post it. But Erle was no-
where visible, and in the round she had taken she
had a glimpse of another view, which gave the excel-

a

| lent old lady’s rather variable temper a dissatisfied

turn, The glimpse of a very simple little view at that.
Justin Lenoir, who had availed himself of the invi-
tation given by Mr. Richland, and come unceremo-
niously to the house these mornings, delving deep
into the invaluable mine of information the li-
brary afforded him, full two hours later than his
usual time this day, had surprised Ethel alone in
the room. :

“T havn’t five minutes for my pleasant work
here,” he said. ‘I hope to have one uninterrupted
evening, this one, and came for a book of statistics
I find myself needing. What an unfailing resource
you have here!”

‘It is my favorite resort of the entire house. You
may see evidences of our habit of frequenting it
every day.”

She glanced around at the table strewn with books
and magazines with a little basket of flosses and
lace foundation, tin ld thimble, dainty needle-
book and bright steel scissors, on a corner, vases on
the mantle and window-brackets where fresh-cut
flowers were odorously bright, the soft glow of
burning coals behind the burnished bars of the grate,
the cosiest of home rooms where every appointment
was massive and substantial without an attempt at
display or undue ornamentation.

‘“ And this is the first time I have had the happiness
of finding you here. I shall certainly curtail my
own visits if I am the means of interfering wit.
your occupancy of the room.”

“‘T can assure you to the contrary, in all sincerity.
Your early hours insure you privacy. I had just
come in, and if there is any variation I am rather
before my usual reading hour. You are that early
bird here and gone before we idlers are roused to
‘any interest in the day.”

e secured the volume for which he had come,
but still lingered, talking in that easy, familiar fash-
ion which spanned the distance between them and
left him Sc al in her presence, how vast, how
unconquerable it was in all reality. it was probably
not wisdom for him to forget. e had had his dan-

r presented to him once and been warned against

it; he had scarcely accepted the warning kindly; he
had put it away in his mind and covered it with the
thought that if there had been a wavering weakness
before this, the chance of it even was all done with
now. Hers had been the delicate nurturing of a life
that had never known a care; his had been a strug-

le since his earliest recollection—a slow winning of

8 own way through his own merit. Could his true
democratic principle have overridden that disparity
there was another consideration to place her beyond
the reach of his wildest este as the bright,
calm stars are above the earth. She was betrothed,
so rumor said, to one who was her equal in every
respect, worthy of her as any man could be, one to-
ward whom he was drawn, too, by the strongest
one of that assimilation which may exist be-

‘ween noble, contrasting natures. Whatever temp-
tation hie have come to him, unguarded, would
surely fall powerless now, hedged in by the full
knowledge of how baseless any hope of his own
must be, and by the loyalty of friendship which
would never undermine the other’s right be it ever
so loosely held. ‘

“Tf there be a weakness in my own mind still, I
shall live it down,” he said, to himself, with a quiet
steeling of his fine features, a resolute light in his
dark eyes. ‘If I cannot conquer myself, what hope
is there that I shall conquer the course I have
marked? But I shall conquer—both.”

And Justin Lenoir absolutely believed that he was
in a fair way of doing it. Perhaps. he was—who
knows? Men of his caliber have an peepee per-
sistency of purpose, and a strong, fine fiber, a reso-
lute nerve, that will carry them unflinchingly over
the sharpest thorns of the way where their sense of
honor—is it overstrained?—bids them walk. The
possibility had not presented itself to him that the
very means he was taking to live down his own
weakness might drag her tender steps over the same
rough path. There was no egotism mingled with his
own justifiable confidence in his own powers. He
would as soon have expected fame and success to lie
at his feet without an effort of his own, as have ex-
posed great works to spring spontaneously from

nexertion, or for Fortunatus’s purse to find its way
into his possession, as for Ethel Richland, bound
to another, with the inheritance of a pride which
had whispered in the world—her world to stand her
in good stead of any more substantial inheritance—
as soon all that as to suppose she could let her
heart waver, unasked and unsought, away from the
allegiance which should have been hers.

 

Oh, conflicting prides and purposes! How they
cross each other, run counter and pierce into the

| society may find apology for being. Miss Erle

| imagine that anythin
| that Iam glad, after all, of my conclusion to yield to
| their urging and remain till the wedding is over. I

' sharp agony, and yet are stone-blind to the straight,

clear way and mellow harmony into which they
might be merged!

It was the view of those two as she saw them
through the open door communicating between
music-room and library that had so disturbed the
equanimity of Miss Erle. Hearing the manly tones
she had started in through the former, supposing
she had discovered her nephew’s whereabouts, } ut
paused short and drew back when Lenoir’s mcre
slender, straight figure and dark energetic face met
her sight, strong contrast as might be to Erle Hether-
ville, tall and broad and blonde, gee | indolent, bcld
to audacity, self-confident as a petted darling cf
ed
sharp, bright eyes of her own, not by any meers
dimmed that fine wrinkles were laced in a network
about them, or that the soft hair shaded not ccn-
cealed by the tasteful little head-dress of ribbous
and lace was snow-white and thinner than its once
luxurious growth.

; He’s just the kind of man to make mischief, if
mischief can be made between them. A meddler or
a busybody never could, but if any man could rival
Erle it would be one of that sort. There’s no pro-
bability of it, thank goodness! l’ve been nervous
since the ring was lost, and I seem to see danger
where of course there is none. Such a little time till
the wedding shall be over, itis the hight of folly to
could intervene. I believe

wouldn’t be easy in my mind away from here now.”

Miss Erle might have gone even further and
doubted if she would be easy in her mind there with
that slightly superstitious misgiving assailing her,
and her clear eyes seeing what bad escaped all tle
rest, how wonderfully alike in temperament were
her nephew and his betrothed, and recognizing,
though unwillingly, that contrasting rather than
similar natures and dispcsitions have greatest depib
of lasting fascination for each other. She went
slowly back to her own room, and finding the maid

_ there, busy over the arrangement of those soft laces

which were so inseparable from the stiff black silk
and its wearer, put her question and made her re-

| quest in one breath,

\

 

“Mr. Hetherville, ma’am? He is not in yet, I be-
lieve. He went something less than an hour ago
with Miss Wilma to the florist’s. Miss Wilma has

-wonderful taste, and Mrs. Kichland trusts her with

all the floral decorations. She'll take just a handful
of brown-looking leaves, and some bunches of grapes,
and apricots or peaches or oranges, and make, an
epergne look as though the faiiies had been at work
on it. 'They’ve gone now to select flowers for the
dinner-party.’

“With Miss Wilma! It appears to me that my
nephew finds occasion to be engaged with Miss
Wilma site frequently nowadays.” Miss Erle’s
continued annoyance led her into that indiscretion
which at any other time she would have been loudest

| to condemn, encouraging the light gossip of a hire-

ling. It was very kindly gossip as compared to the
usual order of servants’ observations, but not of a
sort calculated to act as balm to Miss Erle’s spirit of
apprehension.

“Oh, dear, yes! Mr. Hetherville seems very fond
of Miss Wilma, and no wonder; everybody is fond of
her, You have seen how they have taken to making
7 one of the family of her. It wasn’t so for the

rst fortnight after she came. I think Mrs, Richland
supposed that the master might object, for she made
much of her in her quiet way even then. But,
bless you, ma’am, he no sooner takes to noticing
her a little, and she falls into the way of going down
mornings before the rest and reading the paper to
him, and having his slippers ready of evenings, than
he says to the mistress—‘* Why don’t you have your
little Mere come down among us, sometimes?
Poor child! she doesn’t look to have been so indulged
before this, but she might be able to bear some
mark of consideration from all of us.’ Miss Ethel
seemed to fall in love with her at first sight, and it’s

more shame I say to any one that isn’t taken with
her gentle ways.”
Miss Erle closed_her lips grimly. She had not

been amiss in kindliness to fhe rl herself before
this, had “been taken,” as Cicely expressed it, by
the gentle, winning manner which charmed. all, but
it did not at all accord with her present frame of
mind that there should be no exception to the rule of
a a a pee of Wilma‘s praises. She.
did not at all advocate the theory of love at tt,
and rather than find any fault with her pr ive
niece-at-law was quite prepared to shift the burden
of her present uneasiness upon Wilma’s shoulders.

“Was it your letter you were wanting mailed,
ma’am?” Cicely asked, folding away the last. of the
laces. “I can ask Wilma Thompson to put it ‘in
the box if you wish,”

“T'll not trouble William Thompson,” Miss Erle
answered. ‘I have changed my mind regarding the
letter. When Mr. Hetherville does come in, please
let him know [ should like to see him here.”

Miss Erle’s mind had evidently undergone a decided
change. She sat after the maid left her, looking
forward into the fire, a troubled contraction in her

by

forehead, her slim, wrinkled fingers tearing stri,
strip through letter and envelope, dropph thes
bit by bit upon the grate. She drop: 'the last
fragment presently as, after a warning , Erle let
at ye ! Sr 6 £35 i
ell, my dear aun’ ave Ibeen neglecting

own Sd lady that she greets me with suet &
solemn visage?”

He drew a chair forward and dro into it,
throwing his head back with a smile and affection-

ate glance of his bright blue eyes. :

“When will you be ready to go back with me to
Westmoreland, Erle?” she asked, abruptly,
meeting his glance. “I’ve waited away much longer
wnat) Westmorela: d? I though had

“To Westmoreland? I thought you iven up—
that you had concluded i aeakt the Rinks
invitation and remain here until after the holidays?
Ishould have tried my persuasive powers before
this had I not considered the matter settled.”

““Dve quite made up my mind that I must return
home without any further delay. It was reprehen-
sible on my part to hesitate at all. If it would suit
re ats I will order my packing done at

“But to-morrow is quite out of the question,” as-

 
 

i

40

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

 

serted Erle, knitting his brows, and looking his per-
poe full into the old lady’s face. ‘I’m promised
‘or the ball to-night, my first night out, and to-mor-

row there’s the dinner given here—you can’t rush |

away at the very eleventh hour before that. What | L
has put you in this impatience so suddenly, aunt |
| locked the desk, and cast one comprehensive glance

Erle?”

Miss Erle had no intention of explaining to him |

precisely what.

“Speak of a woman’s perverse spirit,” she
thought, “‘and then compare it with a young man
of that sort; the first shrinks into absolute insignifi-
cance. Give him a hint that I disapprove of the in-
ce he is building with Wilma Wilde, and he
would immediately conjure up the idea of injustice
done to her and set himself to comforting her
with added manifestations of his own interest!
No, it would never do to give him a hint, any
more than it willdo to leave him here to pick a
misunderstanding with Ethel, or to run the risk of
his taking any warmer liking for Wilma. I think I
can count on peeping him in Westmoreland for a
fortnight, and when he returnsjhe’ll take up his old
quarters again of course. And of course again
he’ll devote himself to his jiancee in his visits here
and with the holidays so near, and Mr. Richland
to press the time of the wedding, it will all be
brought through according to the programme.”

ss Erle pleaded imperative duty as the cause
of her recall, and no persuasions could shake her de-
termination of turning her face homeward immedi-
ately. She consented, after a little hesitancy, to re-
main for the dinner party, and the time for their
departure was fixed for the morning following.
What'sort of a crotchet has aunt Erle taken up?”
mused Erle, in his own private disappointment.
“Something, though she is so close over it. Sol
am not to escape Westmoreland and the villagers,
after all? and J am to miss the German translations
and the morning readings and the afternoon at-
tendance, from this timeout! How deucedly dreary
the bachelor lodging will seem, after this!’ and, sad
to indite Mr. Hetherville forgot to insert a clause
there felicitating himself upon the change from
bachelorhood soon to take place.

Returning from the ball, that night, in those late
or early hours verging upon the dawn, Mrs. Rich-
land found Wilma waiting for her before the bright
fire in her dressing-room.,

ee ty Sie, you?” she said, with an accent of re-
proval. ‘‘ You force me to give orders that this
offense shall not be repeat I cin not permit
you to lose t—you whose days aro given to the
comfort of all of us. This is Cicely’s duty, not

ours.”

vi .

“But Cicely has Miss Ethel to wait upon, and in-
deed—indeed—I would rather wait up for you than
not, You are so very, very kind, and I have so few
ways of thanking you, of showing how grateful I

am,

Mrs. Richland, with the red glow of the fire shim-
mering over her rich party dress, looking down into
the wistful, tender face, with eyes which might have
been looking away through the mists of long years,
so absent and rapt were they, put out her hand and
touched the girl’s hair gently.

Wilma shivered. That touch, so quiet as to be
almost imperceptible, had sent a painfully startling
thrill to electrify her veins—a thrill so intensely vi-
brating, she could not have told whether it was most
terror or delight, except that a chilling weight at her
heart seemed to point at the first.

The absent look melted out of the lady’s eyes.
She sat down before her dressing-table and began
slowly unclasping the jewels at her white, stately

at.

“Go to bed at once, Wilma,” she said, quietly.
“You may call at Miss Richland’s door, and ask

icely to come to me when she is done there.”

“Oh, dear, dear Mrs. Richland, I trust that you
are not offended with me!” cried Wilma, all in a
quiver of sorrow and remorse. ‘Indeed, I could
not help it; I would not have angered you for the
world. Oh, what have I done?”

“Dear child, you have done nothing except to
ake your own grateful little heart. But you are
not here to take my maid’s duties into yr busy
hands. I must watch that they are not overbur-
dened. Kiss me if you like, and good-night, Wil-

9
Wilma kissed the cold white cheek turned to her
and went away, only half comforted. her
dreams, that night, the same painful thrill of terror
came back upon her, and she woke suddenly in the

ling dawn, with old Matthew Gregory’s last
words to her ee ‘ain in her ears.

“You were cursed before you ever saw the light.
Yours is a dead life; if you ever pray for any thing,
gray ae you may never be the cause of a living

eal

CHAPTER XI
THE DOCTOR'S GUEST,

Dr. Craven Datuas opened his heavy eyes, and
after a moment of struggling recollection, roused
up and shook off the torpor which weighed upon
him. Daylight was beaming dully in at the uncur-
tained windows. The fire was out, and the room in
its disordered state looked cheerless and barely
grim even to his accustomed eyes. The little stand
containing the tray with the two home hf coffee cups
upon it remained as left on the previous night, and
Dr. Dallas himself had an uncomfortable sensation
of coldness and numbness, and stiffness, after pass-
ing eight hours in that dead sleep which is due to
the influence of a powerful narcotic, in his clothes,
and in his chair.

“Great Heavens!” he gasped, as the full truth
broke upon him.
such a mistake?’ He understood better when he
had shaken himself from his cramped position, and
crossed ee as might be to the doorway of the
other room. It was vacant, and the bed had not
been slept in, as he saw at aglance. His own keys,
which had been in his pocket on the previous night,
lay upon an inner table. Ofhis late patient, no sin-
iad remained, Dr. Dallas might have fancied

tthe entire occurrence had been a dream, the ac-
cident of a week before, Captain Leigh Bernham’s
sojourn beneath his roof, the defeated practice
which he had laid for last night’s experience,
vague and confused, except the handful of gold and
silver coin with which the captain had paid him.

“How is it possible that I made |

 

 

which is more dangerous than _all other ill-tempers,
simple, intense quietness. ‘* Verily, a guy to have
been so readily outwitted. Well, well, Captain Leigh
Bernham, all may not yet be over between you and

“And meantime he had taken up his keys and un-

over its contents. A silent breath of relief passed
his lips. Nothing had been disturbed. Numerous
packages, sealed and labeled, rolls of manuscript
crossed with faded tape, boxes of receipts and can-
celed notes of hand, all remained there as method-
ical, morbidly eccentric Matthew Gregory had_left
them. A single glance assured him of that. Then
he took up the little spring-closed casket, and with
a quickness which evinced that he had mastered the
secret commanding it before this, threw back the
lid. His sallow thin face in its common aspect was
stolidly inexpressive, the shifting light eyes guarded
saalnst any betrayal of himself, and now only a
blank dropped down wpe the one and a narrowing
eon coming beneath the lids of the other mani-
ested any emotion of rage or disappointment he
may have felt. The little box was empty except for
a couple of bright gold pieces upon its bottom. He
took them up shifting them from one palm to the
other, and regarding them carina
“Very conscientious of Captain Leigh Bernham,”
he mused. “Rather overstrained conscientiousness
if he had sufficient interest in the contents of this
little box to claim the ownership. But for all thata
couple of gold eagles will not repay me for the loss:
no, nor a handful, nor all youcan of your own
right bring forward, perhaps, Captain Leigh Bern-
am,”?

ham.

The restless eye lit madden upon a little object
which had been concealed within the shadow of the
desk. He had it in his fingers in a moment, a minia-
ture case he already knew which had probably been
grerned there from among the contents of the box
and afterward forgotten.

“Very kind of him to have left me this,’’ he mur-
mured, springing it open in his hands. And the re-
semblance is there just as I see it stronger every
time. I have made no mistake. I am surely on the
track which leads straight to the end. My good
friend Gregory scarcely meant to put so much
proof into my hands, that is evident. And how
much more than a fool am I to let it stip away from
me again. AndI have one more to fight now be-
fore the game is mine—one who will be no mean ad-
versary at that.”

Dr. Dallas replaced the miniature and stood look-
ing down into the open desk, his face with its pro-
minent features and scant sandy hair, short and
straight, a study of concentrated quietude. The lit-
tle case had a fascination for him, and he opened it
again after a time, studying the boyish face repre-
sented there, smooth and fine featured as a girl’s,
dark, defiant, laughing eyes as pictured there, anda
smiling mouth drooping a little at the corners—a
face in which Dr. Dallas, studying it closely, traced
line by line the resemblance he had marked be=
fore—a resemblance to his ward, Wilma Wilde.

“Upon my soul, I gain a greater sense of the im-

ortance of the kindly service that my good friend

atthew Gregory rendered me, with every day that
asses,’ he thought as he shut away the pictured
Face again and locked the little desk. ‘‘ And this re-
minds me it is quite time I pay some attention to
my little protege ; I’ve neglec her with the later
charge on hand, I’m afraid, And she has. not
seemed fond of me, which is a pity. a very great
pity, considering the advantage her icin aight be.
‘I puc in an appearance soon as the fashionable
morning, which would have been old Matthew
Gregory’s afternoon, comes around. Think of as-
similating Matthew aoe with any element of
our fashionable world—ha, ha!”

Whatever Dr. Dallas’s idea in connecting the two—
the old man six feet under ground in that damp,
dark, overcrowded churchyard, and the bright, gay,
giddy whirl of the fashionable world, he enjoyed his
own whim of linking them with apparent relish.

He remained good as his word and was ushered
into the drawing-room of the Richland mansion dur-
ing the day. He sent up his card to Mrs, Richland
with a verbal request for an interview with his
ward. '
“You had better go down at once, my dear,” said
Mrs. Richland, putting out her hand for the book
which Wilma had been reading aloud. The latter
went slowly; a little of the old shadow came back
upon her; the association of her new guardian in
her mind was like the chill of the old piace brought
close to her. He had not gone amiss in his supposi-
tion that Wilma was not very fond of him. She
dreaded and disliked him nearly as her confiding,
affectionate nature permitted her to dread and dis-
like any one. It had been a bitter uct to her gen-
tle heart that Matthew Gregory, harsh, cruel, and
cold, had never given her one glance or word of en-
couragement, never relaxed one line of his severity;
but harsh and cruel, and cold, she could cherish his
ne with less of a thrilling terror than she could
meet the smooth smile of Dr. Dallas, the cold,
clammy, lingering touch of his hand. ere was
that in his nature from which her fine sensibilities
shrunk, that in his share: shifting gray eyes that
impelled her always with the desire to hide away
from his sight. She went into his presence now
with her inward reluctance concealed under her
quiet manner, reserved in spite of herself; went
with a resolntion to conquer such unreasoni.
aversion, and felt it strengthen instead under his
profuse greeting.

“And how much improved the dear little girl is
looking,”’ he said, after she had taken the seat he
had placed for her. ‘Wonderfully improved. Get-
ting more color and growing rounder, and looking
happier. Upon my word, growing handsomer than
T ever anticipated, and my expectations in that re-
gard were never yery moderate. And you are happy

ere, Wilma—quite ape

“T am very happy, and very grateful indeed, sir.”

“So, 803 appy and grateful. And they are all
nee you? . Richland now I dare say is very

nd?

“They are all very kind, Mr. and Mrs, Richland
and Miss Ethel—all.”

“You wouldn’t like to RO back to the old house, I
presume? And you can’t imagine how much we
miss you there, and how Mrs. Gerrit keeps such re-

Pruly, a go!” said Dr. Dallas in that ill-temper | minders of you before our eyes that it seems you

 

 

must come gliding in as I’ve seen you half a hundred
times.” '

She glanced up in a startled way but did not speak,
He was her guardian still, she was thinking. He had
the right to remove her from all this brightness and
warmth and sympathy, which had been such nour-
ishing elements to the chilled, starved life she had
brought here. Would he doso? Had her joy indeed
been too perfect to be lasting?

“Yes, you must be very happy,” he continued,
his keen, shifting eyes keeping their almost con-
stant watch upon her face, yet comprehending as
wellall the perfect details of the room. ‘And it’s
natural you should be grateful for the kindness
which has given you a place in such a handsome
epee as aaa eBhied

‘It is the place they have so generousl; iven me
in Spee sian for which I am most Desteca Dr.
as.’

“Ah, of course! And if some one should give you
@ permanent place in such a house, and a permanent
hold upon such affections, you would take the kind-
ness thankfully. If some one loved you s0 very
dearly that he would consult your welfare before
his own present wishes, and if he would push your
interests as though they were his own, and if he
should discover something which should add very
greatly to those same interests, you would be happy
and thankful and loving in return, would you not?
Yes, I am sure of it.”

The same chill which his presence carried struck
her through the medium of his voice now.

“Tam very grateful, Dr. Dallas,” she said, quietly,
“if it is any inconvenience to you in permitting me
to remain here.”

“Tt isa sacrifice, my dear, a great sacrifice, but
only of my selfish desires. And what was it I said
of your right a moment ago? Oh, yes; what a re-
markable and fortunate change it would be, if some
one should discover that you really have the right
toa place in such a stately house as this, toa nat-
ural degree of kindred affection from such con-
siderate, gentle hearts as you have found here.
A great change, would it not be?”

ilma, puzzled at his strange manner, under the
fire of those light, restless, insincere eyes, had a
little part of her wonder dissolve as it came to her
suddenly that he was talking to but not at her.

‘“« Wilma has found her right to such a place, Dr.
Dallas,” said Mrs. Richland’slow, clear, sweet tones,
as she came forward. ‘She has won it very fairly
by_her own irresistible method.”

The doctor’s light orbs turned in apparent sur-
rawe to meet the lady’s dark steady ones, and the

octor’s smooth tones insinuated his gratification at
the affectionate reception his ward had found in the
household; but, presently, the doctor drifted out of
the light commonplaces with which he kept the con-
versation going for a few moments, in spite of
sto oanne monosyllabic replies he received, and
he bowed himself out, away from those steady dark
eyes which were proof against any surprise to be re-
flected there. y

He went down the steps anda pace or two for-
ward, then turned and crossed over to where a young
man. was loitering.

“*Good-day to you, Mr. Crayton. I was sure I re-
cognized something familiar about you. And how

oes she business of the reporters’ world, these

ays?
Slow enough, Doctor. Got a patient over there,
eh?”

“Not’at all. Merely the matter of a friendly call.
You have the same privilege, I suppose.”

‘Precisely the same, I suppose,” retorted Cray-
ton, dryly. ‘“‘I fancy you and I receive about the
same degree of toleration, doctor. We have all the
cheek and they all the endurance of it. Going my

way?”
Oe this is your way. Refined and pleasant lady,
Mrs. Richland. Easy to detect the difference be-
tween high-bred culture and elevated snobbishness.”

“T daresay. Idon’t pretend to discriminate.”

“T should have given you credit for great
penetration. By the way, Mrs. Richland, nee—
whom? Can you tell me? T’ve been impressed with
something like a family resemblance since I had the
pleasure of meeting her first, but can’t succeed in
getting it placed.”

““You’ve got hold of an impression, then, that no
one else has ever succeeded in tackling. The truth
is she comes of no family, I believe. A case of pure
love; the pride and the wealth on our gentleman’s
side, the beauty and inherent grace upon the lady’s,
He married her abroad, or married her here and
took her abroad, somé say. It’s _all-sufficient that
she’s Mrs. Richland, and the nee Nobody is quietly
buried in our w pe circles.” .

“ And what it is to be conversant with the histo
of the same. Sorry to leave you so soon, but ase
ness before pleasure, you know.” ,

“What object has old Bitter-Herbs in trying to
pump me, I wonder?” mused Crayton, lounging on
alone. ‘‘ Pumping, surely as I’m an adept at the
process. Hope he’s got his trouble’s wo out of
my particular good-nature, this morning,”

CHAPTER XI.
THE EXQUISITE TOUCH OF PAIN.

A very old family indeed, my dear; two very old
families I might say. The Erlés have been known
in Westmoreland since its first settlement, and the
Hethervilles have ranked with the first families of
Maryland for a couple of centuries. Erle is the last
representative, and my dear boy is well worthy of

is race—the last of the Hethervilles and the last of
the Erles, excepting me. I think I never should
have survived the oa had he disappointed me in
his choice of a wife. He is too well aware, however,
of what degree of consideration is due to the family
dignity, as well as the fitness of the choice he has
made. I defy any one to find two more equall
matched—two more delightfully mated, when it
comes tothat. Don’t you think so, Wilma?”

Wilma’s dnay, little head was bent low over her
embroidery, and the hands manipulating the snowy
flosses were a trifle unsteady in their swift move-
ment. Miss Erle sat back in her chair, her hands
idly folded in her lap, her face placid under her soft
gray hair, the black silk at its last degree of stiff-
ness, the delicate laces especially fine and soft, look-
ing the picture of that refined old aristocracy of
which she was an unyielding advocate.

“What, Miss Erle? I didn’t even know that Mr.

 

 

 
THE-.IN

HERITANCE OF HATE.

14

 

 

Hetherville was—did you say he is engaged? I
didn’t quite catch your meaning, I believe.”

“Not know? It seemsalmost incredible. But ah!
I forgot what a little novice you are in all these mat-
ters. But it’s odd you haven't observed it from their
affectionate manner, and from the free allusions
made to it in the household. Maids are so_proverb-
ially fond of discussing their mistresses’ affairs, too,
a ee still more at your ignorance of the engage-
ment.”

“T am not in the habit of listening to the servants,
if that is what you mean, Miss Erle. I think Mrs.
Richland would not approve of it.”

“My dear, no well-bred person would approve of
it.” Miss Erle said it with as much pecans conde-
scension and as utter assurance as though she had
never yielded to any dereliction from the rule which
well-bred people should follow. Indeed, it is doubt-
ful if she had ever taken the conviction of the fact
home to herself. ‘ And you do not know how near
there is a wedding upon the tapis here, in this very
house; not know that my nephew has been en-
gaged to Miss Richland for six years past! A ro-
mantic little affair in the way of two children fall-
ing in love at first sight, and of the attachment
remaining and strengthening and being happily
sanctioned on both sides, and now so near to a final
fulfillment. It is not often that so happy a combi-
nation of circumstances exists throughout, and not
often that a marriage so perfect on both sides is
consummated at all. Hetherlands has always been
celebrated for its lovely mistresses, and the new one
who will take possession there, before long, will
carry the palm away from all her predecessors. I
have thonghs of late, how fortunate it is that you
are here, Wilma, to fill, ina measure, Ethel’s place.
It would nro a drearily lonely house, I haven’t a
doubt, to Mr. and Mrs. Richland, with her gone, but
your presence will lighten the trial to them.”

“Tam glad to know that you think so,” Wilma
answered softly. ‘‘I do wish to deserve their great
kindness to me.”

“Your sentiments do you great credit, my dear.
Indeed, I am quite sure that yor correct principle
would not permit you to overlook any duty to those
who are so deservedly attached to you. If I were
not sure that your proper place is here, I should be
happy to take you away as my own companion. I
beets to feel the need of young companionship; it
imparts the vitality we older people lack. You are
so useful and tender-hearted, just the person to tale
an interest in my poor people, and to a their af-
fections. I suppose, though, it is quite out of the
question to suggest it, even after the ecing. is
over; but perhaps, when Mrs. Richland makes her
arrangements for the summer, I might hope to bog

‘ou for a little time. That is, if you don’t object to
estmoreland and my quiet house.”

“Thank you, Miss Erle. I would not object to
either, but I hope Mrs. Richland may wish me to
main with her.”

“And there’s hardly a doubt of it. Isuppose if
there were to be any change, Ethel herself would be
petitioning for you. Constancy is such a rare ele-
ment in our young Pere nowadays that itis almost
miraculous such a long engagement should have ex-
isted without even a lover’s quarrel to mar it. The
more extraordinary that both are so popular in
society. There’s an old saying that we always re-
turn to our first love, but Erle and Etel never left
theirs. Young men are so inclined to trifle, often,
I’m. afraid, with unsophisticated little hearts that
believe in them too fully, and young ladies take to
flirtation so naturally, and coquetry, that we who
are interested have all reason to rejoice over my
dear boy and the lovely girl of his choice having
preserved the first freshness of their hearts for each
other. How industrious you are, Wilma, and what
wonderful work you do! Mrs. Richland was re-
marking only this morning what an aptitude you
possess for delicate needlework.”

With the sharp, none eyes of the old lady upon
her,, Wilma controlled the quiver which agitated her
fingers, and bent the sensitive face closer over her
work. But when Miss Erle had gone after a few
words more, the white web went down and the face
was hidden in the agitated hands.

“Oh, cruel, cruel, to have never told me,” whis-
pered the trembling lips benind their shelter. ‘‘ But
they never supposed I could be so foolish—they never
suspected I might so forget my place! They are all
so kind, and it was only kindnesss from him. It is,
as Miss Erle says—they are perfectly matched—and
I shall be happy in seeing their lapping But, oh,
Wilma—Wilma Wilde!” and that little cry of her
torn heart was like her old. pity of herself which
used to arise in her old, cloufed, loveless days.

“ Wilma, come here a moment, my dear.’

She had conquered herself, put away her pain in
remembering what a happy change had come into
her life through the generous efforts of this pleas-
ant household. She had folded away her embroid-
ery and bathed her face, and started in the direc-
tion of the music-room with an hour of practice in
her mind, when Ethel called her from the open door
of her room.

“JY want you to try your dress, Wilma. You are
to make one of our yet pathy to-day, my dear,
and I have made up my mind that yous appear
in something besides iced usual blacks, I have had
Cicely altering one of my muslins, and I think she
has got it to about the proper dimensions.”

“But, oh, Miss Ethel—”

“Tf it was mourning for any relative I would not
insist. Although you have said so little, I am sure
your late guardian could not have cared for you as
we do now, so of course it is your duty to make |
yourself bright for us. You are always that in spirit,
and we will make the dress harmonize for once.” '

“Tt was not that. But to go down when stranger
guésts are here, if you please I would rather not.

“*Tt will be a new experience, and one with which
you must familiarize yourself. Howard quite con-
siders himself in the lizht of your guardian, if only a
nominal one, and the protege of Banker Richland
must be supplied with suitable advantages, a sight
of the people with whom she will mingle some day,
as Wellas music and languages and other accom-
plishments. And this is to but a quiet party,
after all, nothing to frighten our demure little
mousie. I was right in laying out the muslin,
on - is making you look like a different mor-

 

Wilma looked and saw. A slight little figure with

rounded outlines, a sweet, wistful face and deep,
large eyes, and soft, dark hair curling back from
the temples about the slender neck—the misty
snowy muslin bringing out the clear dark tints of
complexion, and a scarlet ribbon drawn through the
mee hair giving a touch of brightness to the pretty
icture.
. A lovely picture Erle Hetherville thought as his
admiring eyes rested ae her that evening. A
quiet dinner-party Ethel had said, and it was such
in reality. But a half-dozen guests outside the pres-
ent household, and two of these Wilma had already
seen—Lenoir and Crayton. The reporter was there
by the mere good luck which usually characterized
his admission to such parties.

chance reference to Lenoir had brought an invita-
tion similar to one which had been already extended
to the young journalist. The party was completed
by a couple of middle-aged savans, a young artist
whose brush had won him some fame and much
favor since he belonged to the délettanti who have
not the leaden weight of poverty to clog their aspir-
ing wings, and a threadbare, nervous little man who
seemed out of place there untif later when they were
assembled in the framneoagte and he was called to
a place at the piano, when his thin fingers drew all
the magic of rare music from the keys.

Wilma was listening to it breathlessly. She had
been a silent little form all the evening, charm-
ing one of those elderly savans by her gentle and
retiring manner, calling some enthusiasm into the
glance of the artist, though the man was never
enthusiastic. She had drawn back into a niche,
almost concealed by a marble Minerva. Her last
eo at the little groups scattered about the room

ad shown her Ethel seeming a very magnet of at-
traction with the young artist at her side, Clayton
lounging very near, and Hetherville leaning upon
the back of Miss Erle’s chair, turning his attention
where his laughing glance rested at the moment upon
his fair betrothed.

“So beautiful and so good, how he must love her,’’
Wilma thought, and if the wistful light in those dark
eyes deepened it was with no seljsh envy of the more

fortunate lot. She had drawn back and resolutely |

abstracted herself for any thought which might
cloud the bright, affectionate spirit that had won
upon all their hearts. Then the music claimed her
attention; that porinat melody which to her with
that unacknowle ged sadness was an exquisite pain.
A crash as it slid into another measure, a long sigh
Srioling over her lips, and the spell was broken for
ma,

“Decidedly fine, was it not? Monsieur Vacquot
would do well to confine his fingers exclusively to
that style of note-drawing. It seems almost without
C5eeP, on that great genius must be accompanied
by little or no worldly wisdom.”

It was Hetherville looking down upon her, his

unctilious broadcloth in close conjunction with

inerva’s fair, undraped shoulder.

“Is that the reason he looks so troubled—so—

io

“So shabbily presentable, so much struggle of
broken down gentility against open poverty, of so
much talent applied in no better way than to gain
himself admittance to same notable house on an
occasion of this sort? That is it! Monsieur Vacquot
has skimped through life on a very slender little
pittance of an annuity and a very stubborn allow-
ance of an inherited pres. He has gone into debt.
and begged of all his frlends—literally accepte
eharity—and denied himself the best comforts of
ilife with that magic at his finger-ends, which
Suebh to coin his notes into gold, or what is the same
thing in our day of paper currency. That tete-a-tete
was never intended for one person, Miss Wilma.
yen will permit!’? He did not wait for permission,

ut dropped into the unoccupied seat at her side
with the bonhomie which made even his audacity
attractive. Wilma’s heart gave a fierce throb and
bey faster, with all her resolution to control it at a
strain,

“‘Are you going to make me retract m
opinion of your ¢ ter, Wilma? I thou;
were the soul of scrupulous honor, and yet you
quite ignored the understanding which should Have
concluded Aurora Leigh this morning.”

“T was busy,’ Wilma answered. So she had been,
dear child, conquering what had seemed to be such
a sore breach of discretion, such weak, ungrateful
inig te herself.

“Wilma, you willfully avoided me ae You
are avoiding me now, at this very moment, by find-
ing more interest in the pattern’ of the carpet and
the blank of Minerva’s pedesta] than in me.‘ What
fault have you found in me that requires such pun-
ishment?”

“Tt is not my place to find fault with you, Mr.
Hetherville, And if ou please, Mrs. Richland will
be wondering where I have gone.”

“Tf it be as I please, Mrs. Richland shall not know
for a moment or two. Are you aware that I am to
make my adieux to all here to-night? Will you miss
me, Wilma? We shall never be again quite what we

ave been heretofore.” ’

She knew what that allusion must mean, and it
pave her nerve to say what she had pondered since

e sat there, what might make her own way clearer
and easier for her.

“It cannot fail to be a very bappy change to you,”’
she said, lifting the soft, dark eyes to meet his. “I
did not know, until Miss Erle told me this morning,
how soon Miss Ethel is to be lost to the rest.”

‘Miss Erle has been telling you! And what more
may Miss Erle have taken occasion to say?” There
was phe pegiontias of a frown in the broad, smooth
forehead, the inflection of impatience in his voice.

“Only that the engagement has been of such long
Sn yeara,t think—and that it was in every
way such a desirable match, and how rejoiced every
one had been over it.”

“And so aunt Erle could not leave me quite un-
biased! Wilma, Wilma! can you tell me there is
one who is not rejoiced at that prospect—one whose
single word will give me resolution to cut the whole
mesh of long years’ weaving and stand fair and true
in my own elgner?

A startled light was coming into her eyes, held by
the power of fascination by those bold blue ones,
into which a strong passion-flame had suddenly
come, The tall, bright head drooped close above
her, the rippling golden beard swept her own hair,

t you

A chance meeting |
with the banker in the eer and an apparently |

 

her hands were caught in the pressure of his white,

firm palms, and his low, intense voice was lost, under

ae of the music which filled the room, to all ears
ut hers.

“Wilma, Wilma! I love you, you, you only. Of
all women in the world you only shall ever be my
wife. Ob, my darling! hear me and help me. The
promise of two fooli h children, repen of on both

sides long before this, shall never stand between
you and me.”

The music died but swelled again. Wilma’s heart
seemed to be dying with it, so faint and dizzy she

grew.

“Tlove you, Wilma, as I never loved Ethel in those
wildest, foolish, youthful days—as I never could
have loved her had the whole earth stretched be-
tween 2e and me and all gone on as intended be-
fore. It was a grand n istake on both sides, but it is
not irremediable, and we shall both be happier that
it has been discovered not too late. A rash promise
is better broken than kept, and this one should be
if it left me the most desolate Sa men, one
whom a woman's love should never bless. Pray
heaven that I may be blessed with the sweetest of
all loves—yours.’

“Oh, Erle! Oh, Erle!’ His vehemence had sur-
prised that name from her lips. She had turned
white as the dress she wore. She was shrinking
before the burning fire of his gaze, she felt if she
could really die in that moment that her spirit would
be borne into eternity with the sweetest joy life
could have brought her not untasted, but she never
once lost, sight of her duty and his. ‘Oh, Erle! to
speak of heaven’s blessing and such a purpose in
one breath! A promise should be sacredly kept.
carefully made and never broken. Heaven pity all
if you should be really changed and she suffer
through me! You must forget that you have ever
said these words to me, as I shall forget I have ever
heard them.”

“T have not the right to ask it, but tell me only if
you love me, Wilma, if you ever can. The rest is
as fixed as fate, forl am sure of Ethel asI am of
myself.”

A little more of her self-command came back. A
little more of all Miss Erle had said to her recurred,
and knowing how her decision would affect not her
after-happiness only but that of all to whom she
owed much, that of all who had an interest ora
pride in him, she saw more clearly still what was
the only right course for her to pursue.

“You forget yourself—you forget what an impos-
sible distance would be between you and me were
you indeed nothing to Ethel. Oh, Mr. Hetherville,
don’t give me the pain of thinking that Iam to be
the cause of darkening your life, of blotting awa:
the enue which would have been yours without.
Don’t let me know that even unintentionally I have
been the cause of bringing in to them. Lam grate-
ful for your kindness, and Icould not have been any-
thing more if—if—you were sure of all you said
me just now, and if there had never been another
engagement. If you will promise me—if you have
any friendship for me you will promise that Ethel
shall never know of this.’

“Ethel should know if it was for her own sake
only, and I will not believe that any distance can be
impassable between you and me—not even this.
Ethel shall know, for my own heart’s rebellion has
taught me what is dueto her. Disaffected eyes
see clearly, and I know there is another whose single
word would be dearer to her than my whole life.
I have seen her look vp oti his face, Wilma, with a
light in her eyes which was never there when she
looked upon me. Iam not mistaken in Ethel; she
does not love me, and she will be happier with the
bond between us broken. It shall be broken as I
said before for her sake if not for mine.” -

‘But if her heart should break, oh, Mr. Hether-
ville! And it would be so easy for you to love her
even if true that youdonotnow. Menare so strong,
and I think that women must be so weak. Ethel
would never marry without loving you.”

She believed that because she thought no woman’s
heart could remain indifferent to him, and she
pleaded Ethel’s cause more eloquently for her own
weakness,

“Tf Iecome to you, Wilma, freed by Ethel’s word
—2 Ethel’s wish, with no word of my disloyalty
to influence her, will you believe then? ‘IfI put the
opinions of the world behind me; if I ask only what
will bring perfect happiness to me, and what will

jure no one in the wide world, will you believe and
trust to me then? Until then I shall not ask a breath
from your lips to assure me of hope.”

The music died wholly out, and a second’s stillness
rested upon the rooms. In the midst of it he was gone
from her side, leaving her white and shrinking and
still in the shadow of the marble Minerva, with the
light and fragrance of the room and the murmur of
voices rising again seeming like the vivid impression
of some distant picture, or like a floating scene in
which she had no interest of her own.

CHAPTER XIIl.
THE REPORTER'S SECRET.

“You are such a connoisseur in your art, Mr.
Latimer; we must have your opinion of the picture,
Mr. Richland sent homé this morning. Ethel, my
dear, you will see that Mr. Lenoir is not neglected
for a moment.”

Mrs. Richland eee ae with the young artist,
and Justin Lenior had taken the vacant place at
Ethel’s side. Crayton was a little withdrawn, turn-
ing a book of illuminated prints, morose and indif-
a Fe the moment, and wholly withdrawn into

mself.

“What ee cae Mrs. Richland has the
faculty of making hers,” remarked Lenoir. ‘I think
my sense of duty could not have been overruled by
any less temptation than an evening here. It is the
last opportunity of the kind I shall probably experi-
ence for quite a long time to come. Thanks to Mr.
Richland’s kindness I am well progressed in my
work now, and I have a new incentive to hasten its
conclusion. I ae a contemplate giving up m:

ition here with the first of the year, and accep’

another which has been tendered me, more con-
genial to my taste. The smoky city is endeared to me
by_much pleasant association, but I have not a tie to
hold me here, or to force any great regret at leaving

it. ”
?”’ she asked. She was look

““-You think of leavi
ing down, toying with the drooping ends of the gold

 

 
   
 

i
4
|

i}

 

12

and jeweled bracelet she wore. The fallen golden
hair cast a little shadow over the pure fair face.
Some wonderful blue tint and texture, rich, soft and
lustrous, of which her dress was composed, lay
about her in billowy folds; the very chain at her
round white throat, slender and plain as it looked,
would have cost three months of the rising young
journalist’s salary: the rings on her slender hands,
with their value realized, would have brought a
moderate little fortune that would have given him
the advantages of which he was stinted now. Look-
ing at her, so fair and so far removed from all as-
iration of his, nothing in Lenoir’s still face told of
he short, sharp struggle penis, him for that in-
stant, of his sos? to question the Infinite wisdom
which had so placed them, the surge of a strong de-
sire to battle over all obstacles, and wrench her
away in the face of opposing rivals and his own in-
sufficient dependence, An “impulse quickly passed.
Could he have seen into the depths of her heart,
how it was aching and quivering under a like agony
at the thought of their separation, how in her more
yielding weakness the pain of seeing him daily and
of experiencing even that greatest humiliation of
knowing that uvsought, unasked, she had let her
love waver from the one whose right it was to him
neither knowing nor caring, never to know and
never to care even if that slow, dreary pain should
linger on and eat through her life as she felt it must,
would be less than this pain of parting and of know-
ing that the way of their lives must widen never to
come close again. c
“T have the offer of a position on a New York niag-
azine, quite an advance upon the one I hold at pres-
enh Tt will be to my interest in every way to accept
i

ee

 

“Then I presume your friends here must submit
with the best grace they may, to their loss sustained,
and rejoice for your sake. Permit me to offer con-
gratulation on that much happy fortune.

“Thank you most earuestly, Miss Richland.+I will
take it as the ‘God-speed’ which I have so few
friends to offer me, I can truly say there is not_one
household in the two cities of which I shall bear
away such kindly remembrances as of this.”

“You will find new friends soon—new attachments
to blot out the older lesser ones.”

The hazel eyes were persistently downcast still,
the fingers nervous in their idle motion, the golden
head drooping more into the shadow.

“T neither make attachments nor break them
soon,” he answered, peetix. “Thave drawn outa
lonely life for myself, but a busy one. Pardon me
if I presume, Miss Richland, but the world—your
world—has not kept the secret of the enviable lot
which is tobe yours. Imay not have another op-
portunity to wish you joy. [do wish it sincerely, as
my truest friendship toward both of you demands.
Hetherville isa noble fellow, aman whom I am bet-
ter and prouder for having known; one nearly wor-
thy of you as any mancan be. From all my heart I
wish you the great happiness the tender devotion of
such a man cannot fail to bring.”

If ever Ethel had thought tremulously that Le-
noir’s dark eyes had glowed upon her with any
more than a friendly light, if ever she had thrilled
in the Rossing belief that his heart was not utterly
untouched; if ever she remembered the few quiet
summer weeks when she had known him first, and
ney had been drawn in closer intercourse than ever
in that rustic little village up among the mountains,
and found excuse for her own alien affection in the
deep enjoyment they had found there together,
Saughe and thrill and self-pardon now had the
slight base of their support crumble from beneath
them. Could he be wishing her happiness with an-
other if he had ever cared for her, wishing it so
calmly, predicting it so positively?

“He never cared,”’ her h moaned, in its bitter
free ‘““And to me so soon to be another man’s

ride, this parting is death! I would rather die my-
self, or worse than that, see him die, than to know
he could love another as I love him.

For one instant she had lifted her eyes, grown
deep and dark with a dumb, anguished reproach in
them to meet his gaze; for that instant seeing how
Gann Boned and apparently indifferent to a deeper
sentiment than he had expressed, shrunk, inwardl
with scorn of her own weakness. Then the so‘
eyes dcopped again, and the quiet, sweet voice
thrillin m under the calm he had forced mur-
mured her thanks.

“ Your high estimate of Erle is well merited. He
is also a warm friend of yours, as lam happy to_re-

rt. Was Howard speaking across to you, Mr.

oir? Some weighty area to be deferred to
our decision, no doubt. by all means and set-
tle the disputed point.”

Crayton closed the book of illustrated prints and
approached. Had either chanced to have glanced
toward him a moment before, they would have seen
his eyes fixed upon Ethel’s face with moody inten-
sity; would have seen his mouth harden, and his sal-
low face gloom over with a fierce, dark shade;
would have seen a spasm convulse it before the
usual cynical curves and stoical unconcern re-
turned.

“Ts the man blind that. such a look in her eyes
tells him nothing?’ thought the reporter. ‘Can he
not see what I see, that a word from him would
seme her to defy all the world—lose it all happily
for him? Hetherlands and its master are less to
that proud beauty’s heart to-night than Justin
Lenoir with his portion of h work and un-
certain fame before him. And if he knew it even, I
doubt if he would utter the word which would call
her to him. Somuch for that overstrained sense
which men call honor! And. that lovely crea-
ture for whom men have pined and hearts have
broken, has her retribution in like kind with
that she has inflicted. She will marry the hus-
band that others have chosen for her, and

the fairest mistress who has ever graced
stately, Hetherlands, and_ grow reconciled at last,
after a time perhaps. Lenoir will lose his dis-
appointment in the fight through life which he is
sure to win, and marry when his hair is turning
£3, and no other fields to. conquer shall leave him
reathing space to remember his own loneliness.
And long before that the reporter’s place wlll be a
blank, with no one to remember his presumption,
no one to mourn his loss—an aimless, restless Bohe-
mian gone to oblivion as a true Bohemian should,

‘giatioed up quickly, searcel

 

done to death through his own reckless folly.”

INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

The fierce sweep had passed over his face and left
it morose and still again as these thoughts went
through his mind. A changeable, inscrutable na-
ture was that the reporter’s Peasant careless as-

ect covered, a character with hidden depths and

arker phases than those who knew the surface life
only were apt to suspect. A nature which might
have been strong and steadfast and noble, a talent
which might have conquered a wider scope than
opened to him in the simple reporter’s world—a na-
ture perverted, and a talent wasted, a mind misap-
plied, the better impulses checked and the worse
passions fostered, he was that miserable being, a
man bent upon wrecking himself in the face of his
own knowledge of the consequences to surely come.
Even that phase had succeeded to his usual careless
impudence of demeanor when he stood beside Ethel

enoir moved away.

“What a pity you object to be written up, Miss
Richland. Of course you do object, and all Jenkins’s
persuasions at some future hour of ‘the night or
morning shall fail to wring the faintest hint of
a description from me. But you cannot well im-
agine what a temptation it is to resort to a flowing
pen in subscribing to your praises.” -

_ ‘Pray don’t contemplate yielding to the tempta-
tion, Mr. Crayton. Descriptive items are always de-
testable; anything closer than descriptive not per-
missible.”’

“Your wish is law. Why could not Mrs. Rich-
land have favored us all with the fine points of that

icture they have been discussing? If I haven’t a

ste for chiara oscura I have a cultivated talent for
criticism. They are coming back, I believe, Lati-
mer lost in one of his raptures, and there is Hether-
ville bie Dae from as direction. No
glimpse of Heaven but must fade before a repor-
ter’s vision !"”

“Change to the mere earth, earthy. Let me
have the pleasure of affording you a ¢g pra of the
canvas; indeed, I believe the Ferre is really fine.”

She rose up hastily. She had caught a sight of
Hetherville’s face, of the determined lines, the
bright, bold eyes resting upon her with a purpose in
them which gave her a sudden start and fright.

‘‘ What has he read in my face to bring that look
into his eyes?” she thought, in quick alarm, ‘‘He
looks as t! —— my indecision had Lei i itself,
as though he had some avenging interest in hand or
as if all loss or all gain hung in the scale of the mo-
ment. I must not—will not—cannot bear a word
from him now. It is surely enough that I shall be
true to my word and to Howard’s hopes.”’

She moved away at eeun side, and the swift
terror which had assailed her destroyed the oppor-
tunity Erle had hoped to gain of setting right this
tangle between them that neither were deceived in
believing clear and smooth. If she could only have
known what the steadfast ora in the blue bright
eyes meant! If she could only have read the per-
fect understanding, clearer than her own, which had
given him such confidence in her, such hope for him-
self! She moved away, some one else interrupted
him, and the opportunity he was seeking was not

found.

The picture hung in a side room, lighted but de-
serted, Ethel paused before it, glad of the silence,
scarcely heeding the reporter’s presence, a careless
escort to whom she was giving so little considera-
tion just then. Her only impulse had been to escape
from Erle. What she feared most, his detection of
the more than disquiet which had been swaying her,
or of his undisturbed trust and his urging of the bonds
they wore, she could not have told. Lost in con-
quering her inner self, she was not observing her
companion. He had paused in ee silent study
of the canvas; but the moody look which had been
dissipated for -a little time, was returning to his
face. He was not unobservant of her, absorbed as
he seemed.

“ Angel that she is, and with all my mad idolatry
of her, even she could not redeem my life,” he was
thinking. ‘I was born for the end which is not so
far but Iam sure of it. Selfishness is always a char-
acteristic of the lot of us, and I am selfis: Nein ia
to wish for just one expression of her sympathy, for
one instant to claim her compassion and her kind-
ness, more than any woman has ever given me yet.”

She felt the softest of touches upon her hair, and
knowing the changed

‘ace looking into hers, such a changed, despairing
yet softened face that her heart went out in pity
and half in awe of the unsuspected depth of mourn-
fulness reflected there.

“Tf you will let me tell you and not be frightened
or angry at knowing; if you will only think of mea
little more kindly than any one else has done for
many ee Ishall be happier for feeling that you
know how your gentleness and your sweetness have

ower to touch even such a callous heart as mine,

fanything could do me any good, love of you would

| show me the way; there is no escape from the wreck’

which I was born to reach since it does not. No,
don’t speak! Your eyes tell me how sorry you are;
all you could say, like everything else, would be use-
jess now. The pity which may be felt is subtler than
that which may be spoken, and it reaches me better.
God bless you! One temptation which I have had
before now I think will never come up again.”

It was that temptation grown powerful once had
led him to instill:a momentary doubt of Lenoir in
Hetherville’s mind, a doubt which his varying better
im rr caused him to dash away again in another
Instant.

That same light touch was upon Ethel’s hair, and
this time she knew his lips had caused it. More than
that, a tear trembled there, moistening her hand as
she put it up. But for that she might have ques-
tioned if she had not dreamed the rest, for yet while
her pained soft eyes were turned upon him his face
looked down upon her with its careless light glance,
= his voice had changed to its usual accompanying

one—

“Tf you are through with the chiara oscura, Miss
Richland! I leave all comment to Latimer. A happy
motto that, and the better if it were oftener re:

—' Tread not upon another’s corns;’ in other words,
leave every man alone to ride his own hobby.”

CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE WESTMORELAND HOME,
For one of the not frequent times of his entire
indolent life, Erle Hetherville was up with the sun-
rise. He was all ready for departure, furred over-

 

 

 

coat, traveling-cap, gloves half-way on, and his
cigar-case in a convenient outside pocket, as a maid-
servant feoked at the door and entered with a little
tray in her hands,

“There’s coffee served in the breakfast-room. if
tan would prefer it, Mr. Hetherville. Miss Erle is

aking a cup in her own room, and the housekeeper
sent this up to you. If you will come down to the
breakfast-room you can have oysters and an eee
and muffins or rolls and no trouble whatever, wit
plenty of time. Miss Erle hopes you'll not mind
that she's not down, and would advise you to take a
light breakfast at least, sir.’

“Very good of Miss Erle, but I fancy I can endure
a couple of hours’ ride by rail sustained by a cup of
coffee well as she. None of the family are stirring
yet, I presume?”

He pulled off one glove and took up the cup of
fragant old Java, richly creamed as he liked it, the
cup a great thin globe of china. Say what you
may, a draught is always sweeter for being daintily
served, and Erle, who, a moment before, would
have declared it’an impossibility to swallow any
thing, sipped the contents with lazy relish, looking
at the distorted reflection of himself in miniature
thrown back by the inner surface of the gold spoon.

“Not yet. That is, no one but Miss Wilma; she
came down to see that the coffee was made, and has
taken Miss Erle’s to her room now. Miss Erle will
be ready and the carriage at the door in half an
hour. Will you,have any ae more, sir?”

“Thank you, nothing.’ He put down his cup
and the girl went away with the tray. ‘‘ No wonder
my coffee was delicious,” he thought. ‘‘A half-
hour yet; well, surely something may be done in a
half-hour.”

He went down the stairs three at a time a half-
minute later, and out upon the frosty avenue where
the leafless trees rattled stiff branches and the early
sun slanted his early roseate lances. There was
elixir in the air that morning, stiff, bracing, health-
ful, and Erle squared his fine shoulders and drew in
full aspirations as he hurried along the silent
thoroughfare. Not silent forlong. Those blessings
of poor men’s travel, the street-car, rumbled near at
hand, and as he passed a corner came upon a
of gathered workmen, tin dinner-pails in hand, wit:
others hurrying from alleys and side-streets. He took
a car along with them, and stood balancing himself
upon the rear platform, glancing in at the crowded
interior and the rows of plain, intelligent faces pre-
sented there.

“Not apparently such a frightful lot to be poor
after all," he thought. ‘Upon my word, I had no
idea that ‘up in the morning early’ was such a de-
lightful maxim to id into practice. Talk of tonics
in comparison with the air, or of spirit-revivers in
the same breath witha race down to Federal street
and back again under circumstances such as these.”
The half-smile about the bearded mouth, the genial
glow in his cheeks might have confined his happy
see to a smaller scope still, might have summed
the Alpha and Omega of all his exuberance in one
word— Wilma. ;

He sprung down from the car as it turned into
Federal street and crossed to the market, jostlin
his way through the crowd of early buyers to one 0:
the numerous flower-stands lining the square. The
vender was a boy, small and spare-faced and deli-
cate-looking as any of the fragile plants over which
he hovered. The boy’s pale face brightened at sight
Cee ants 6 ders i

-morning, Oscar, my ! ou are al
your Pa already, and give Matiofdotion, } hope.”

“T hope so, sir. You're too late for the early lot
of bouquets, all sold out, and the best ones not come

aunt

“That is a pity as I have neither time to go on to
the store nor to wait here, I can trust to your selec-
tion, I su ne One of your handsomest moss-
baskets with fragrant cut flowers not so delicate as
to wither all at once—pinks and pansies and mignon-
ette and the like. Ill write the address for you—
Miss Wilma Wilde, No. — Western avenue. 1 beg
your pardon, sir, but it’s a deuce of a jam here. i

In stepping back he had jostled a’ tall, soldierly-
looking man who was loitering in an idle way about
the market and had paused at his elbow: his eyes
after one sharp, scrutinizing glance over the young
man’s form were fixed upon the flower-stand.

‘“No apology. A man gets used to rough passages
by the time he reaches forty and knocks about over
half the known globe.”

Erle, with no time to spare and a parting caution
—Don’t neglect, Oscar, and as early as may suit
your convenience ”—was off again. ~

The tall man pressed close to the little flower-ven-
der. e 4
“One of your regular customers, that?’ he in-
quired. “A gentlemanly young fellow.”

“ A customer at the house, sir. He got me my sit-
uation here only two days ago. The young lady that
I’m to take the flowers fo had been kind to me when
I had only little roots and herbs to peddle, and when
she arpa to speak to me in the street and told
him all she knew of me, he just took one good look
and asked where I might be found again. t very
day he comes back and gives me a written recom-
mendation and says he has spoken to the florist who
has the great establishment on Market street, and he
hopes I'll do my best because of the young lady who
was the means of getting me into the place.
gave me some money to make myself more respec-
table than I was then, and said he’d look out to or-
der his bouquets of me. I like the work, and it’s do-
ing me good already; T’ve been weakly-like, and

ou're right in saying he’s a gentleman, Young Mr.

ane le, his name Le n

“And your young la
No. — ‘Western avenue,” viancing at the card which
the boy had put down as he referred to his order-
book. “Pll take one of these sprigs of myrtle for
my button-hole—so! Never mindthe change. Good-
morning, my lad!”

He laid down a piece of silver and turned away
with a half-embarrassed glance down at the decora-
tion which was ap, mtly novel to his tall, muscu-
lar strength and gikierly earing.

“Enough sight better than peddling roots and
herbs and getting kicks and cuffs about the streets,”
soliloquized the pale little flower-boy. ‘‘I get more
kind words in a morning now than I had in a month
then, and blessings on the sweet young lady that’s
done it all!”

 

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THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

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Erle, walking rapidly back, reached the mansion
with the last minute of the half-hour to find his
aunt in the hall surrounded by bundles and bags and
baskets, all the paraphernalia indispensable to femi-

nine travel, the carriage at the door and a frown ;

upon her face which cleared at sight of him.

“Oh, there you are, Erle. And we haven't two
minutes to spare.
last one, and then rush off at a way fit to break your
necks, If you’ll just take some of these and give me
your arm down the steps, and—why, where’s your
valise?”

‘* All at not a minute to spare, my dear aunt,”
responded Erle, catching her up and beari her
bodily to be placed in the waiting carriage. ‘ And
all these traps—pile ’em in anyhow at all, I sup-
pose. :

He made a dash back into the the hall for some
package left, but his a lance around failed to
reveal the sweet, wistful little face of which he had
hoped to obtain a parting view. Miss Erle had taken

You men always do wait for the |

rood care of that. Her own joave-taling with Wilma |

nad been done above, and she profuse
having the other descend at all. The discovery of
Erle’s absence at the last minute gave her a thrill of
alarm, which changed to relief with his appearance

ly disclaimed

in her view. Jn her secret heart she felt that Ethel
might have een, a trifle less indifference in giv-
ing her farewell in the presence of the family after

“T’'m sure of Ethel; if I were not I would sacri-
fice myself rather than her. She will be happier in
her restoration to freedom, and, oh, dear aunt! all
the world would not weigh in the scale against my
love for Wilma.”

It was only the same form of words lovers have
used in a million cases before, but with Erle’s rapt
face before her, with his blue eyes so steadfast and
earnest, tender and grave, that she could scarcely
reconcile their change from then _ bold, laughing,
defiant, she knew that every word had its echo in
his soul. Knew how strong his determination was
under his remorse at causing her this grief; knew
that word or act of hers would never turn him from
his own decision of right. She sat down without a
word, and her silence, the cold horror stamped upon
her face yet, the shock of the Daaproiianent which
he knew was possessing her, struck him with keener
reproach than more demonstrative grief would have
done.

“You will believe that it is for the best when you
see the end,” he said, gently. ‘‘ Don’t think too
harshly of toon boy—your own boy the same as ever
if you will let him be so. And the little Wilma who,
God willing! shall be my own some day—you can't

| help loving for her own sake. If Icould take back
from without. That fear of some bitter disappoint- |
ment was making her nervous; she was cherishing ,
the possibility until it began to take a pees shape |

the other guests had departed on the preceding .
night, that she would have sacrificed no maiden re- |

serve by coming down this morning for a last part-

ing word. But, at the same time, had she found her |

nephew lingering for a farewell with Wilma she
would have most sternly resented such disloyalty as
her active fears could discover toward his betrothed.
That Erle would most willingly have exposed him-
self to the reproach was fortunately not displayed as
prima facie evidence, and Miss Erle’s ruffled equani-
mity grew calm again.

A few hours later they sat over a late breakfast in
the old Erle mansion, shut in by Westmoreland
et and overlooking the straggling Westmoreland
village.

“Home again,” sighed the lady in thankful aspira-
tion. ‘‘ It’s true as gospel, Erle:

‘Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home!’
Even Hetherlands would never have the same charm
for me that clings to every corner and crevice of the

old nest here. Home! you are eo in a fair way to
find a realization of the word. It requires home af-

* fection to give that.”

“Tm not shut off from all sense of the word, then,
my dear aunt. Really, you are right; It long-
ing] to my dear ones left at Hetherlands.”

_ at what, Erle?”

“My dear compauions, home affections, and the
like. “How poor Junius must miss me! And Jupiter
and Pluto, and Lucifer himself, I fancy. Even poor
wind-blown little Gabriel, and—”’

“Erle, what on earth!’ ‘

“ Only my dogs and my horses, and the little pet
niggers, dear old auntie. So fond of me as they all
are, upon my word it’s rather remarkable consider-
ing how particularly lazy [have managed to keep
them all.”

“You are thoroughly incorrigible on that and all
practically useful heads, Ido believe. It’s a mercy
iuere’s to be a change, and I do Bee pital may ex-
ercise her first power in setting things to rights at
Hetherlands.”

A shadow came over Erle’s face. He rose hastily,

ushing his chair back, and crossed to stand on the

road, Old-fashioned, red-tiled hearth. A wood fire
flamed in the ample throat of the chimney, and
he looked into the leaping blaze with steady, absent
eyes. His aunt followed and stood beside him, put-
ting her fair, wrinkled hand upon his sleeve.

“There, never mind the old woman’s interference
my dear boy. It’s not natural that you and I should
think alike, a spinster of three-score, and a fine
young fellow of twenty-four, the greatest contrasts
to be found in the world. Ethel will understand
what is right better than I, be sure of that. And
now I am going to see that the dear boy’s old room
is quite in order-for him. It is meee kept in
readitenss and Prudence has had fires there for a
week, according to my instructions. Do you care
to come along?” ; Z Z

‘““My dear aunt, how sorry I am to disappoint
you. Poor Prudence, too, will scarcely be persuaded
to forgive the cold shoulder I must give her atten-
come 2 The truth is, I am to return by the afternoon

rain,

Erle!” screamed his aunt, aghast,

“Tt is ne important, or you should know I would
not insist. I could not think of leaving you to make
the = alone, or the matter demanding my pre-
sence should not have been deferred to this hour.
My dear aunt, you'll never find it in your heart
to tone me, I’m afraid, but I mean to break with

ithe.

“Erle!” It was not a scream this time, but the
lowest and slowest of shocked utterances.

‘“We will both be the better off for that which it

is my duty to do. Iam confident Ethel never could
be happy with me as she may be, as it is her lot to
deserve. But I—oh! aunt Erle—can never be ha’ y
with any one, can never know any happiness after
this except with Wilma. Oh, aunt Erle! thank God
with me that we are not all made miserable by the
discovery coming too late.”
_ Miss Erle seemed turned to stone. She stood look-
ing with coldly horrified eyes upon him; her fair
wrinkled face turned hard, the soft white hair
which had shaded her forehead, and the years of
hope and pride which she had upon the fact of this
projected marriage all laid waste in a moment,
were like sharp pangs of remorse present with him,
_ “Say at least you will try to pardon me this which
is so great a disappointment to you, aunt Erle, It
is so much the best for all of us; I can’t plead for
any thing less than that. It is my worst pain seeing
you bear it so.”

‘You don’t mean it, Erle, Erle! you surely don’t
mean it. With the pride of the Hethervilles and the
Erles running in your veins you can’t intend any
thing so dishonorable, I’ve got a nightmare on me;

(I’m surely never awake injmy own senses and my !

boy telling me that!”

 

a message of your kindness to her—if I might have
the assurance you are not changed toward me!”
‘Not changed? Erle, Erle! I fear me I am so
changed I shall never know my own self again,”
And, indeed, that impenetrable ice of reserve
dropped so suddenly about her neither melted nor
moved while he remained. She was stiff and still
and silent, making no attempt to check him when
he talked to her, not saying much and to so little
purpose that he soon desisted and was simply
quietly attentive until his hour for departure came.
“One thing I ought to say, I suppose,” she re-
marked then, as he stooped to kiss her withered

cheek. ‘‘I always meant to make you my heir, Erle,
not that. you needed any thing more, but of kith
and kin of mine vou are the last. Now—”

“ Now, aunt Erle, there shall be no question of

our disposal of any thing. At least.one flaw which
has troubled me before this shall have gone from
between us. I never want any thing but the old
love back again.”

He went then more sorrowful and gloomy, and
threatened by dismal forebodings, than his happy
spirit of the morning could have deemed possible.

The ice did not break about Miss Erle even then.
Nor yet later when Prudence, the old housekeeper
and confidential manager for half her life of more

erhaps than Miss Erle’s domestic affairs, came to

er with a troubled and anxious face.

“There’s symptoms of a sickness down in the
village,” she said; “‘signs that I don’t like in the
least, ‘‘It’s come among the Biffins, that great
family of little children, smothered in two Close
rooms together. No wonder they take every dis-
ease that’s going. You'll have to get along with-
out me, Miss Erle. I’m going down there to take
the matter in hand before it gets the chance of a
sweep, and the best of us.”’

CHAPTER XV.
A RESEMBLANCE.

Erne. looked more than ever pale and distrait,
was more than ever quiet and appetiteless at the
breakfast table that same morning. Not one to wear
her heart openly upon her sleeve, this) fair petted
darling of two seasons’ favor found not her least
mortification in her own self-humiliation, With that
as an inward reproach, with her woman’s pride not
proof against defeat yet sustaining itself to all ex-
cept her own heart, this listless, silent Ethel movin;
about the rooms was not at all the embodiment o
one’s ideal belle who has reigned undisputed through
ashort triumphant term and is about to end her
brilliant course by the brilliant marriage expected of

er.
“Ethel is all i thought Mr. Richland, in one
of his complacently observant moods. ‘She feels
the difference with Erle’s absence let me warrant,
for, however little Piepanee. our xoene folks may be
to turn sentimental after the popular fashion, there’s
more of the true ring of the metal under all than she
has cared to acknowledge. A very long absence
may conquer love, but a short one is more apt to
rove it. It has all been as I foresaw; Erle’s com-
ing set the dear girl’s misgivings at rest, and by my
faith! it should require no stronger inducement than
that handsome face and perfect manliness of his to
overcome worse odds than sey. a girl’s shy hesi-
tation and distrust of herself. is coming was none
too soon, as even I can see; this society life is be-
pinning to tell on her with arather startling effect.
‘Shall certainly advise a Jong season of travel and
sight-seeing before they return to it. Gaslight and
hot air and late hours will ruin any woman’s looks, I
suppose, if persisted in, though Gertrude stands
them admirably. But then Gertrude is incompara-
ble among women.” ;

His complacent reflections were very comforting
to Mr. Richland. The world, always disposed to
treat him kindly, had for so long a time n his
humble devotee that he quite overlooked the proba-
bility of any different phase ever being presented to
him. His own comfort had been so well assured
that it was quite out of all reason to contemplate
any worse disaster than the small daily annoyances
which are the gnats to buzz in the faces of the best
and the greatest. His old unyielding pride and his
individual satisfaction were both to receive a prop
through the consummation of this alliance in every
way so well calculated to gratify all concerned,

Ethel, reading all this in his kindly face, was

jierced more deeply yet by that rambling pain with-
fr as she steeled herself closer still to her own reso-
ish to her own heart, come bitter
humiliation and lasting concealed rebellious senti-
ment, she would not disappoint Howard, she would
keep faith with Erle Hetherville in all except her
hidden inner heart. ‘

But oh, Ethel, Ethel! Had Justin Lenoir’s deep
earnest eyes looked into yours, had his lips forme
the word and his voice said it ever so softly—
“Come,’’ what then of the firm will to override all
temptation? Is ever any resolution to be trusted,
which has no depth of heart for its foundation? Yet
with all the knowledge that should be ours the same

ame of cross-purposes goes on daily and hourly, and
least often with the fair, happy termination of set-

ting all straight,

lution, Come a

 

It was after ten when the pale little flower-vender
made his seen “For Miss Wilde,” and the
fragrant package carefully inclosed was given into
Wilma’s hands. She knew in a moment from whom
it came while her fingers were nea busy with the sil-
ver paper enfolding it, before the little card with her
address in Erle’s writing assured her beyond a doubt.,
And conscientious little Wilma, her heart swelling
with the proof of his tender remembrance, dropping
her face over the fragrant mass for the briefest
space, only drew away with the quick contraction
which was a certain sign of troubled feeling appear-
ing in her forehead, 2

‘I have no right to receive them,”’ she was think-
ing. “I would not—oh! for all the world, I would
not be the cause of bringing sorrow to Miss Ethel.
I was wrong without knowing at the first; now that
I know, I must do all I can to put the wrong right.
But oh! you darlings! And he sent you to me. il-
zee Wilma! remember they should have come to

er.”?

And thus bringing herself toa reminder of her
own strict sense of duty, Wilma detached the little
eard, and, taking the moist moss basket with its bur-
den of bloom, went up to Ethel’s room.

$s isos Mr. Hetherville,” she said, as she placed it

uietly.

a Aud for once Mr, Hetherville has made an error
of taste, lam afraid,” Ethel remarked, glancing at
it, in nowise aroused from her listless indifference.
“Thave heard him say that the proper way is to
choose flowers in character with their recipient.
White roses and japonicas and calla lilies have char-
acterized his choice for me before this, and I con-
fess to rather disapproving of the change.’ Her
white hand went carelessly over the mass, great
loving-eyed pansies, sweet spice-pinks, blush rose-
buds and modest mignonette, but turned away with-
out removing one. ‘‘You miay have them if. you
like, Wilma. In fact, Erle’s theory would suit them
to you far the best, and their greenhouse fragrance
gives me a headache,”

A heartache more likely, as a reminder of how
the “eternal fitness of things” was being marked
in the case of them two.

Wilma took them away, that tremulous happi-
ness at_her heart as she thought what a delicate,
far-reaching sympathy it was to distinguish itself so
unmistakably.

“Surely I may keep them now,” she thought,
% ne, as coming from him but as Miss Ethel’s

ift.

F tieao was another ring at the bell  etaetirer and
Mr. Crayton was shown into the ys ior where the
ladies had gathered, Mrs. Richland lying idly back
in her chair, Ethel with some pretension of work in
her hands, and Wilma reading aloud—as totally di-
verse a trio as might be often found, tenderly at-
tached as these three had grown to be.

“This is an inexcusable breach of etiquette, of
course,” said the reporter, after the first greeting.
“Won't you ladies show forgiveness of it by not
letting my presence disturb you in the least? I
haven't the faintest shadow of an excuse for intrud-
ing, I may as well tell you at first. The lawlessness
of us Bohemians is our only law, though I promise
not to make a repetition if this is an offense. Truth
is, chancing into the neighborhood the law of at-
traction did the rest.”

“You are very welcome,” Mrs. Richland assured
him, with that true courtesy which does not distin-
guish between guests. ‘‘ You see for yourself that
we accept your permission, Mr. Crayton, and re-
ceive you quite without ceremony.”

“You'd be amused to see what sort of receptions
Ido get sometimes. I don’t suppose you have an
idea of what a powerful lever our newspaper world
under your stratum of society. The reporter who
is called in under the gaslight to take notes of a
grand glitter, a smash and a jumble to be separated
into so many descriptions of toilettes and mingli
shades with plentiful interspersions of aigrettes sad
coronets, cluster curls and pompadour braids, of
magnificent parures and tasteful ornaments and
drooping sprays and fair bouquets, en decollete,
trained, looped, puffed and all the perplexities of
your mantuamaker’s art which we are aiditin to
conquer—that reporter is scarcely recognizable in
his uncivilized Bohemianism, which may lead him
to intrude after this fashion. I don’t quite class
myself with that ilk or I would not be discussing the
variations quite so amiably.”’

“But what a free-and-easy world it is, that of
your loved Bohemia. People say that after its fas-
cinations have once been experienced there’s no
enticing one of you away from it. What Paris is
to a true Parisian so is your delightful world which

ou ve about with you everywhere—an advan-
aro the Parisian does not possess.’ Ethel looked
interestedly up from her work—it seemed such a
novel world to her, to Whom such a vague compre-
hension of its hidden inner life had come in that
phase he had shown her lately, scarcely credible
now in the bright light of day with his careless pre-
seuce and unconcerned: surface appearance hinting
of no depths.

“Les paucres Bohemiennes! And yet this wild
wide Gipsy life, which has the sky for its covering,
its home all over the earth, as you say, is so very
attractive that no temptation can sever a true Bohe-
mian from the vagabond existence, no amount of
influence or persuasion result in transforming him
into average respectability or quietude. Once come
to the state which I have arrived at, I assure you
there is no redemption for any poor devil, and the
worst or the best of it is that he rather glories in his
lot than otherwise.”

Saying it all with the reckless dash which gave
added force to the words and was calculated to
bring out the brightest tints of the picture, the
froth and sparkle of the Bohemianism only was
visible, none of the despair, the miseries, the want
and waste and willful misuse of a life which almost
invariably goes hand in hand with it, seeming the
furthest of all realizations from his mind.

“There are regular gradations among us as in all
other classes,” he continued. ‘Those on the to
are not such an immense remove from civi
beings, after all—Latimer and Lenoir, for instance.
Apropos of Latimer, which suggests his art and ac-
companiments: Mrs. Richland, did you ever, in
the ‘auld lang syne,’ which cannot be so far gone as
to leave you much changed, have a likeness taken
and call it Rose? Moreover, were you ever dead

 
 

 

14 THE INHERITANCE OF HATE,

 

 

 

 

and buried and resurrected to life again, after the
fashion of three-volume romances of three centuries
ago, when that interesting experience seemed the
only method taken to outwit one’s enemies?”

‘*7, Mr. Crayton!’ The wide, dark eyes turned
oo him slowly, their depths fathomless until a

pleasured surprise rose to them.

“Yourself, Mrs. Richland. I’m well aware that is
a novel as well as impudent mode of questioning,
but ‘ thereby hangs a tale,’ which I hope may gain
me pardon in ee sight. That is, unless you abomi-
nate scenes from real life which run in the way of
mystery and dramatic effect."

‘You couldn’t adopt any better plan for cho |
the natural Mother Eve we all confess to,” laughe
Ethel. ‘I can answer for Gertrude, in one particu-
lar at least. She has a morbid aversion to sitting,
and we have never succeeded in arpa her to
have even a photograph taken. Artists of high and
low degree, of all ranks, grades and pretensions,
have expausted their eloquence in vain, so I imagine
it decided that Gertrude never could have lent her-
self to a representation and called it Rose. For the
rest I can’t take the responsibility of answering;
such Phoenix-like emulation does not often appear
after the actuality of ‘earth to earth, ashes to
ashes,’ I believe.”’

“ Ethel is quite right,” said Mrs. Richland, calmly
indifferent, and disclaiming any show of curiosity.
“Certainly I have never died or been buried or
resurrected, Mr. Crayton.”

‘“‘And yours is such a — peculiar face, if you’ll
allow me to remark it. Certainly quite a singular
coincidence, a remarkable affair, to say the least.”

“* What is a remarkable affair, Mr. Crayton? Don’t
keep us in suspense, please; our weaker nerves are
not calculated to bear the strain, and anything to in-
volve Gertrude, ever so remotely, must prove of
vital importance, I am sure.”

“ Pray don’t overwhelm me by taking it wp so se-
riously. My rather absurd and unwarranted ques-
tioning sprung from a little incident which might
form one of a series entitled Nights in the Streets.
An incident not calculated to reflect to the credit of
our twin cities, and, with a slight exception, a
match-picture to Hetherville’s mischance of not
long ago, occurring within our sight, Lenoirs and
mine, after we left here last night. ‘Allegheny is not
responsible, as perhaps you may be glad to know.
We had crossed the bridge and were ee along
Sixth avenue, near Penn, when a brief but decisive
skirmish took place ahead. A couple of ruffians

out to attack a gentleman, but the sporting
cr seemed to have reckoned without their host
‘or once, since their selected victim proved himself
more than enough for both of them. He dropped
one with a back-hand sweep, and the other was glad
to find bis heels after a round or two. We were on
the spot in a minute after the occurrence, and when
the gentleman returned from the short pursuit he
had made, cool as either of us, we all stood talking
until the police came up and took charge of the
one villain. Something glittered on the pavement in
the light of the bull’s-eye, and I picked up a little
miniature wherein I would have declared it was
your face painted, Mrs. Richland. Lenoir and I both
remarked it, but the stranger claimed it as his prop-
erty and assured us of our mistake. It had been the
keepsake of a friend of his, he said, the original a
lady named Rose, who had been dead and buried for
seventeen years. The resemblance was remarkable,
you may imagine, since it was powerful enough to
attract the attention of both Lenoir and myself.”

“Rather a strange coincidence, as you say,” as-
sented Mrs. Richland, indifferent as ever. ‘‘Resem-
blances are not uncommon, however.”

“Trather congratulate myself over the interest
aroused by that one, since it opens the pleasure of

ptain Bernham’s future acquaintance, and I
Bae myself he is one man of the few worth culti-
vating.”

“Of whom—what name did i say?” Mrs. Rich-
land’s face was turned away, but her voice was soft
and clear and bell-like, a peculiar voice just as hers
was a peculiar face.

“Captain Leigh Burnham, a deuce of a handsome,
strong-built, soldierly fellow. “ wonder is that the
others the temerity to attack him. But, by the
way, you will soon have a reputation for resem-
blances. One of our mutual friends discovered an-
other, rather vague, I’m afraid—Dr. Craven Dallas,
I’m meaning. e old fellow appeared so exercise
over the matter that I assured him of the fact with
which I chanced to become acquainted—that you
have no blood-relatives to share such an honor, I
believe I was right in that.”

“ Quite right, Mr. Crayton.’”? Her head came back
to its former position, the face to his view, and he
remarked how perfectly marble-like it was in its con-
tour and coloring.

“ And that reminds me of what I had nearly for-
gotten,” eee the reporter; “that I am
summoned to appear in the case at the alderman’s
office, this afternoon.”

He took his leave soon after, and the short fall day
went gue by in the mansion. Wilma had been
busy all the Sar and at nearly dusk went out to a
store on a neig: boring street to match the silks Ethel

was using.
“tear would rather go than not,’’she said when the

latter made a remonstrance. ‘‘I neglected my.
usual walk to-day, and need a trifle of freshening

up.

She went and had returned to the very shadow of
the mansion itself, when she was caught suddenly
from her feet, folded close in strong masculine arms,
and kissed in fierce, fond passion by bearded lips.

: Then she was put as_ suddenly down again, and a
tall form strode rapidly away and was lost in the |

gloom,

 

CHAPTER XVI.
CROSS-PURPOSES.
“Smp here, Ethel. You haven’t been doing any
such foolish thing as quarrel with Erle, I hope?”
She was passing in the dusk but turned back with
her brother’s words. _He was walking the wide

upper hall, waiting for Mrs. Richland’s dinner toilette
to be completed. It was to be a night out and the
task of dressing was rather prolonged, Mr. Rich-
land’s natural domesticity rather inclined toward a
disfavor for the empty drawing-rooms, and after
fifteen years of wedded life he was sufficiently lover-
like to wait in attendance upon his wife.

 

**Certainly not, Howard.”

“You relieve me. I could make nothing else out
of his strange actions. Upon my word, his solemn
physiognomy almosi affected me with some active
Sei and he would like a private interview
if you have the leisure, though he declined a seat at

the opera and his own chances for the evening.”

“Erle, Howard? He went to Westmoreland this |

morning, did he not?—and for a week’s time, I am
positive his aunt said.”

“So I had understood, and his unexpected return
gave me my first start when I met him at the door a
few minutes ago. He is waiting below now, in the
library. I believe he came here straight from the
train, Per I remember his saying something of
taking up his own apartments. And, by the way,
Ethel, Gertrude tells me there will be no delay on
account of trousseau or other preparations. There
has been a reply to her order, and the goods them-
selves will be forthcoming within the month. So, if
Erle broaches naming the day, I couldn’t find a single
objection in the world to any early date. I have had
New Year’s Day in my tind, but itis your preroga-
tive to be suited in regard to that. Shorten the time
by all means if it agrees better with Erle’s no doubt
impetuous desires.’

“Oh, my dear brother, certainly not sooner than
that. Indeed, Howard, Tam half-inclined to resent
this intense anxiety of yours to rid yourself of a
troublesome incumbrance. Fortunate that Iam in-
clined to assert my right, or you would be marrying
me out of hand whether or no.”

“Well, well, Ethel; you understand why I am
anxious, my dear. And now don’t let me detain
you.

She passed on, but not down immediately. She
paused at Mrs. Richland’s door and went in at find-
ing her alone. She was already @ressed and turning
over the contents of a jewel-casket absently. She

ore with a smile at seeing her fair young sister-
in-law.

“How prompt you are, Ethel. And you are in time
to settle a vexed question. I can’t quite decide what
to wear to-night in the way of ornament.”

“Diamonds, by all means, with that ruby moire,
Gertrude. Indeed you ought never to wear anythin
but diamonds. You have been born to them and a
brilliant things in destiny. I wonder if life is a fatal-
ity from first to last?”

“What has turned your thoughts in that strain,
Ethel? You have not found any dissatisfaction in
your own, I hope?”

‘*Not probable, since I have always been so kindl.
uarded. I have wondered sometimes what when
ave been inclined to doubt myself—I suppose we

never are sure of ourselves until we are put to the
test. Take your case for example. If you had not
loved Howard as you do, if you had married him
out of gratitude or from asense of duty say, only
having the highest respect and appreciation for his
noble qualities, would you have been contented, have
always oo your duty toward him in view, have
grown perhaps into some approach of the peace
which I am sure you must have mutually enjoyed?”

Ethel’s face was not averted but her eyes were not
lifted to meet the scrutinizing glance of the other
darker ones. Those deep, inscrutable eyes of Mrs.
Richland had a subtle power of their own which
could penetrate more clearly than Ethel’s troubled
mind st then would care to be probed.

“T fancy such cases are more common than you
imagine, my dear,”’ she answered, composedly. ‘If
it had been my case as you have just put it, I am
sure I should never have suffered one pang of regret
thro any lingering indecision of my own, but would
have found such peace and such content in his ten-
derness and his strong love as would have reconciled
sacrifice and made sweet any after trial which might
be bravely borne for his sake. I have little enough
faith in that sentiment of love which has had no trial
and none but a fanciful existence, Ethel; I have ev-
ery faith in the reality with the plain knowledge of
its strong, earnest foundation and the perfect trust
to be reposed there. High respect and appreciation
of noble qualities are the truest bases upon which an
enduring trust was ever built.”

Ethel’s eyes lifted now freely and smilingly.

“No one could have a truer experience to speak
from, Gertrude. Has Howard spoken to you

articularly of Erle and—and me—and New Year's

a ?
be Lt what hopes he has built upon all three,

el.”

“You may tell him, if you like, that I shall be
ready then, provided rle wishes ‘it. Hoe is below
now, come unexpectedly back from Westmorcland
and waiting forme. Ah, Wilma! I was almost uneasy,
thinking you had not returned yet.”

Wilma had come into the room, just catching the
last of Ethel’s speech, half-hesitating, on the point of
retiring again.

“T have been back for ten minutes at least.
Cicely was busy, and I thought you might be need-
aeeceae Shall I put your jewels back, Mrs.

ichland ?*

“Tf you like, Wilma.” Mrs. Richland had clasped
diamonds at her throat and upon her wrists, but she
did not move away. The steady eyes were Sect
at her own fair semblance in the glass, abstracte
and far-seeing, but, preoccupied as they seemed, they
caught Wilma’s upward, anxious glance,

“What is it, my dear? Why, child, are you ill?
You look to be burning with fever.”

“Tam quite well, only flushed. Is it Mr. Hether-
ville has returned unexpectedly whom Miss Ethel
has gone down to meet?’ 7

“Yeg, We were mistaken regarding his intention,
evidently, or he has changed it.””

“And it was he. though I did not think it,” mused
Wilma, a hotter flush burning her cheeks, ‘What
should I do—what can I do now? It gives me such a
ee sense, though Heaven knows I would sooner

ie than bring misery to any of them.” ;

Searching eyes were on the flushing, agitated
face. Mrs. Richland drew back and sunk down
into a chair, the ruby silk draping about her in
an glowing folds, the diamonds flashing back the

ight.

“Come here, Wilma,’ she said, quietly, ‘* Some-
thing is troubling you, and trouble can sometimes be
better borne when the knowledge of it is divided.
Sobbing and nervous and distressed, I am sure the
blame is not yours, whatever the matter may be!
Sit here and tell me, if you can,”

 

Wilma sp bes on a low stool at her fect, her
slight form shaken, her hot, tearful face buricd in
her hands. She lifted it in a moment, more composed,
wistfully deprecating.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Richland, it is the fear of trouble
coming through me, the fear of repaying all your
kindness with sorrow and disappointment. I would
so gladly bear all sorrow and all pain if it might be
spared to any one in this dear house.”

“Go on, Wilma. Tell me what sorrow—what pain!"
The white cool hand was passed gently over the girl’s
forehead with a touch which was quietly soothin
now, such a deep, soft light in the steady eyes that
Wilma’s heart ached to its depths.

‘**Oh, Mrs, Richland! Lam afraid that through me,
unhappiness may come to Miss Ethel, disappoint-
ment to all of you. Indeed, indeed, if 1 might undo
it now by going away, I would go gladly. If I had
never come there would have been no change, as I
fear there is, in Mr. Hetherville.”’

The soft, cool hand was still, the slightest change
cout over the marble-like calmness Of the perfect

ace,

““Mr. Hetherville!’’ The little dusky head was
drawn with a sudden swiftness to the lady’s shoul-
der, the quiet cheek laid against the burning, throb-
bing brow. “Tell me here, Wilma. Has this change
which has come to Mr. Hetherville also touched

ou?”
. A quick comprehension had come to Mrs. Richland.
A change, too, had come to her, almost a relieved
change it would seem, and that caressing, magnetic
touch quieted Wilma until she could tell steadily all
that Beare between her and Erle on the preced-
ing night.

fhe promised to remain the same to her unless
her own word and her own wish released him, but to-
night—to-night, as I was coming in from the street,
just at dusk, some one—a tall man, whom I had no
seen in the shadows—caught me in his arms and
kissed me on the cheeks and lips and forehead.
turned fairly sick with fright, but he put me down
and was gone ina moment. I did not think of its
being Mr. Hetherville. I thought he was in West-
moreland, to remain for a week.” __

Her sobs choked her there. Mrs. Richland’s quiet-
ing touch was gentle as before. re

‘I think we can trust to Mr. Hetherville,” she
said. ‘He is quite incapable of a dishonorable act,
Iam sure. You are not to blamein the matter. But,
Wilma, child, it may be better for your own sake if
the change in him proves to have nm but the im-

ulse of the moment, to be lost in the truth of his
love for Ethel. If it proves more than that, the dis-
covery is better made now, as he said—far better
than if they were bound by irrevocable ties.”’

The ene intensity of her expression startled and
stilled Wilma. They sat in the same position for a
moment more, then Mr. Richland, grown impatient
of his solitary march up and down the wide dim hall,
tapped at the door, interrupting them,

tthel had gone down to the library, where Erle
awaited her. He had come straight here from the
train, as Mr. Richland had surmised. The enomlegse
which had broken upon him with such powe:
force would permit him no rest until his future posi-
tion was decided. He had not lost sight o:
promise to Wilma; it must be _Ethel’s will, not his,
that should give him liberty. He had meant it fully
when he declared he would sacrifice himself rather
than her. Had he believed it for Ethel’s truest hap-
piness now, he would have sealed his lips above ev-
ery remonstrance, and given no sign. But he felt
sure of her heart as he was of his own; he had nota
doubt but that, in bringing about the freedom which
he was so sure of gaining, he would break hateful
bonds for her.

With that settled purpose in his heart, he was/vait-
ing, when the door swung back and she came in,
straight up to him, with a brighter smile than the
fair face had worn for him in all these later days
they had been together, both hands put out with that
winning grace which had always been one of her
charms.

Ethel’s lingering, long battle had been fought out
in those few minutes passed in her sister-in-law’s
room. A long, lingering battle, the end of which she
had marked Jong sinee, but not until then had she
really conquered that stubborn enemy found in her-
self. Her sacrifice had been promised before this,
for her brother’s sake, and by the reflex of the pride
so bitterly wounded through her own weakness; but
Gertrude’s words let a new light in upon the sacrifice
which changed it to an ennobling duty.

“With my own full knowledge of Erle’s true worth,
with my own earnest desire to bring him all he ex-
pects from me, wifely devotion to him very soon,
surely my task will not be so very hard to learn with
so much returned for the little that is asked,” she
said to herself, and went into his presence with the
glow of conscious approval warming her heart and
appearing in her frank greeting.

‘““What a surprise you have given me,” she said,
“a delightful surprise. I did not expect you for.a
week at least. There has been no mischance, noth-
ing to give you apprehension, I hope.”

Roriethine in his face roused her quick alarm. He
had taken her hands, meeting her tree, affectionate
glance with one doubtful and searching. His confi-
dence was wavering for the first. Never before had
she seemed so genuinely affectionately trustful, never
ey had he felt so regretful of the bond between

em,

“ No mischance, nothing unfortunate in the way of
actual happening, Ethel. And I have come back
purposely to arrive at a thorough and perfect under-
standing with you. Sit here while I say what I have
to say; I will not keep you long.”

She rested her hand. upon the back of the chair he
placed for her and remained standing, her hazel
eyes fixed inquiringly upon his face, that lately

ained strength of hers ring her unwaveringly
fore him,

“We entered upon our betrothal six years ago,
mere inexperienced children both of us, not even un-
derstanding the sacred nature of the trust we were
taking upon ourselves. Under almost any other cir-
cumstances the old tender folly would have been
spent long ago, the remembrance nothing more than
a matter for laughing comment now. We were kept
to it by the approbation the proposed alliance met
upon both sides; we had no test of difficulties to
overcome, not an obstacle which might have rough-
ened our way but was smoothed m it by the

 

 
 

aE

watchful care of others. For six years the same end
has been steadfastly fixed before the sight of both;
we have each been impressed with a conviction that
to deviate from the straight path leading to it would
be such a breach of honor and good faith that we
could never redeem ourselves from the stigma it
would cast. We have come very close to that end
at last, so close that there will be no possibility of
turning back after this. Is it your wish to go on,
Ethel? Has there been no outreaching or no craving
for any other destiny than that linked with mine? Is
there not love dearer, another lot to be shared with
more promise of sweet content than ever thought of
mine afforded? If any other life can hold better
happiness for you, Ethel, it is due to us both that the
truth should be spoken now. Don’t fear to speak it
now from the inner depth of your heart, and remem-
ber, it will be doing only the same justice to me as to
your own life.”

The sweet, earnest face not drooping before his

aze, the soft eyes looking wistfully into his, saw in
his fixed and resolute expression only the strict rec-
titude of a noble soul, the doubt of her best happi-
ness being assured, the willingness to advance it at
the sacrifice of his own, and never before had she
felt so nearly drawn, so close to a comprehension of
pure quiet happiness such as she was sure to find
with him,

‘Tt is like you to beso nobly considerate, so wholly
disregardful of self inremembrance of me. I eet
ciate and thank you for the kindness, Erle. It is best
that there shall not be even a lingering misapprehen-
sion between us. If ever any obstacle existed be-
tiveen our free trust in each other, it exists no longer
now. If lever had a temptation to waver from the
first spirit of our attachment it is gone for all time.
As for you, I will not wound your true heart by
even a doubt. To show how thoroughly I trust
you, Erle, lam going to do what will give all most
joy, I believe, name next New Year’s Day for our
wedding.” a

The lights danced before his eyes, the color faded
from his lips and he staggered dizzily, but she never
suspected that her hardly-found submission dashed
all his cherished hopes and wrung his heart with as
keen anguish as she had ever felt,

 

CHAPTER XVIL.
A REVELATION.

Tux Western avenue mansion was still. Lights
were turned down here and there; the jets in the
halls were at a brilliant blaze, but in the cham-
bers and in the drawing-rooms there were pat
softened glows leaving twilight obscurity over all,
and deep darkness in the corners. The party for
the opera had left an hour before. Erle, who had
declined Mr. Richland’s invitation so positively,
changed his mind with Ethél’s solicitation, remained
to dine with the family, and made one of the party
for the evening.

Wilma was not down at dinner. She was calmed
and less weighed upon by her oe after
unburdening herself to the kind benefactress who
had brought such a change into her old sad life. It
was not like the same life, this to which hers had
turned, warmed iby tenderest consideration from
all about her, no difference marked by word or look
between this mats roud family and her lowly
station. They had adopted her into their hearts,
and the fullest gratitude, the deepest loving respect
went out to them in return. Unconscious of the
wrong it meant, Erle’s handsome face, which had
appealed to her tenderest pity, first when it lay
Hanon and pain-wrung upon the pillow, Erle’s
voice which had a sweetness in it for her ouly that
was never carried to another ear, Erle’s bold, bright
eyes which had looked into hers with a conscious
poeeeies of the secret her trembling heart held, a

appy light of confidence and rapture of triumph in
that knowledge, and his own belief that Ethel’s
bond was loosely worn as his own—Erle, in himself,
had been received into that deepest tenderness of
the girlish inexperienced heart whose first freshness
gone out to him would never be reclaimed, would
never turn with the same full faith and sweet trust-
fulness to any other. That much had been done.
and then her knowledge came. Between Ethel and
her must lie the misery and the humiliation which
that knowledge brought, and she had been the
usurper of Ethel’s right and Ethel’s previous reign.
It was no more than just that some suffering should
follow; there is never a wrong however unconscious-
ly or unmeaningly done, but is followed by retribu-
tion of some sort for the moral law broken, And
her willing, gentle spirit would have borne it all if
she might only so avert like suffering from them.
Mrs. Richland’s words had given her one little
pease of hope thatit mien’ be averted still. If his

ove for her might prove but the passing impulse of

an hour—if this disloyalty to Ethel might prove but
a wavering indecision which, faced by the test
calling for the renunciation of his love of six years
standing, might fail before it—if he should return to
his old alle iance, forgetting her as she had begged
of him to do, the unhappiness and disappointment
which threatened might be safely passed, Safely
passed even for her, for Wilma’s best happiness was
always found in administering to the joy of others.
She might be saddened, grieved, wrung to the heart,
but her sweet, yielding spirit would find its own re-
ward inthe consciousness of duty well done.

She was to have her endurance put to the test
very soon. She was waiting still in Mrs. Richland’s
room, where Cicely had laid out the ladies’ opera
cloaks, gloves and fans, when Mrs, Richland came
up from below and drew her aside out of the maid’s
hearing.

“Dear child, no need of reproaching yourself
further, I hope. I fancy the misunderstanding
which must have existed has come to its happiest
end for all. If Erle wavered he has found strength
to be firm at last. They are the same confessed
lovers as before, and they have named the wedding
to take place on New Year’s Day. Be thankful that
it has ended so, Wilma.”

“Tam, dear Mrs. Richland; I am thankful with
allmy heart. Itis a weight off my mind, and a
great relief. Do they look happy as though nothing
could come between them now?’

“They will de happy. Two such noble natures, so
truly assimilated, can not fail to draw out the very
best of mutual affections. Ethel looks it fully
brighter and fairer, more loving and trusting than

 

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

have seen her before. Erle is at leastresigned. I
can not even guess at what has passed between
them, but the manner of both might point that a
lover’s quarrel has just been happily terminated.”

Sympathy with Wilma’s state of mind prompted
her to touch so lightly upon Erle’s demeanor—gal-
lant, closely attentive, almost widly gay it appeared.
With her knowledge she might have guessed what
never occurred to her—that it was forced gayety.
Our own individuality is so apt to influence our
judgment of others, and Mrs. Richland was so ac-
customed to keeping her soul-life so closely locked
under that marble, unchanging exterior that her
sympathy had not reached to the despair which
turns reckless, and Erle’s recklessness was so tem-
pered by that sterling honor which pointed out his
course so clearly now, that his last thought of de-
viating from it had departed.

A little later the party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs.
Richland Ethel and Erle, quit the house. Cicely went
down to gossip in the housekeeper’s room,and for the
first time since her coming there the great house
seemed intolerably silent and lonely to Wilma. She
went down the staircase presently, into the dimly-
lighted drawing-room. She had taken a book with
her, but the subdued glow, the shadowy nooks and
corners were in better unison with her mind just
then, and she dropped into a chair without altering
any arrangement of the room. It was a sore héart
throbbing within her breast, although she was so
truly grateful for the end of her worst apprehen-
sions. She told herself again, sitting there in the
dusk, that an ee gulf must have stretched
between Erle and her had he been free when they
met. All of wide, fair Hetherlands, all of the pride
of the Erles and Hethervilles combined, all of the
hopes based upon him and the ambition nurtured in
him, must have come between, For his sake she
must have borne her own grief just the same, which
was less ee as it was through her fidelity to
Ethel. ow long a time had passed she did not
know, when the door-bell tinkled through the silent
house, and some one was admitted into the brightly
lighted hall, Some one’s hand was laid upon the
door, and a voice, whose cool, even accents she
knew, said very distinctly there: Z

“The family are out, 1 am very well aware, my
good fellow. In fact, knowledge of that is my
reason for being in. Be kind ees to take my
compliments—compliments of Dr. Craven Dallas,
you understand—to Miss Wilde, and request her to
accord me the favor of an immediate interview.”

William Thompson had no guard against’ the doc-
tor’s smoothly-decisive enunciation, and was mov-
ing away unwillingly when Wilma herself appeared
upon the scene.

“Tam here, you see, Dr. Dallas. You may light
the room, William, before you go, if Dr. Dallas will
come in.”

It was Dr. Dallas’s ver'y evident intention to come
in. He had deposited his hat and walking-stick u
on the rack, and his overcoat followed them. e
crossed the threshold into the drawing-room then,
sinking his feet deep into the thick, rich carpeting,
and throwing himself into a seat with the compla-
cent abandon and approving satisfaction of his sur-
roundings. William Fhompson turned on the gas
and adjusted the shades, and withdrew, with a back-
ward dissatisfied glance at Wilma’s little figure, and
the tall, thin form of her guardian, The man was a
philosopher and a fatalist in his way, and no bad
physiognomist, considering his Oe Tai

“Thain’t taken any love to that Dr. Dallas,” he
reflected, as he went. ‘It hain’t a good cast to that
face of hisn, nor yet a good look in his eye. Show
me a man that’s forever looking sideways, and for-
ever squinting at you unbeknownst, and Til show a
villain that’s on the straight road to the gallows if he

ets his proper deserts. ‘That Dr. Dallas ain’t mean-
ing any good to our Miss Wilma, I know. Her
guardian, indeed! and if he was any kind of a
proper-minded guardian he would give up his pre-
tensions to that same, and leave her to them that'll
care more for her in a minute than he’d be apt to do
ina week. Idon’t like his look at her—like a cat
gloating over some poor little helpless mouse, and
she so unconscious, dear soul! Well, well! what is
to be will be, whether it comes to pass or not; and
Tl give my head for a football to any one as wants
it if that same Dr. Craving Dallas don’t make a wor-
ry in this house yet with his sneaking in at odd
hours, and his being like a Jord to us, and so smooth
and oily and the-dust-ain’t-good-enough-for-me-to-
lick when the master and mistress are by in the way
of seeming dreadful humble before them. Take my
word for it, hell be the sarpint in this derelictable
Paradise, than which I defy any man to show me
one more so,”

It is to be presumed that William Thompson meant
delectable, and though his analogy may have been
a. little obscure, and his construction far drawn, his
observations were not so very wide of the mark as
they readily might have been, and his sentiments in
the main were quite correct. :

Wilma sat down facing her guardian, trying to be
glad for so much kindly consideration shown by him,
as well as she was grateful for all the tenderness of
the new, true friends she had found, but that dread
with which the doctor’s presence always inspired
her, interfered sadly with her thankfulness for the
favor of this unlooked-for visit.

How is my dear little girl to-night?’ asked the
doctor’s smooth accents, a8 his shifting gaze wan-
dered away from her into the furthest corners.
“ Not looking as well, I fancy. A trifle sadder, a
trifle more wistful and wan than when I saw her
last. A touch of the blue vapors are very unsatis-
factory company. Not at all a good state of mind
for one so young and _ so hopeful and so cheerful as
you to cherish, Is there less satisfaction in your
ife here than before? Has the charm of newness
worn away and the reflex of neglect already takin,
place of the favor shown at first? These fair phil-
anthropists have a fashion of backsliding, I’m afraid.
I might have told you not to expect too much too
long, but what use of poisoning the pleasure for you
while it lasted. It is one of my principles, my dear
—a praiseworthy principle, is it not?—not to stir up
the dregs of bitterness while any of the sweet
draught remains at the top. Take the bitter all at
once, and a fresh cup afterward, if you like, but
don’t ruin the effects of the two by mixing them.
Odd philosophy for a physician, perhaps, but none
the less sound for that, And so the old life and the

 

15

| new are not cut so wide adrift but the loneliness of

the one may extend into the other!”

“JT would not wish them so widely separated that
my remembrance of those experiences should not
keep me constantly grateful for the great change.
Youfare mistaken in supposing I can have any cause
forunhappiness. They ail grow more kind, if that be
possible, with every day.”

“Then there is some other foundation for that
sadness. I am not mistaken in regard to that; a
very strong affection is seldom mistaken in its intu-
itions, Wilma. You have found something lacking,
then. Some element is lacked to complete your
thorough contentment. They are kind, very kind,
but they have their gayeties, and your seclusion is
infected with loneliness, is that it?”

“Oh, no, indeed! I have no desire for anything
more than I receive here; I hope you will believe
that. There is not anything, not the least, I would
have changed if I might.”

“ And that is not like youth and hope. It is only
natural you should look forward to more. It is
searcely possible you can be thoroughly content
with your slight tenure upon your position here.
Made much of just now through the uncertain
vagary of a fine lady’s whim, the same will take an-
other turn and you will be all the worse off for hav-
ing been a favorite for a time. The old sequestra-
tion and narrow limits and bare discomforts of the
old house on the Manchester road, with only Mrs.
Gerrit’s ee ne will be the less endurable
for the glimpse of all that is luxurious and refined.”

Wilma made no reply as the doctor paused. His
words did not demand one, and her heavy heart

rew heavier for such ominous prediction. Coming

rom him it might mean that it was his intention,
sooner or later, to remove her from this fair, rich
mansion which was so freely her home, back to the
old bare, forbidden precincts where seventeen dreary
years of her life had been passed.

He was watching her as he always watched every-
thing, furtively. His keen eyes read the weariness
inher face, read more closely into her gentle, guile-
less heart than she had any suspicion of him doing.

“T wonder if any impulsive young lover would
take much encouragement from such complete in-
indifference,” he mused, “from hidden mournful-
ness, oe over a loss which she may not be in-
clined to acknowledge even to herself. Very kind of
my, good and useful friend, apes, to give me an
inkling of how matters stood. Very sharp eyes our
careless repofter has, and uses them to advantage,
which is more than better men givers do. Deuced-
ly sharp and ee ,,and I might question the

isinterested kindness which led him to call upon me
this afternoon with the result of his observations;
I might be a little inclined to keep shy of him but
for the devil’s recklessness which is taking him to
destruction and leaves him no better care than to
see all others follow the same easy road. I have al-
ways found an advantage in cultivating miscellane-
ous acquaintances; there is ae good to be
got out of every man if you only know how to strike

im. And really I don’t know that I could desire a
different state of mind in our little creature of con-
science here.”’

“My dear Wilma,” he said, aloud, “I am afraid
that in comparison with the later interests which
have engrossed you, my anxiety for your happiness
may have failed in comparison. I think you cannot
fully comprehend how entirely I am devoted to you
and to your advancement. 1 told you truly thatI
had sacrificed my own desires to your welfare.
Since that, developments have been reached which
point to a different course, one to gratify my hopes
as nothing else could, and at the same time to estab-
lish ie in the place for which nature has fitted you,
to which you are entitled by right. Ihave it in my
power to insure your life, from this time forward, in
the midst of just such surroundings as these. The
power to place you on a fvoting in every way equal
to that enjoyed by these people about. Better than
even that—to assure you of your right to a life anda

osition in the world second to none. I think you

ave felt it keenly, sometimes, in knowing yourself
outcast from all kindred, in doubting your right to
the name you bear, in being so utterly a stranger to
the secret of your own existence. It was very careful-
ly ae from you. It was kept from all the world, and
falsely represented where utter concealment was not
possible. It is surely not needful to ask if it is your
will to pierce the mists at last,”

Wilma heard as it seemed with a sudden stoppi;
of all the blood in her veins. Her heart soon Bilt
She grew faint before she seemed able to breathe
again. The secret of her life, the knowledge of the
hidden past which had loomed darkly over her, in
this man’s hands! The intensity of her expectation
had its first chill in that. That the secret which he
boasted as a power was to come through him struck
her quick: intuition as having some sorrowful if not
wicked depths of history to unfold. Her eyes,
chained to his thin, sallow, unmoving face were
eagerly and painfully attentive, but her lips formed
no words.

“There must be something given in return for so
much gained, my dear Wilma,” the smooth, low
tone continued. ‘I have been careful to conceal
that which my mature judgment assured me was
wild, hopeless folly in a man of my age—my long
enduring love for you. Little Wilma, you never
suspected, I dare say, that the fatherly affection I
have evinced for you was more than that; you never
supposed that the heart which has not had a near
or a dear interest for a score of years could be
thrilled and freshened by your sweet, gentle influ-
ence—that one seeming so absorbed and so isolated
as I, could be Joving—faithfully, earnestly, tenderly
—you. Ah, my child! the best part of what our
lives might be is very often hidden. But the neces-
— for that concealment has changed with me. It
will add all this that I have hinted at to your ad-
vancement if our interests be identified, and to that
end I ask you what I might never dared have asked
otherwise, to join your life to mine, Wilma; to be
mine, my wife.”

She sat asif stunned. Of all words she might have
expected to hear from his lipsthese were the last.
Of all men in the world with whom any thought
—- have linked such a possibility, he was the very

asi

“T have taken you_by surprise,” he- proceeded.
“Thoped you might have been not wholly unpre+
pared for it; I have tried to convey my loving seu

 
 

 

THE

 
  

  
  

a

INHERITANCE OF

 

 

ments in a manner to give you some knowledge of
the truth, Think for a moment, Wilma; think of
allI tell you this offer of mine means; a place for
you high and proud as these Richlands possess, and
luxury to surround you, myself as your husband,
and my first object always devotion to you; think
of all that and give me your auswer—simply yes or
no,”

Her eyes, fascinated and horrified, fixed upon his
face, had not wavered away. For once his were
still holding her as if by a magnetic power. She
had rallied far enough to think, however; she had
gained the poner of speech again,

“Tt can be nothing but no—no! Iam surprised,
gieved, but I think—I hope you will not much care.

‘ou mean it as a kindness, and I thank you for that,
but I could never have any different answer for you,
Dr. Dallas.”

“T hope and I think you willreconsider that, Wil-
ma. You do not yet know what all your refusal in-
volves.”

“Tf it means all of the knowledge you say, my an-
swer must still be the same. I can never be any
thing more than simply grateful for your kindness.
I shall be grieved to know that youare disappointed
through me. If it is best for me to know that
secret which you hold, it will come at some time in
some way. can not even ask you to tellme. Ido
ask you no matter what advancement might come
to me, to let it remain untold, and let me remain
unknown even to myself if harm should come to
oe, through the telling.”

tthew Gregory’s last words were in her mind,
then; Matthew Gregory’s stern, abhorrent look as
she remembered it, causing her to shrink with a
dread of apprehension. If the choice had been put
to her then and there, it is most probable she would
have chosen to bury all knowledge even from her-
bee forever. But the choice was not to be left with

er,

“Tf only as a duty to myself the matter should be
dropped. And there is some one else involved—
very deeply involved, it may turn out, unless you
choose to shield her. .As my wife only you will
gain the power to doit. You think a great deal of
in friends here, of your Miss Ethel, of Mrs. Rich-
land, Suppose either of them should be threatened
with worse trouble and misery than you can well
imap being visited upon them. muy pede the
choice is yours to bring degradation and sorrow
upon either of them, or to avert such, which should
be sacrificed, they or you—supposing yours to be a
sacrifice?”

“Oh, I hope I may never be the cause of bringing
pain tothem. I think I could bear anything rather
than that. Surely, Dr. Dallas, no past interest of
mine can reflect sorrow upon them.

“Something worse than sorrow perhaps,’ an-
swered the doctor, grimly. ‘‘ My dear child, human
creatures are not born into the world except of hu-
man parents, and the sins of the parents may some-
times be brought to recoil upon themselves instead
of coming down as ‘heritages to the children, It
will not be my fault if it is so in your case unless you
willit differently. You have been told simply that
your mother is dead, but I know of my own evi-
dence, fained in person, that your mother lives to-
day. e lives, Eppore I tell you more—that you
have seen and know her? Suppose I tell you that
the discovery of your identity to the public now
would mean sorrow, humiliation, disgrace to her,
that it would drag her down from a proud hight
that it would stamp her life with a misery which all
time could not efface? Suppose I tell you that your
unknown mother is your benefactress of to-day,
Mrs. Richland?”

CHAPTER XVIII.
AT THE OPERA.

Tur Opera House was well filled that night. The
curtain d just gone down on the first act, and
during the stir consequent, the Richland family,
fashionably late, entered, and took possession of
their own private box. The advent of the Richlands
at any time was always the occasion of a flutter of
attention and comment. The banker and his wife
were a magnetic attraction to those moths of society
that so constantly flutter their admiration about
wealth and beauty. Ethel, belle of two seasons,
flirt, coquette, sweet, despoiler of men’s hearts, as
she had a reputation for being—the world always
gives that to those qualities which win irresistibly,
forgetting how impossible it must be to respond to
the many—Ethel might have counted her devotees,
declared or otherwise, by the dozen, even in that
audience. And Erle, big, blonde, handsome, match-
ing admirably at her side, lent a completing touch
to the harmony of the group, whatever his appear-
ance there may have caused in the way of jealous or
envious twitches in the minds of not wholly disin-
terested lookers-on.

A fair, well-matched couple, certainly, So
thought complacent, self-satisfied Howard Richland,
as he turned from them to bend in lover-like atten-
tion toward his wife. So thought half the people
there who had a knowledge of that long-standin;
engagement, so romantic, so refreshing to meet wit
in our prosaic age, a child-love grown up with their
growth, lasting, and to be consummated ata very
near date, according to Jenkins’s report. If there
were rebellion and envy over this expected result in
many phases of masculine feeling present, there
was also relief in near approach to the imbittered
hearts of less fair rivals. For the few to envy her
the handsome young Marylander at her side, there
were the many to rejoice at Fe TnIe allegiance of
ween when convinced of the hopelessness

* of their later aspirations. It is inno more than or-
dinary ratio that one acknowledged belle will covet
the final conquest of another where a dozen will re-
joice over the conquest which removes a formidable
rival, Ethel Richland was sure to marry sooner or
later from the upper stratum, so as well Erle Hether-
ville as any Other, and the sooner the tender folly of
six years standing was merged into the -realistic
effect of the matrimonial venture, the better chance
for those remaining.

Erle himself ‘had come out from that interview
in the library with a set resolve at his heart that she
should nevér know how nearly faithless he had
proved to her—how his heart was turning at that mo-
ment away from, her fair bodily presence, from the
sweet, expression her face wore to another
face, small, pathetic, wistful, which had grown

 

 

dearer to him in this short time past than any other

one on earth. Ethel had ne away the eee aD

which he had fancied would prove as powerful with
her. Nothingremained for him but to accept the
renewed offering of her love and faith, nothing but
to bring his own allegiance back, if that might be,
to the old contented standard.

“ And though dear little Wilma may care for me,”
he thought, with a thrill of pain cae him—
‘does, I know, her sense of duty and right will
let her waver. Her own heart would break before
she would aay the slightest distress to Ethel.
Oh, Wilma, t
last time! The hardest will be to tear out loving
thoughts of you, as I must do now.”

The musical interlude was brief. The eurtain
went up on the second act almost before they were
fairly seated. Erle’s eyes swept the stage, went
carelessly over the house and came back to rest upon
his companion. Of all the fair young creatures
there—and there were many—not one could favor-
ably compare with her, ot one of allthose the
brilliant blaze of lights shone down upon who might
have drawn him from her with one extra thrill of
admiration. It would not seem any impossible
matter to go wild with love of so fair a face, but
there was no enthusiasm, no warmth of thankful-
ness present with Erle.

She glanced up to meet his steady, earnest eyes,
andsmiled in return—a glance aud a smile which
were noted by an occupant of an opposite box. It
held two gentlemen, one whose attention was fixed
steadily upon the scene acting before him; the
other, apparently indifferent to the stage spectacle,
had been among those to bow to the late arrivals,
and whose careless observation had not wavered
from them since, It was the reporter, Crayton.

‘Going as I predicted,” he thought, glooniily.
“They are actually becoming reconciled at this
early day; that is, as nearly reconciled as they will

be for atime. They will follow the usual routine,
and find a complacent sort of enjoyment in it, no
doubt, when the honeymoon is once over, He will
be rather fond of his erlessly fair bride, in spite of
the dark-eyed little elf who, according to all the laws
of contrast, was sucha powerful attraction to him,
notwithstanding my own intuition of the meaning of
that tete-a-tete so well covered by Minerva’s shadow
in the Richland drawing-room—a, tete-a-tete_ which
his intense expression and the little one’s pallor and
agitated stillness afterward invested with a hint of
more than ordinary chit-chat. For all that, he
will be proud of the fair mistress he will take
to Hetherlands; he will share his best affections
between her and his dogs and his horses and the
thousand and one interests which are inbred as-
sociations with him. And she will have her hosts of
admirers still here and there, and wherever her
dainty presence goes, and will find in the excite-
ment of her free fashionable life whatever may be
lacking at home. It will not be either the best or the
meee ey lot which might be hers; it is not the one I
would choose for her with the purest wish I may be
capable of turning for her happiness. Lord knows,
my best pepe isfor that. I would givethe best or
the worst that is left of me to turn sorrow of any
kind from her, and yet who is to know where this
enterprise of mine is taking me?. Who knows what
it may be threatening her through them? Nothing
good, nothing hopeful, nothing which can well bear
the light, or that sly old fox of a Bitter-Herbs would
not be upon the trail, It’s no principle of mine to go
back when I have started once, and Vl not go back
in this. Fair and still and cold and statue-like in her
unbroken repose of expression is Mrs. Richland to-
night. [ wonder if nothing can change the statue.
I wonder if the striking similarity Lenoir and my-
self found in the pictured Rose who has been dead
and buried for seventeen years, will make an
greater impression upon my new friend and lavis
companion of the evening than a reference to it had
upon her, Ah, she pres this way! The play isa
tiresome affair, and the curtain goes down again
with little encouragement in the way of applause,
and now is the time.”

He touched his companion upon the shoulder.
The latter, who had been sitting half in shadow,
looking around, nodded approvingly.

“Upon my word, it is proving rather a novel_sen-
sation to find myself in such a place again. Isee
you are smiling over my absorption in the drama,

ut itis years since I have been in a theater, re-
member.’

‘“We have other sights here better worth the see-
ing, to my mind, Captain Bernham., What have you
to say for all the dazzle represented here in the way
of diamonds and bright eyes, exquisite costumes
and fair faces? There is one, two I might say oppo-
site now. The Richland box, that is, holding the
two most famed beauties our twin-cities boast,
madame herself and the younger, her sister-in-law—
the sweetest, most bewildering and heart-breaking
of all the fair ones gathered here.”’

“You take me out of my depth when you speak
of fair faces. The Richlands, you say? at name
has a familiar sound—pray, where?’ He leaned
forward into the light. His tall head, his bronzed,
bearded face, his straight, stalwart, soldierly form,
cut in relief against the drapery at his side. Sud-
denly his face paled beneath the bronze, A tremor
passed over the firm lips shaded by the heavy mili-
tary mustache. His hand Groppen upon Crayton’s
arm, closed in a crushing grip that made the latter
wince with pain. His eyes, dilated, were fixed in
unwavering intensity; the whole scene of dazzling
brightness, the human sea around, the gallery, the
pit, the stage, all were blotted into an unmeaning

lank, out of which one face looked forward into
his own,

Mrs. Richland, leaning back, the ruby silk light-
ing with richest effect, her snow-white opera cloak
fallen back, diamonds at her throat and on her
round white arms, formed a picture well calculated
to images a stranger at first sight. The perfect
colorless oval of her face turned into full view, the
fine jetty hair dressed high in puffs and braids, the
long lashes that had been downcast raising to dis-
close the wonderful soft dark eyes beneath—that
was the sight which fascinated Captain Leigh Bern-
ham’s gaze. For one second the dark, fathomless
eyes had looked into his; in that one second she
had seen the intense eagerness, amazement and in-
credulity, the powerful agitation reflected in his
face; then the long lashes dropped and a mist of

ea

never

Wilma! my darling—my darling for the |

 

; cobwebby lace-and-cambric was swept across the
lady’s lips, held there for a second and dropped,
| but the dark eyes did not again glance that way.

“My dear, Bernham, what the dickens may the
matter be? Isay, captain. you are drawing the no-
| tice of the whole house, or a good portion of it, and
| have succeeded in staring alady completely out of
| countenance. Suppose you should look somewhere
| else for a moment, or throw a little less of dramatic
intensity into your gaze. There’s a wonder-
ful resemblance, I grant, to that painted face of
| your miniature as we remarked, if you take the
pains to remember, but, since the original of that is
dead and buried these seventeen years past, of
course there can be no question of any relative con-
nection between the two.”

Captain Bernham breathed a deep inspiration and
drew back to his former position.

“Who did you say that lady is?” he asked, ina
low, level voice. ‘You are right—the resemblance
is striking, Soa ty

“That is Mrs. Richland, one of our first leaders
of the. first circle, the envied of all envying; the
courted, flattered, eulogized wife of the richest
banker whose plate-glass front decorates the avy-
enue. That is her husband beside her, the acknowl-
edged most fortunate man, as his wife and sister are
the acknowledged most beautiful women in our two
cities. They say he never made an unlucky ven-
ture in his life, and to be witness to his prosperity
would go to show it. Such men usually make a
failure in a suitably equalized choice matrimonial,
but his is an exceptional case. They have been
married for fifteen years—that long ago one might
fancy Mrs. Richland would be more than ever the
image of the ‘Rose’ dead and buried even then—
and after fifteen years of that familiarity in the
close relation which very often breeds complete in-
difference they are lover-like and devoted as during
the honeymoon. See him now—no, don’t look while
you are blanched out to that ghostly shade, you
ey would make a good personation of the

pirit pene in. that shape.

Captain igh Bernham had looked, -however,
Had seen the tender solicitude with which My, Rich-
land was treating his wife, saw the anxiety come up
into the smooth, florid face, the slight stir in the
box, one or two leave neighboring places and make
their way there. Crayton went among them,
He came back after a couple of minutes. Mrs,
Richland had been overpowered by the heat, some
one had brought her a g lass of water and she was
quite recovered from her sudden faintness. That
formed the body of the observation Crayton had it
on his tongue to utter as he went back to his place,
but he found no occasion for speaking the words.
He found the shadowed seat vacated, Captain Leigh
Bernham incontinently deserted.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
THE DOCTOR’S ANSWER.

Wirma heard with a deathlike faintness rushing
over her.

rs Sen Itell you that your unknown mother is
your benefactress of to-day, Mrs, Richland.” The
words, spoken with not a trace cf sentiment or
emotion, repeated themselves over and again in ber
mind. A wave of awe, of pity, of dread chilled and
held her still. The doctor’s light, stealthy, coldly
triumphant eyes, the doctor’s sallow, impassive
countenance were cruelly forbidding in their un-
changing expression. Even the doctor’s phlegmatic
nature was not oe against the startled, terrified
apprehension in the deepening, darkening eyes.
ayes just then, notwithstanding the entire difference
of expression, wonderfully like the soft, dark, steady
ones which had looked the doctor out of countenance
before this.

“Not the only feature she has taken from her
mother,” thought the doctor in the interval of si-
lence which fell. “The oval of the face is the same,
the same cut about the lips and chin, but there the
resemblance ceases and is altogether so indefinite it
is not wonderful that none of them have ever de-
tected it; and all the rest is a very fac-simile ina
little more delicate cast of the miniature which
Captain Bernham so kindly left me.”

‘he curved fine lips he watched trembled apart,
the pained, wistful eyes were drawn away from him,
and, in the bewildered way of one waking from @
stupor, Wilma murmured:

‘“Itis impossible! That could never be even if my
mother lived. That could not be.”

But even then in her quivering, agitated soul had
come the conviction that his words were true.
Even then she understood as she never had done
before what was that strange fascinating influence
which the lady’s presence never failed to exert over
her—a strangely fascinating influence, so mingled
with a contrasting, almost repellent sensation at
times when those inscrutable dark eyes had looked
upon her; as they had once or twice, with an ex-

ression which had half-terrified her then, a sensa-

ion like that thrill which Mr. Richland’s touch had
once sent over her, such an uncomfortable, unde-
fined feeling that she could not conquer—it came to
her that it might mean the depth of sympathy be-
tween parent and child, poisoned by that curse
which Matthew Gregory asserted was hers before
she ever came into life at all, that which must make
her an object of dread and aversion to any one
upon whom she might find a claim, sucha claim as
this she knew now his meaning must have been.”

‘It is afact rather calculated to take you by sur-

rise at first, one so strange as to well seem incredi-
bie Ican readily understand. A fact which I am in-
clined to think might even give Mrs. Richland her-
self a shock of surprise and incredulity at_first,
But it is atruth for all that, a truth which, as I said
before, may be turned.to your advantage in a way
to insure your permanent welfare, to give youa
station and a name equal to theirs, even the power
to avert the worst of what might be brought home
to her, and which could very materially alter her
envied and enviable position of the present. Take it
all into calm consideration, Wilma.. Remember that
a favorable answer to my suit will insure all that to
you, and the best that can be made of a bad affair
to her. There was an old idiosyncrasy which used
to run in your former guardian’s mind, which tock
the form of a monotonous chant in some cf his
flighty moments, and the burden of it was always
‘a dead life, a dead life,’ You have heard something

 

 

 
 

 

of the sort, no doubt. Did he ever tell you whose
was that dead life?” f i

‘“‘He told me once,” said Wilma, her great solemn
eyes looking their wonder and awe and dread upon
him again, “that mine was a dead life, and told me
to pray that I might never be the cause of a living
death. I never knew what he meant by it; I pray
Heaven that I never shall know.”

“Upon my word, you are an exception to the rule
of your sex, Wilma. With that much mystery to
have fed upon, few of womankind would hold back
atthe chance of porcine their own hidden histories;
fewer still would care to resist the allurements of
such accompanying fortune as I have hinted at.
Yes, yours has been a dead life; you have been dead
to your proper identity from the hour of your birth,
dead to those who are accountable for your exist-
ence foras long a time. And yours is by far too
sweet and useful a life to remain so—-by far too
fair a prospect asit may be made to let an inex-

verienced girl’s sentimental fancy mar the wonder-
ul results which may be brought out of it.”

‘But 1 do not understand,” said Wilma. ‘‘I can
not understand how it is possible Mrs, Richland
should be my mother—how it can be that I should
be lost to my mother and every one, as you say.”

‘* Both matters which I might not find it expedient
to explain to you now. There is another part of the
affair with which you require to be fa rized at
first—the importance of letting me be your guide
from this time out, and the result which arefusal on
you art may mean in effect. You can reap no

enefit except through me. You may, through the
truthsI can bring to light, send your mother dis-
graced out from her home here, take away her
right to the Richland name, send her out to such
miser , such humiliation as one might readily fancy
would prove a death in life to her proud and stub-
porn heart. That was my old friend Gregory’s
meaning without a doubt. He knew what the fair,
proud, courted Mrs. Richland may not know to this
very, day—that when she married her present hus-
band she had another husband in the land of the
living. A husband and a child by one of those ro-
mantid early marriages which bring so many young
fools to grief; and she not are the existence
of either; by my soul, little wonder if it should come
as a shock to the madame of to-day. I really incline
in my heart to spare it to her, but that part must re-
main with your decision. You know something of
what the Richland pride is, my dear; you know how
it would be stung to the quick by any such revela-
tion as this which I have traced for you, not in its
darkest or most hopeless aspect at that. I have told
you what my affection for you is, W: You will
find it more lasting, more truly devoted to your best
welfare, more trustworthy than the professions of
some younnet and more impulsive men might have
proved, perhaps. A certain friend of mine, who is
not wholly without an interest in you, gave me a
hint of thé danger you are in, which has rather pre-
cipitated this avowal of mine. No need to be secret
on that score. It was that odd genius, Crayton, a
sharp and observant young fellow, by the way, who
for once has succeeded in putting those qualities to
account. He called on me at the old place to-day,
and while there I chanced to refer to my guardian-
ship of you. He was surprised, and let me know it
in the rather assured and not always agreeable man-
ner these wild Bohemians pick up. :

“A deuce of a guardian you are, then,’ he said,
with rather more emphasis than elegance. ‘ You
ought to be ashamed of owning the trust, I say.
That little Wilma Wilde is too trusting and tender a
blossom, according to my idea, to be exposed to the
rough chance that’s before her now. There are girls
who wouldn’t be in any way hurt by it; in fact, such
things go in the common experience that makes our
Girl of the Period, I believe, but that child would
break her tender little heart over a case of willful
deception which is simply flirtation to the generality
of our sort.’ .

“Very naturally I was at a loss, and begged him
to explain what danger could possibly menace

‘ou.
von The danger of throwing her into daily compan-
jonship with that already as good as married male
flirt, Hetherville,’ was the reply. ‘I'll wager you a
XX. she don’t eyen know of his engagement whole
ages ago to the Richland beauty; or if she does know
that, he has insinuated in the strongest terms his in-
tention of breaking from that long betrothal for
sake of her—poor little innocent! He'll not break
anything except her heart, take my word for it, If
I were her guardian, and had no particular interest
in an untimely death or something of that sort, 'd
make it a point to set her straight regarding the
handsome young villain.’

“You may fancy what a start that hint gave me,
Wilma. I seémed to see not simply my hopes shat-
tered and your future devastated, but a new com-

lication to make worse this pitiful Richland rela-
ion, Suppose if it were less serious to you, more
serious to him, if the daughter of Mr. Richland’s
supposed wife won the lover of Mr. Richland’s sister
to a forgetfulness of the faith which was due from
him, there would be the double blow to the Rich-
land pride. yor as it should be, as Crayton said,
if a handsome, heartless yo scamp had brought
a misery into your life from which you might never
fully recover. It pointed out my own course too
clearly for me to mistake it, Wilma. My first duty
is to you, and my heart is all engaged in that duty.
I don’t even press the question if there were truthin
our reporter’s apt surmise; I only ask you to trust to
my affection, to the love which will’ be the more
steadfast for being matured, to the judgment which
has shown me how you will wish to spare any pain
tothem, Your answer, Wilma, here and now.”

What a contrast to be put vividly before her in
asking a choice! Erle Hetherville, having youth
and manliness and honor and earnestness on. his
side; and this man, crafty, hypocritical, selfish, as
her pure mind warned her; more than that, d -
ing and subtly treacherous—what a pitiful, meager
chance for Dr. Craven Dallas had he based his hopes
upg the impulse she would derive from that con-

rast.

What a bitter, bitter choice for Wilma, with her
young and lately sorely wounied heart to even con-
template then a duty leading her to any relation
with that man. His thin, sallow face, and cold, cal-
culating eyes gone back to their shiftimg habit and
furtive scrutiny, his narrow, retreating forehead

 

with the scant sandy hair far back at the temples,
the whole man repellent and insincere to her glance,
no wonder Wilma shrunk and shivered and put her
hands up over her eyes to shut away the sight of

im,

He waited, leaving her the silence which would
enable her to take a full comprehension of all he
had been saying, and of the inevitable misery which
would result from a further betrayal of his knowl-
edge. The two who had extended their bounty so
generously to her, not suspecting what she was to
one of them, who had lived in such loving harmony
for fifteen years, that their devotion had come to be
a standing matter of approving reference in their
world, a those two the ee of this knowledge
must fall with an appalling, terrible force; it must
reflect in such bitterness that, if the possibility to
cover it over and keep it concealed should remain,
there must inevitably be a gaunt skeleton of distrust
and doubt hidden away as well. If acknowledged
there would come the full horror of all his words
presented to her; that fair, stately woman—/er
mother—would go out into the world with such an
agony of humiliation in her proud heart as would
make it worse a thousand-fold to face life than
death, The silence, with the horror of all these
thoughts bearing upon her, grew oppressive, unen-
durable.

She eres her hands and looked at him, some
new thought striking her colder and stiller than she
had been before.

‘“My father,’ she said, her voice low and intense
with her strong emotion. ‘ You said he was alive
when she married again. Is he alive still?”

Cautious Dr. Dallas checked himself in the ready
reply which was upon histongue. Would not un-
certainty here leave her more flexible to his will
than a positive knowledge of precisely what danger
menaced might do? He answered slowly, after a
moment:

“My dear Wilma, who may say? That point, I

fancy, is quite as well left at rest. I, for one, would
a willingly recommend to you an awkward inves-
ation.

at did that mean, she wondered apathetically.
That her father really lived, or that the associations
connected with him could reflect no credit to any
one? His gh cruel eyes were watching her, he
was waiting with that tireless, cold-blooded patience
which seemed sure of its prey. That knowledge
was like a goad to her despair. '
“What assurance have I that all you tell me is
true? What proof have you to offer of it? How
am I to know—to know that the—the—love you

have pee for me, knowing how impossible it |

must be that I should give a return, has not led you
to work in this way upon my fears?”

“My dear child, it might prove sorry work to inti-
mate any such charge as this of mine without proof.
Ihave had personal evidence, as linformed you. I
have a rather remarkable memory, not for faces
simply, but also for forms, outlines, gestures and
tones. I am not often amiss in connecting any
vivid impression I may receive with whatever cir-
cumstance may have given rise to it, no matter at
how remote a date. Such animpression struck me
upon the night of Matthew Gregory’s death when I
entered his room and saw a strange, vailed lady
who was on the point of departing. I watched her
glide out, followed by yourself, and I knew then,
well as I have known since, that I had seen her un-
der peculiar circumstances at some previous time.
The lady was Mrs. Richland, as I discovered with my
first sight of her here in her own house. Even your
een ea At eyes must have recognized her again,

ilma,’

Wilma’s had. More than once that strange inter-
view at Matthew Gregory’s deathbed had recurred
to her, but she had on it away with the thought
that it was not for her to penetrate the mystery,
whatever it might be. Mrs. Richland had never by
word or look referred to it, and Wilma had remained
as strictly reserved.

“The association of Matthew Gregory gave me an
idea sooner than I might othe e have gained.
That recalled an incident of my early practice,
seventeen years ago; and, by the way, that very in-
cident formed the be; aE of my dear friend’s
patronage, which only ended with mortal pil-
grimage, and his generous remembrance of me,
even then. Seventeen years ago, with the differ-
ence of a few weeks later in the season, I was called
forty miles out of the city to attend upon an urgent
case. Forty miles’ journey in snowy December
weather, with half the distance to be done by stage,
was by n0 means a small aa ence at those days.
‘That, however, was outweighed in the eyes of the
needy, out-of-elbow young physician, hardly estab-
lished in any yee yet, by the consideration of a
dollar in gold for every mile, and five added for
every day I might be detained. Calls were few and
far between then, and the offered sum treble the
best I might expect by staying athome, To cut it
short, I went, and was successful in the delicate
task of ushering a new life into the world, a tiny yet
Ree, healthful female infant which saw the

ight first in as wild and desolate a region as
might be found forty miles out of our two cities.
That task alone was not to earn me my fee, how-
ever. I had the additional one of breaking to
the mother that the little one had never drawn a
breath. Idon’t defend the morality of it; I simp]
earried out the instructions some one else woul
have done had I refused. She took it hardly, poor
thing! but inall of the two days 1 was with her, she
kept her face so persistently concealed that I had
but one glimpse of its Hite oval, its fine, smooth,
marble-white skin, and great k eyes matchi
the glossy hair streaming over it. It does not n
that I should add, my patient of that time is the Mrs.
Richland of to-day yourself the child which was
taken away from the house before I quitted it.
Afterward, when that subsequent occurrence of a
death at the old house on the Manchester road took

lace, I was not deceived with all the rest. I
Tnew and wrung the confession from him, that the
dead woman was not the mother of the child brought
under Matthew Gregory’s roof. That much I would
be willing to swear to, More I have discovered,
but with that much personal evidence and my firm
conviction aside from Lge of the identity of you
two, you surely can not require asseverasions of the
power I hold.”

He changed his position, leaning forward in the

THE INMERITANCE OP “HATED

|
|

 

| glancing bai

4/

chair, with the slightest yawn behind his hand, fol-
lowed by a deprecating gesture.

a ae late, Wilma. I really must beg of
you at last the favor of a final answer.”

“Oh, Dr. Dallas, can you not see that I am faint,
sick with the surprise and dread of all this? I can-
not even think. Give me time; let me gain some
understanding of these strange things you have
been telling me. I can decide nothing in my own
mind now.”

“So I see,” reflected the doctor. ‘“SoIsee and so
Iapprove. Indeed, I would never offer a premium
for any better comprehension on your part. And as
for time, my pet, ¢his is the time upon which I hang
my best hopes. For ten chances now with her
worked into that nervous, bewildered state, there
won’t be one when she has had time to collect ber-
self. She will certainly see that the disaster of her
mother’s discovery is inevitable either way, and
conclude to save herself, I'll be left the alternative
in that case to take the truth where it is apt to pay
the best, and be treated to hush-money or a booting,
according to whether our gentleman's pride or iras-
cibility comes uppermost, And in that case the
Nevada fortune will most likely remain undisturbed
in the Fomeueat of its present owner, not at all the
result I owe to your cleverness, Captain Leigh Bern-
ham—not at all the result I hope to see maintained.”

He said, at his smoothest and blandest:

“My dear child, yield to my decision; trust to my
judgment; believe in my earnest affection.”

The great, reproachful, mournful eyes were upon
him, as though they would read the secret depths of
his narrow, conspiring soul.

“IT want to understand better what danger can
come to my mother except through me,” she said.
“What object would there be to bring grief and hu-
miliation to her except this advantage, whatever it
may be, to me? If it were not for me, Dr. Dallas,
would youever bring this knowledge of yours to
work harm to her?”

“How you misjudge me, Wilma! It is your wel-
fare and your wishes which claim first consideration
in my thoughts.”

_ If I were dead—if I really had died when I was a
little child, knowing all you now know, would you
use that knowledge to her detriment, would it be any
gain to you?”

“You are not dead, Wilma. If you were, there
would not be the ee ena change in the responsibil-
ity of Mrs. Richland’s position.’

With a quick movement, before he could inter-
cept her, she crossed over and rung the bell.

‘William will show you out, Dr. Dallas. No wro:
was ever righted by adding wrong, and it couk
never be right for me to marry you with the certain-
ty of never loving. For my own part, I renounce
every advantage which may come through your
agency out of that sorrowful past. I beg, if you
mean what os have said, that your wishes are
truly for my happiness, you will believe it may best
be assured by sparing her.”

He rose up, pale with anger, his furtive eyes
ed malice and rage, but he was con-
trolled and courteous in his own oily way.

“In that case,*my dear child, I must insist upon
resuming my active duties of guardianship immedi-
ately. I must request your return to your old place;
for, if it is your will to renounce your right to sur-
roundings such as these, there can be no object to
my sacrifice of your charming presence; in fact it
is more a duty to remove you from these associations.
I shall expect to find you in readiness to return to-
morrow, Wilma.”

There was no time for more words. William
Thompson was holding the door wide; he brought
forward the doctor’s overcoat and hat with cheer-
ful alacrity, and_bowed him out with a better grace
than he had exhibited on admitting him.

Wilma sunk bac.. into her chair with the stillness
of intense reflection in her face.

“He never would have been true to his promise of
sparing her with his own object, whatever it is,
weighing against. Iam sure that my. own sacrifice
never would have sufficed. I fear him and dread
him, for my own sake and hers. There is no duty,
none, to urge me back to that dreadful house an
him; and yet it is right that I should not stay here
and by my presence, unconscious as it has been, en-
danger her. If I only were buried beyond chance of
being found again.” e

Her brain whirled dizzily as she rose and went up
toherroom. One idea surged there, filing it to the
exclusion of all other thought. If she might onl
hide — beyond the chance of being ever roande
if she might avert the horror of the threatening
conveyed in Matthew Gregory’s dying words; if.she
might at least feel herself innocent of any misery
visited upon those she loved!

CHAPTER XX.
_ .. NEW DUTIES.

“TypHom in its most malignant form,” was the
eee which came back from the village to Miss
Erle that same night after Erle had lefther. “Three
of the little Biffins down with it, and my hands full
there,” was the message Prudence sent. ‘ Symp-
toms strong in two other homes, and the woman i
the Lee cottage in a bad way. k up medicines
and comforts and eatables; I'll not come back to the
house while the infection is spreading.”

Prudence was never more in her element than at
such an emergency. An excellent nurse and a
cleanly housekeeper, she was sure to find sufficient
opportunity for the exercise of all her energies in
both directions at the cottages. They were a low
and stubbornly ignorant class, for the most part,
those people whom Miss Erle had taken under the
wing of her protection. The village was one of
those rare, shut-in nooks where generations of the
same people have lived and died, run in the same
groove, married and intermarried and isolated them-
selves from other humanity, until they had lost
the finest and t of human impulses in them-
selves. Such places do exist even in our fair, free
land—lingerings of the barbarous which reflect all
the more brightly by way of contrast the glorious —
advancement which is the rule and not the excep-
tion of the thousands upon thousands of growing
villages, and prosperous cities and towns, and teem-

elds of our own America. But this benighted

had been left to itself for whole generations.

Its Fe tare so closely associated that it was al-
m in reality composed of one wide-reaching

‘

 
 

18 THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

family; almost every household was related to
almost every other household by ties of either
blood or marriage, until a chance new-comer to
the place was a matter not only of wonder and
comment, but of jealousy and resentment as well.
An outside interest had reached them for the first
time in generations when Miss Erle undertook to
better their condition, to encourage improvement,
and to widen this limited sphere into which they
had shut themselves, as ic were, away from the sun-
shine of prosperous contentment which has placed
even our humblest homes at the head of all their
like in all the world. Miss Erle’s philanthropy was
not well received. The people were inclined to re-
sent as intrusive the manner in which she was in
the habit of storming their domiciles, inveighing
against the remissness she detected at every turn,
distributing advice, reproof, sermons, and more
welcome worldly gifts, as Erle had laughingly re-
marked, with impartial liberality—had resented at
first; but, as time passed and she continued faith-
ful to her self-constituted duties, as they recognized
something of her true good-heartedness and_ real
interest in their welfare, and reaped the advan-
tages of her generosity, they grew more tolerant
of her visitations, and began to display some thank-
fulness here and there where the greatest favors had
been received.

But, after, years of faithful adherence to her
course, the people as a mass were unregenerate and
stiff-necked almost as their predecessors, and any
but Miss Erle must have grown disheartened long
before this. ;

The evil tidings aroused her as perhaps nothing
else would have done, just then. She could bury
thoughts of self with this danger threatening ‘‘ her
posts * She lost no time in busying herself, hand-
ng fresh linen out of the closets, weighing packages
from her well-filled store-room, diving into odorous
pantries where dried herbs and roots and barks
were ranged on shelves or hung in great bunches,
half forgetting her own disappointment in the ac-
tivity of the time.

“Tell Prudence I shall be down with fresh sup-
plies myself, in the morning,” she said to her mes-
senger. ‘Have some one go for Dr. Joy, if he has
not yet been sent for. There’ll be some one needed
to stay with the woman in the Lee cottage; get one
of them down there for to-night, and we will see to
having a regular nurse installed to-morrow.”

The woman in the Lee cottage was one of those
few exceptions coming latterly into the village. A
quiet, respectable person, past middle age, who
cultivated her little garden-plot, made the best of
the products of her single cow, which pastured with
others of the villagers upon broken waste land about,
and from her little poul ay and proved herse!
neat and industrious and thrifty to a degree which
gained her no good-will from her already resentful
neighbors. She proved by far too convenient a
reference, too admirable a model to be held up for
their patterning, and the Poca had hinted among
themselves “that for all her sanctified ways she
mightn’t be so much better than them of the rest
which had large families to drudge for, let alone
scrubbing and scouring every day ef the week.”
There was some hesitation, now, before one of the
village women volunteered to remain with her dur.
ing the night.

“An ungrateful set!” cried Miss Erle, hotly in-
dignant when she heard it. ‘I quite lose patience
with the lot of them. They take a kindness as no
favor and break over a hair at giving one. A thrift-
less, unregenerate set; they deserve to be left to the
worst they would bring upon themselves.”

It was a decision Miss Erle had arrived at more
than once since she had entered’ upon her mission;
but now, as before, her annoyance passed, and she
was soon actively planning again for theim comfort
and advantage.

She was sitting over her late breakfast, next morn

ing, after giving her orders to her household, Her

own fastidious tastes and habits, her fine old aristo-
eratic proclivities were not to be shaken, even by
map types of typhoid in her own pet neighbor-
hood. A conscientious, finely-tempered, exact old
lady was Miss Erle, one whose duty-promptings did
not outweigh the just consideration which was first
due to herself.

““What news this morning, Dorothy?’ she asked,
of the maid who brought in the breakfast things.

“Bad news, Miss Erle. Two more cases, and Mrs.
Brooke taken worse in the night and so f ape
the Lee woman who staid with her mutterings an
ravings that not one can be found to promise as
much again, a, do say that she has something
on her mind, awful.”

“Oh! they say!’’ cried Miss Erle, tartly. ‘‘ And
did you ever know them not to say when any one
with tolerable good sense and decency set an ex-
ample to them? They would ‘say’ if the Angel
Gabriel was to come down among them. See who
that is, will you?”

She had a glimpse of a little close-vailed, dark-
robed figure flit past the window, and a moment
ai a summons at the door sounded through the

ouse,

“Some one from below, I daresay,” Miss Erle
mused during the moment Dorothy was gone. “TI
wonder if Iam growing nervous. It really gave me
a start. thinking for the second that it looked like—
absolutely, like Wilma.”

She glanced up at the opening door and sat trans-
fixed at seeing, absolutely, Wilma.

She threw back the vail and came forward quick.
ly, with her anxious, timid eyes fixed pleadingly
upon the elder lady’s countenance.

“J never will give my sanction, if she has come
for that; I never. will approve of Erle’s course in
this,” was the hardening thought which flashed
through Miss Erle’s mind as she gave a gesture of
dismissal to the maid. The latter went out, and
Wilma put forth both her hands, her face eloquent
with entreaty.

“Oh, dear, dear Miss Erle,” she said. ‘‘ Won’t
ou befriend me—won’t you advise me, help me?
There is not one in the wide world to whom I can
turn unless to you.”

Stiff and still sat Miss Erle, very sternly looked
forward into the sweet, wistful, plpading, face, The
face, she thought, which had led her nephew away
from his true allegiance, that had drawn him out

cf the strictly honorable course from which one of
his race should never deviate. That look and the

 

lack jof all other response was a sudden chill to
Wilma’s hope. She stood with a sense of dreary
desolation come upon her, the expectation faded
from her face, the old weary hopelessness settled
there and at her heart.

“T beg your pardon,” she said, quietly. ‘‘I never
should have come here but for your kind solicitation
afew days ago. May I ask of you only this, that
you will not mention my having been here?”’

Miss Erle, brought back to herself, put out her
hand and spoke not unkindly.

“You gave me such asurprise, Wilma, and—I ma;
as well say it first as last—l received such a sho
and disappointment through you very recently. A
sense of the two came so pores over me just then
that I quite forgot myself, though I don’t lay any in-
tentional agency to you.”

“A disappointment, Miss Erle? Oh, I hope and I
think it may not be as you suppose. You are mis-
taken, Iam sure, if you thought the disappointment
was to come through Mr. Hetherville.”

“Do you know what Erle told me before he left
here yesterday, Wilma? That because of his liking
foryou he meant to break with Ethel; that after
discovering his change of mind he would do so if he
could not even have the assurance of finding a re-
sponse in you. You mean, I presume, that you have
not seen him and do not know how set in his pur-
pose he has become.”

‘*I mean, dear Miss Erle, that there is no fear of
any estrangement coming between them. If there
was a difference, rest assured it has been safely
passed. They have passed all misunderstanding,
and have decid: d that the wedding shall be on New
years Day. I am gladI can tell you so beyond a

oubt.”

Miss Erle’s face lighted with something very like
joyful incredulity, a perceptible change of warmth
in her manner. She could not well understand how
this happy result had come about. Erle had ap-
peared very decided, and though indolence might be
a prevailing characteristic of his, lack of determina-
tion certainly was not. If he had compromised with
himself and again acknowledged _ fidelity to Ethel, it
was no half-way compromise to be broken through
with any succeeding change or discontent, she was
very sure.

“You have lightened my heart of a heavy load,
Wilma,” she said, with affectionate kindness. *‘ Come
here my child, and let me tell you how meally. wel-
come youare. Iam truly very fond of you, Wilma,
though you may have been led to doubt it just now.
There is nothing short of my hope and pride in
Erle to which I would not willingly admit you. I
felt every word when I told you how glad I would be
to secure you as a young companion; if any change
has occurred to have sent you here for that purpose,
may. dear, Iam ready to prove the sincerity of my of-

er.”

She ieee change has occurred, Miss Erle. One
which I can not explain fully, but Ihave discovered
that by remaining there I was liable to bring sorrow
and distress upon those who have been so kind to
me and whom I so dearly love. I came away with-
out their knowledge, and I know they will be grieved
at what will seem such ungrateful conduct from me,
but my most urgent wish is toleave them in ignor-
ance of my whereabouts. I want to go where there
is no chance of their tracing me. Itis my duty, Miss
Erle, to lose myself to them, and I came to you be-
cause I am myself so inexperienced.”

“Whatever cause has sent you, dear child, you
shall not leave me while you are free to remain. No,
not a word. Jneed you and I shall keep you. Never
mind what reason sent you here, I am rejoiced at

our coming. Sit here and breakfast with me and
et me tell you what additional cause I have for wor-
riment just. now.””

Miss Erle’s own private conclusion, hastily arrived
at, was that Wilma’s influence had persuaded Erle
to a continuance of his duty, and that Wilma’s se-
cret reason for leaving was to avoid the chance of
her presence swerving him from the right again.

co ai for the best, no doubt,” thought Miss Erle,
“but there is no fear of Erle if he has made his de-
cision firmly.”

“There is no place you could well be safer than
here, my dear,’’ she said, confidently. ‘‘ There is
work ready to your hand, too, of a kind to call out

our sympathy and bring that delicate tact of yours
nto play. There is a sickness broken out amon;
my poor people here, a fever, but I think we o:
strong bodily health and good constitutions need
have no cause for apprehension. These foolish peo-
Pe: they have no regard for sanitary measures.

‘hey live in a style to induce disease to breed amon
them; they have no care and no forethought, an
very often they will not profit by better wisdom and
kindly intention. Don’t imagine, my dear, that I
wish to press you to unwilling service, or that I am
anxious you should engage in it at all. I would not
urge any one to Se pouty, and what chance of con-
tagion there may be. I shall as gladly make you
welcome here and keep you exclusively to myself
in my own home.”

“Indeed, I shall be glad to be of use, and I am not
afraid of the infection,” Wilma declared.

Dear little Wilma! Life was so dr to her just
then, such a hopeless, despairing outlook, that to
lay it down in a brave performance of duty and
kindliness to that humanity to which she was in-
debted for so little would have seemed no appalling
prospect,

 

CHAPTER XXtI.
THE DOCTOR’S ADVANTAGE,

Mr. RicHLAnD, with his back to the fire, the gold
watch wound and replaced in his pocket, waited
with Cree ee! patience for minutes past the usual
breakfast time that morning. Much given as he was
of late to his own complacent eee the delay was
proving a source of annoyance to this model man of
exactly regulated habits. He shifted uneasily, and
glanced up at the marble clock, and growled a mild
expletive in a voice far down in his chest, and
waited again, but the light broke through the clouds
ina moment as with a soft sweep of trailing robe, a
breath of faint fragrance, a fair face sweet and
brep ee Ethel made her appearance,

‘““T am unpardonably late 1 know,’’ she said from
the doorway, ‘‘and— Spit poets that Gertrude is
not down yet ? Indeed, in that case, I will not plead

any excuse,
“It is unprecedented, this delay on the part of

 

Gertrude. Fel Ethel, I am quite apprehensive
over it. Here, William, send some one up to see
what may be detaining Mrs. Richland. lam apprehen-
sive that Gertrude is not so perfectly well as always
heretofore. Her slight indisposition of last evening
may have been the precursor of something more
serious; I thought she looked uncommonly wear,
and affected with lassitude after our return, thoug'
she would have it that she was not even fatigued.

His growing uneasiness was set at rest on that
score as Mrs. Richland made her appearance a mo-
ment later. She was her usual self; that clear, still
face never changed even to those who loved her
best and were with her most. Looking into its per-
fect. statuesque repose one could ill-imagine any
hidden inner emotion, great throes and spasms like
the convulsons of those inner fires which burn silent-
ly for centuries, and break out to mar fair, unsus-
pecmna ee with some little loosening of the power
which holds them. She came in with an open letter
in her hand, a sheet of note paper written over in a
straggling, broken, uncertain hand, growing firmer at
the last, and with the dry blistering of tears upon it.
She went close to her husband, no way changes and
yet her face had gone down upon that little sheet
twenty minutes before, drawn, hardened, every line
strained and tense, her heart a dead, numb agony
worse to bear than keen, fierce pain.

“Dearest friend of all I have ever known,” ran
the note, “do not think me ungrateful for all your
reat kindnesses. I never can tell half how thank-
‘ul I am and have been; if I never should see any
of you again I should never fail to car loving re-
membrances of all. I have been very happy here,
but it is my duty to go away—a duty I owe to you,
Please do not try to discover me; do believe that I
am not ungrateful as this must seem, and that I
will be happier in being only kindly remembered
than if you are distressed at my going, or make an
attempt tofind me. I shall go to a friend who I am
sure will help and advise me for the best, and I shall
never cease to a, for you and your perce beng
ness, for dear Miss Ethel and for Mr. Richland—all!
Heaven bless you all! ‘WiLMA.”’

That was what Mr. Richland read, and looked into
his wife’s eyes, perplexed and disconcerted.

‘‘Upon my word, Gertrude! Most extraordinary!
Whatis this the child has been doing? Nevef—
cunely, never 80 foolishly precipitate as to have gone
away?’

o4 She is certainly gone, Howard. Isent Cicely to
her room to call her tome and she found only that.”

““ Wilma gone!’ echoed Ethel. ‘‘Why should she

0? Why in such a manner?” ‘

“ And just as we had all wn fond of her,” added
Mr. Richland,in aggrieved tones. ‘I presume it isno
more than we might have expected; it always is the
way, but I own to being disappointed. I would not
have thought it of Wilma.”

“Don’t think hardly of the child now, Howard. I
feel confident that some reason which she has not
hinted must have persuaded her that this step is for
the best for us and her. She is so inexperienced, so
apt to be impressed very deeply by what would seem
asmall matter tous. Ido not fear much difficulty
in explaining any such fancied trouble away. Of
course she must have gone back to her quandinet?

Teen Thompson, entering, caught the last
words.

“T think, ma’am,’’ bowing profoundly, ‘if I may
be allowed to say it, if it’s Miss Wilma, which Cicely
have told me just now is found missing, I think as
how she couldn’t have gone to that doctor what calls
himself her guardeen. The doctor were here at a
very improper time, if I may be allowed to remark
it, seeing as how he knew the family were out, and
Miss Wilma were in noways glad to have him as I
could see, and she, poor, dear young lady! lookin
sad and stunned like to touch’a heart of stone.
thought more of it after, when I'd gone back to wait
by the fire again, and could see her face coming up
in the coals looking so. And the doctor was sayin
something as I answered the bell to show him out,
of coming to-day to find her ready, and Miss Wilma
saying not somuch as a word to answer him. I'd
sooner think she’d care to Fe away from him any
day than to go to him, for if ever I see dread on a
human face it were on bers then.”

However much William Thompson had positively
seen, and how much had wakened in his mind since
the news spread, his deduction was not far incor-
rect, and gave a new, startled thought to one pre-

sent.

“Tf Dr. Dallas is exerting his influence, it_means
no good to either her or me. And, Wilma, Wilma!
if yours should be but the first example of two!”

o trace of the thought reflected itself, as her hus-
band questioned the servant aoe

“When was this person here, iam, Dr. Dallas,
Imean? I doubt if he is a man I would care to ad-
mit to the house. I have heard of him through
Crayton, my dear; a charlatan, a dabbler in phar-
macy and chemistry, and a sycophant who hovers
about better men until he gets a hold to push him-
self upon their footing. Very unfortunate that
Wilma should have been left to the charge of such a
person. Last evening after we left for the theater,
you say, William, atid remained for an hour? 1

hink there is scarcely a doubt but he has had some-
thing todo with this freak of your little protege,
Gertrude.”

“T was i peeent when Dr. Dallas stipulated that he
should still be permitted free communication with
his ward, and considered his trust in no way yielded
through allowing her to come to us,” remarked Eth-
el. ‘I formed an unfavorable impression of the
man, but do not think he could have any object. in
persuading her to leave us in a manner like this.”’

“Of course we must not lose time in tracing her
whereabouts, whether she has or has not returned
to him. The first thing will be to send to the residence
of this Dr. Dallas,I presume. Can some one be spared
from the uousehold for that, Gertrude?”

“T have been thinking,’ she answered slowly,
‘* whatever Wilma’s reason may be, 1am sure it is
one which seems sufficient to her. I would not ad-
vise anything public or calculated to disturb her in
any refuge she may have taken, Make quiet inquiry
and wait in hope that she may either return or com-
municate some further assurance of her safety. I
am sure Wilma meant every word that she has
written here; I am sure if it seems right to her, she
will come back of her ownaccord, [think that we

 

~4

 
 

 

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE, 19

may all trust to her realization of what is right,
Howard.”

“Upon my word, Gertrude. ‘Any refugeshe may
have taken;’ but why should she take refuge from
us? Why shouldn’t she trust in us if any trouble of
her own has overtaken her? I would scarcely have
been more surprised if Ethel here had taken sucha
wild freak into her mind. Iam more than grieved,
disappointed at her lack of confidence in us, and after
our meaning to receive her in Ethel’s place in the
household, to be vacant so soon. No one ever could
take your place in our hearts, little sister, but
Wilma had won a very tender place in mine for her-
self. Irepeat I am inexpressibly disappointed.”

In his perplexed annoyance Mr. Richland failed to
see that whatever influence had fren her, had
some way found a hold throu themselves. Wil-
ma’s duty to them had affected her action, and Ger-
trude, looking down into the glowing coals, saw
further and more than the others could even sus

pect.
“Whatever Wilma’s prompting, I believe it is for
the best,” she was thinking. ‘She is brave, self-de-

nying, heroic; but this affair of Erle and Ethel may
have proved too great a trial. She may have found
herself lacking force of nerve to keep down her own
pain with the presence of both such constant re-
minders, I feel—is it oe a fancy ?—I feel if we had
her here now, if she had not gone like this, if we
should find her at once even, that it would be to lose
her completely forever. She is his child—his—and I
cling to her so it would be death to give her up
now. Oh, merciful Heaven! what end to the web?
I can only pray with her that no shadow may fall to
cloud the happiness of these dear ones.”

“Well, Gertrude,” her husband interrupted her
silent reflection, ‘‘what is to be done? Cause the
bells to ring and the tidings to go forth, or wait as
you say the simple issue of events? One will inflict
publicity and annoyance, and the other appears to
me heartless, wrong. I should feel almost implicated
now if any harm came to the rash girl.”

“Could we not make inquiry and trace her quietly,
in such a manner she should not suspect we were
making the attempt? You mentioned Crayton, and
I fancy he would be a good person to consult with.
For to-day do nothing, at least untilI have acted up-
on your suggestion and sent to her guardian.”

eanwhile breakfast had grown cold. Mrs. Rich-
land rung for fresh coffee, and they sat down, a de-
ressed party, all feeling the absence of the trim
Httle figure, of the sweet, dark, small face with the
soft hair clinging lovingly about the temples, and
rippling down about the slender throat—a shape and
a face which had grown dear to each of them in
these few weeks past.

There proved no necessity for any messenger to

be sent to the old house on the Manchester road that

day.
Mr. Richland had gone to the bank; Ethel, pale and
perturbed, all her own new sense of relief and ap-

roval of her own course growing more easy before

er suddenly shaken by_ this unaccountable loss of
Wilma, had taken the advice of her brother’s wife
and kept an engagement she had made, to drive
with Mrs. Latham, whose grand reception of a little
more than a week ago had opened the gay season.
Outwardly the entire household moved on the same;

et scarcely one within the fair, wide walls but felt,
in greater or Jess degree, the shock and the depres-
sion which had fallen with greatest force on the one
who made least display of her emotions—Mrs, Rich-
land.

The news, spread over the house through Cicely’s
sedicn, had created an under-buzz of excitement,
kept own br memns of the unchanged surface.

It’s that Dr. Craving Dallas's doings, depend on
it,’’ asserted William Thompson, stoutly. If ever
villainy and cat-cunning were sot in human counte-
nance, them are hisn. Our Miss Wilma is too sweet
and mye to be left to that human vulture’s
clutches, as [always will maintain— Bless my life!
It’s only the door-bell, but what a start it did give

me,

Cut short in his dissertation, William Thompson
hurried to the performance of his duty, and a mo-
ment later admitted the chief object of it—Dr. Craven
Dallas himself.

‘“ Which I was never so took aback,” said the ir-
repressible William, in a snatched side-conference
with the housekeeper, on the way of transmitting his
message—‘‘I never was, as when he ups andasks for
Miss Wilma, with his compliments to Mrs. Richland,
and will she see Lim for a moment alone, while he
waits for his ward? And what does he but walks off,
not into the drawing-room at all, as I was thinking
of asking him to take a hall chair, but like a lord at
home, straight into the library. ‘Let your mistress
know I am waiting here,’ says he, lofty as you please,
with his yellow eyes shut down and looking on
sides of him as though he’d like to put the whole es-
tablishment into his pocket, and walk off with that
same, It’s ablessing that our Mrs. Richland is of a
sort to put him down to his proper level.”

Mrs. Richland was before fir dressing-glass, com-
pleting a hasty toilet of plain outdoor wear, when
the message reached her. She turned to her maid,
who was laying out mantle and gloves and vail for
her, secretly wonde at the whim which was
taking her mistress walking in that unassuming

uise.

“ee You may put them back, Cicely. This interrup-
tion changes my mind. 1 will not go out at all this
morning, I think.”

She went down as she was, the plain dark gar-
ments sweeping about her stately form, ease and
grace in every quiet motion, the steady, unreadable
eyes looking forward into the face of this early vis-
itor as the door unclosed and left her standing before
him, With an inclination of the head and a gesture
of SeprenNe OH, she stood silently awaiting his
speech,

***Pon honor, very much as a queen might do with
no very well-favored subject,” thought the doctor,
“and I can er well imagine, my high-toned mad-
ame, secure in the assurance of your own insolent
superiority though you pay be, that the sight of the
one-time needy young physician should be no very
i el one to yon ey no means a rson
with whom you might desire to be thrown into con-
tinued juxtaposition which might overrule fancied
forgetfulness,

e bowed profoundly before the coldly-silent
presence,

 

“T trust sincerely I do not intrude upon prior

arrangements,” he said, blandly deprecating, The
doctor always deprecated intrusions on his own part
with a sort of Uriah Heep humbleness, which proved
particularly offensive to his present listener. “* Favor
me by being seated, madame; there will be no need
to delay my subject. Grieved as I must be to insist
upon any change which may not pay with your
wishes and most generous intentions, I have still a
duty to perform that shall be faithfully executed to
the furthest of my poor ability. My ward, I pre-
sume, has not left you in ignorance of a decision I
was forced to impart te her during an interview last
evening.”
S5 iimna has told me nothing, Dr. Dallas.” Mrs.
Richland was non-committal regarding the cause of
such reserve, waiting to conclude how far he might
be concerned in this step of Wilma’s.

** Ah, that makes my task the harder! I find it
necessary, absolutely a moral necessity, to resume
my active duties as Wilma’s guardian, to request her
immediate return under my own personal observa-
tion, to my own individual care. Ihave already ap-
poe my ward of the facts of the case. My house-

eeper, who is extremely fond of the young lady,
and who has done little but make regret over our
temporary loss of her, has put her old room into its
previous order, and lam come prepared to accom-
pany Wilma back to her home which will never
cease to be ony hers. Will you kindly permit her
to be informed that I am here for the purpose?”

“First, will you explain to me what cause neces-
sitates this sudden change? Accept my warm in-
terest in your ward as apology for asking.”

“Family reasons entirely, Mrs. Richland,” he an-
swered, with apparent carelessness, but with his
light, furtive eyes sequning her closely. ‘The as-
surance of advantage to be derived from Wilma
through—as yet—an unacknowledged connection,
Iam sure you will rejoice to know that Wilma, pre-
sumedly alone in the world, has one living relative
very favorably situated in the scale of earthly pos-
sessions and honors from whom she may ques-
ear expect to reap some very tolerable benefit.”

‘And this relative,” queried the lady, ‘‘is recon-
ciled to her existence, prepared to acknowledge and
receive her?”

“T have every reason to beiieve, madam, that
this relative does not even suspect the girl’s exist-
ence. I have my own private opinion at heart that
the knowledge will be a matter of any thing but re-

oicing to the person most nearly concerned by it.
ut of that, what? Certainly nothing with ,impera-
tive duty in the other scale.’

“That with Dr. Dallas means what sum? I think
I understand your motive, sir, and am sufficiently
interested to submit.to any fair demand rather than
part with Wilma. It is our wish—Mr. Richland’s
and miné—to adopt Wilma into our household; to
receive her and cherish her and be assured of her as
though she really were one of us. Every man has
his price, Dr. D; ; let me ask again plainly what
is yours?”

“How the maternal heart, all unsu ting, re-
spony to nature’s thrill,” was the doctor's sarcastic
thought. ‘And how our fine lady’s worldly wis-
dom reaches to the root of affairs! If better calcu-
lations fail, my dear Madame Richland, I may even
a a Sean price out of you, but not yet—
not yet.”

“My dearest lady,” he exclaimed, with a plaintive
intonation of reproach and of that offensive touch
of deprecation combined, ‘must I assure you that
my interest in Wilma has been without money and
is without price? It isso, 1 assure you. For the
sake of the child’s welfare I shall not neglect one
precaution in sae Der claim good; my own re-
ward will be found witnessing her prosperity.
We could not wish it to one more deserving. May
I trouble you—I am in some haste this morning—
again to simmon Wilma to attend me? Your par-
don for having detained you, Mrs. Richland.”

“Tt is unfortunately impossible to comply,” an-
swered Mrs. Richland, quietly. ‘‘ You may under-
stand better than we what reason Wilma had for
her action, Dr. Dallas. She left us unknown to any
one, some time oe the night or early morning.
Her room was found vacant, her bed unslept in,
Wilma gone.”

The doctor’s jaw dropped. His eyes opened wide
for once and returned her fixed gaze with such a scin-
tillation of angry, cruel eon lights that her heart
sickened, nothing disturbed though her outward
com nee nets £ git ae

‘Wilma gone—Wilma gone!” he repea’ en,
with a sudden, tigerish fierceness, and a bitnding
suspicion rushing across him, breaking the smoot
mask of craft and oily subterfuge—‘‘Are you in-
strumental in that, Mrs. Richland? If you have
undertaken any such underhand game, by the
pond van have chosen the wrong man to play it
with.’

Her steady, calm and scornful eree gave him an
assurance of how hasty his conclusion had been, but
it was an effective donlanntion of war between them
he was in nowise inclined to retract.

“You forget yourself, sir,” she answered, coldly.
“There need. be little more said until Wilma is found
again; but, meantime, Lrefer you to Mr. Richland’s
solicitor in the hope of reaching some definite agree-
ment regarding the end we should be happy to ef-
oe ve ave the pleasure of wishing you good-morn-

ere
ey beg your pardon for detaining you one moment,
Mrs. Ric d.”” The doctor had gone back to his
usual bland and courteous demeanor, but every
word was underlaid with a sarcasm which grated
upon her sensitive ear. ‘‘Let me hope Wilma may
be found very soon. If you had no interest in her
disappearance, I shall hope to invest you with one
to hasten her recovery—a secret, by the way, which
I was favored through her hearing last evening. It
my duty now—how incessant is this stern Duty in
her calls upon us!—it is my duty to inform you,
Mrs. Richland, after a considerable ae of time,
that the child born in an isolated old house, forty
miles out of the city, on a stormy December night
seventeen years 0, never died; that that child
lives to-day as Wilma Wilde, your own daughter,
Mrs. Richland!” :

He had meant to give her a sudden shock, and
succeeded admirably, though a slow moment of
sheer, astonished disappointment elapsed before he
was permitted a realization of the fact.

 

That marble face had wonderful powers of svlf-
command; those deep, inscrutable eyes, so earnestly
steady that they abashed even him, were so steeled
against surprises that this one was a moment break-
ing through. There seemed a slow smile of in-
credulity upon her lips as she put a hand on the arm
of a chair—she had stood all this time—wheeled it
about and sunk down into it. Not a feature of the
marble mask changed, but as if through a deliberate
contemplation of the act, Mrs. Richland’s stately
head rested back against the chair, and then and
fs under the doctor’s very eyes she quietly

‘ainted,

 

CHAPTER XX.
EIGHTEEN YEARS BEFORE.

Captain LeigH BeRNHAM was walking his floor
with a rapid, regular stride, that steeled bronzed
face telling little. though-there was a quiver at times
and an unusual paleness hidden under the heavy
grizzled mustache, his eyes fixed on the straight
space before him, steadfast and inscrutable to a de-
aren which might have rivaled Mrs. Richland’s own.

apeains Leigh Bernham’s strong, contained mind
h grasped a refrain which was repeating itself
under the disconnected jarring chords of thought
that were “less a melody than pain” with him at
that hour of that pe coca morning. That in-
credible surprise of the enone night was thrilling
bie — something harder to bear than simple un-

lief.

“Never dead and never buried seventeen years
ago,” sounded that refrain in the captain’s mind—
“alive, alive!” :

And above it—

“ Another man’s wife—oh, Rose! oh, Rose! Dead
to me, and it would be less pain to know that the
grass was growing green and flowers blooming over

our head—oh, Rose! And she could see me and

ow me with those cold, unanswering eyes. What
did she think of the change, I wonder, and how
much of it will she take home to her own proud, un-
relenting heart? Whatever my faults and follies
then, whatever my long loneliness and my long
mourning since, I always cherished her first and
loved her best alone of all the world. I would have
been true to her memory forever, and she is alive
and another man’s wife.”

He paused at a turn before a square inclined mir-
ror which reflected back his bronzed face and
gloomy, stern eyes and soldierly figure—paused and
re up_ his hand to run it throvgh the close, nut-

rown hair, just tinged here and there by silvery
threads. The beard, more ruddily brown, with more
silver streaks, and the firm mouth, the bronze gather-
ed from long years’ exposure to wind and sun and
storm, a different face from one which came up as
wince looked back from his mirror, something
more than seventeen years before.

“Little wonder if she had not recognized me,”
he thought, ‘“‘ but Rose is not one to forget. What
was that she said when we spoke of this once? It
was when I gave her a picture of myself and got
her promise of this one of hers which I have worn
through all the years since—foolish, sentimental
times those, and to think how I have held to them!
I asked her, would she love the giver the same
when the face grew old and seamed and the hair
silvered, and she said—I remember her very words
—she said:

“*Through all time and all eternity the very
same, Ray ’—calling me by that name. ‘The dear
face itself can never change for me. If any im-
possible thing should separate us for years and
years, and if you should come back to me wrinkled
and ‘gray, as you sdid just now, the eyes of love
would not be deceived. I should surely know you
and love you all the same, Ray.’

“* Any impossible thing!’ Ah, r girl! She
could have no idea how very sc on themost probable
expectation had in view should part us; and I, ;ii-
fu vate fool! had trusted to her love to follow me
to the end of the world, if need be. Heaven pity
me! my great disappointment in’ her love found
wanting came and was over seventeen years and
more ago. I could not hold myself blameless
through my too much love for her, and she never
forgave me the deception. I pity myself yet as I
think of the time when the word came that she was
dead. Dead! my little Rose dead! All my faith in
Heaven and earth would have been shaken first had
any one whispered this—that I should find her liv-
ing and have sooner known her dead! And yet

r Rose! not for any temptation in life would
Eientiad one word to injure you now. But the
child—ovr child—whom you deserted for seventeen
years, whose existence I did not evcn suspect, she

mine; not even you can claim so gocd a light.”

He turned and fell to walking the floor again, a
deep corrugation coming into his forehead, a trick
of expression which was repeated in Wilma. His
thoughts had gone to her, the child of the brief,
bright romance of his youthful, foolish days, the
little daughter whose existence he had not known
until these later days.

“Little Wilma! I know I frightened her, but so
near, with her sweet, shy face just discernible
through the dusk, I could not resist taking her in
my arms and giving her a father’s first caress.
Poor little thing! at least I shall make her life hap-
pier than it was before.” j

Some one knocked. Captain Bernham paused and

ve a brush of his hand over his heavy mustache.
Pallor and quiver which had been there changed to
the usual close setting of the firmly-chiseled lips.

“Come in,” said the captain, and Lenoir answered
the invitation.

It was nearly noon of a clear, cool November day.
A brisk walk through the bracing air had brought a
flush into the young man’s cheeks, ‘and an added
brightness to his fine dark eyes, yet for all that he
was thin and worn even to a casual observer. “It
is better to wear out than to rust out,” says some
wiseacre, and Justin Lenoir seemed to have taken
it in hand to verify the maxim in as short a time as

; the process of wearing out could well be consum-

mated. His was not a vigorous constitution at the
best. These long nights of incessant drain upon
both mental resources and physical endurance, the
hours — by his editorial duties, supplemented
by oiher hours of brain labor lasting habitually into
the breaking dawn, and often until the eun was high
up and busy traffic begun in the streets—all follow-
ing this restless American impulse of ours which

 
 

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20 A240. ANE abt deen ELA Tb

 

has no mercy apon bealth or life or anything except
the iron endurance that can stand firm in its own

lace and be beaten and jostJed on all sides, and

ake no impression from the wear and. tear of the
multitude about—but it all told upon Lenoir. Possibly
his own reflection that the result would be the same,
whatever use he made of the time, was in part cor-
rect. More than overwork was proving a source of
unrest to Justin Lenoir, but who ever knew a rest-
less mind to be put at ease by the extra efforts of a
restless body?

“T came immediately upon receipt of your note,”
Lenoir said, dropping into the seat Bernham placed
for him, ‘My landlady did not disturb me until my
usual going out hour. You know the reprehensible
habit to which newspaper men are necessarily ad-
dicted, of turning night into day, and vice versa, and
that must pardon my délay.”

“T dare say I took a liberty in addressing you at
all, but I trust to your accommodating spirit not to
think it such,” said the captain, frankly. ‘ Are you
at liberty now, Lenoir? Can I claim you for a half-
hour or so without interfering with duties of your
own?

“Quite at liberty, and happy to place myself at
your service,” Lenoir answered.

‘‘And I want to claim a service of you. I think
you are acquainted with an influential family here—
the Richlands. Yes. I remember you had come
from there, the other night, when I met you first.
A very short acquaintance it has been to warrant
this offering of my confidence and tax upon your
kindness.’ If you have any delicacy in regard to act-
ing for me, my dear fellow, don’t hesitate to say it
after I have told you how my case stands. There is
a young lady staying with the Richlands—Miss Wilma

ilde. Have you met her?”

“Frequently. I had the liberty of the house
through the kindness of its master—of the library
more properly—a short time since, and became quite
well acquainted with Miss Wilde in my daily com-
ings and goings.”

“She is made quite one of the family, then?”

“Yes, and is well worthy the distinction. Such a

culiar, sensitive, childlike, trustful yet pathetic

‘ace, I never saw anywhere else, and the face is the
clear mirror of a pure soul. They all think and
make much of her. An artist friend of mine, Lati-
mer, has done little but rave of her since our last
evening there, He wants to paint Wilma as Cinde-
rella, and, as Latimer is apt to have his way in all
things, he may hand Wilma down to fame in that

guise yet.

The concealed lines about the captain’s lips had
softened during the first part of the other’s speech,
only for an instant and then were firm as before.

“Cinderella must have more lasting assurance of
more real pleasure,” he said, quietly. ‘‘ You can
imagine how gratified I am at hearing you express
yourself so favorably, how truly happy i am in an-
nouncing myself Wilma’s father.”

Certainly an abrupt and unexpected announce-
ment. Lenoir looked the surprise it had given him.

“It was a matter of astonishment even to me,”
the captain continued, answering the look. ‘It is
less than a fortnight since I discovered that I had a
daughter, and only yesterday that I traced her
whereabouts. Will you smoke.and listen to a rough
sketch of te er. Lenoir? My pipe has been my
solace for so long that it is inseparable as a compan-
ion now,

He pushed a case of Havanas across to Lenoir,
but took down a beautifully colored meerschaum
for himself, sities leisurely from that heavy silver
tobacco-box which had arrested Dr. Craven Dallas’s
covetous eye:

Lenoir lit his cigar and settled back to listen with
unmistakable interest awakened. The captain
drew some slow whiffs, watching the misty blue
rings curl about his head and drift off in almost im-
perceptible clouds.

“Something near eighteen Pro ago,’ he began,
in that same quiet tone he had used, “I was a mili-
tary student, let free for an interval, with an ap-

intment to a commission and active service under
iscussion. I was passing the interval in the city
here and scouring the country roads in ee cos-
tume and hunting equipments, with very indifferent
success. I had the misfortune to bring down some
staid old body’s pet pigeon one day, ald somebody’s
companion, who was in some way responsible for
the bird being beyond the limit of its regular haunts,
was in great trepidation over the accident. I can
say, after all this time and after seeing women from
all parts of the globe, that the companion was the
loveliest creature sun ever shone upon; nearer per-
fection than any thing my impulsive young ae na-
tion had ever pictured, or that I have met with in all
of my experience. Seeing her shrinking, I volun-
teered, as was my duty, to explain the affair to
whomever it might concern, take all the blame up-
on myself, where it are and consequently free
her from any reproach she may have feared. Her
employer turned out to be avery exact old lad
with a stern manner, but, I am_ sure, a kind heart.
I managed to come out of the affair, which promised
a disturbance, with colors flying and all honors at-

tached.

“That was the beginning, and the end was I mar-
ried the pretty cai te afortnight after my first
meeting with her. I can see what you think, that it
was ‘marry in haste, to repent at leisure,’ but my
life! with my head clear as it is to-day, with the
same run of cireumstances to impel, but lacking the
knowledge of what was to come after, 1 should have
surely married Rose as then.”

“ Rose!” spoke Lenoir, quickly. ‘‘ Then the lovel:
Rose of yow miniature was the one you married,
Captain Bernham?” :

“ That was Rose.’ There was the slightest disturb-
ed inflection in the captain’s tone; it had been a slip
ot his, mentioning the name atall. ‘‘ You may won-
der less at my infatuation now. I married Rose in
secret and under an assumed name, There were
family reasons for that. You_know where family
pride will run sometimes, and I come of one of the
stiffest, most overbearing and unreasonable old fam-
ilies that branches over Maryland to-day—a wild,
reckless, rash-minded set of men we have been
from first to last, 1 may as well say at once. Of
our branch there were left at that time only m
brother and myself—my twin brother he was—bo'
worthy representatives of our,race gone before, and
an old grandfather, who was stiffer and prouder and

 

rasher and more unreasonable than both of us young
bloods taken together, and of whom we stood in
wholesome awe to his face, at least whatever law-
Jessness we may have been guilty of behind his back
and in, defiance of his strict prohibitions. His in-
fluence had put us at the military school and insured
us our commissions later. In his eyes we were youn,

vandals, both of us, never taken into any very especi

favoritism, though it was generally understood that
one or the other should inherit after him. Some
disinterested person once broached his leaving it to
us jointly, but he was stiff-necked in his intention.
There should be no division of the property; it
should go to the one who proved himself most
worthy, which meant with my grandfather the one
who chanced to be in best favor at the latest moment.
Poor old gentleman! He had lived a high life, and
near the close of it got a fever for speculation and
barely escaped a pauper’s grave at last. But all
that was long afterward, and at the time a slight
coolness had come up between my brother Ray and
myself regarding this very chance of inheritance.
The question of who shall be heir has made worse
breaches between as close friends, but Ray and I
were never what we might have been to each other
because of that. We were-doing each other the
worst of injustice in those days, though we never dis-
covered it until’too late to eid long years of es-
trangement lying between. While I wasin the city
here, galloping over the country roads, or making
the best of stolen Sik apes with Rose, it was not
very well known where my brother was passing his
time. Among various reports one had come to me
that he was not so far distant as I might suppose,
and a whisper came with it that he was keeping a
surveillance over my actions, hoping to discover a
flaw which might cut short my chances and at the
same time advance his own of succeeding our grand-
father. It was made plausible by my_ meeting

| him in the street one evening, but, before a

chance to accost him was given he plunged in a
crowd and eluded me, doubtless thinking I would
persuade myself I had been mistaken in the recogni-
tion. Believing the worst, I set myself to outwit him
and hold my own chance equally at least. I married
Rose as Raymond Leigh and was guilty of one other
piece of deception toward her. I told her nothing of
my own uncertain prospects. Ipermitted her to be-
lieve that my release from the military academy
was a final release from all accompanying regula-
tions. I did not dare to put before her the probabil-
‘ity of barrack life on the frontier as the wife of a
potty officer, though I believed firmly she would fol-
ow me there when the time came that I should ask
it of her. I never believed she would let me go
alone when she was once my wife. Hers had been a
sad childhood, as she told me the story. She was the
only child of a morbid, disappointed man. Tlearned
afterward that his whole life had changed when_his
young wife—the mother of my Rose—deserted him
and her little child for an early lover from whom his
own duplicity had served to separate her. He had
aa seemed to visit the sin of the mother upon
the child; he had been harsh and cold to her, and
nr poor little Rose had come up a donelys sad-heart-
ed girl, with scarcely a bright spot in her life until
an eccentric old lady of the neighborhood saw and
took a fancy to her, and succeeded in se ig her

, in the capacity of a young companion.

“We were aPPy, fora little time, as only young
fools can be. Only one little cloud had risen against
our bright sky, and that a fleeting one. Rose had

driven into the city with her employer, and when
I saw her again, taxed me with haying passed her
unnoticed in the company of a lady, a youn; girl
and very beautiful, she said. I comprehended her
mistake ina moment. She had seen my brother—
we were very much alike—and at the short distance
she had not distinguished the difference. I had
never spoken to Rose regarding our family, and I
passed over the occurrence without an explanation
now. She had no distrust of me and my simple as-
surance was all that was needed to restore her perfect
faith. After that I rented a little-place still her
out of the city, where Rose and I aa a few such
blissfully happy. weeks that it is like an exquisite
pain now to look back at them. A lingering, deli-
cious time, perfect but for the thrill of one little
discord which came through my consciousness of
how soon it might all be abruptly ended. The end
came, a shock even to me who had been expecting
it. I got my commission and orders to join m,
division at the front in one letter. I went back wit!
it in my pocket, with a cowardly sinking at my heart
and a sense of guilt upon me now that there was no
help for breaking the truth to Rose.

“She met me—my wife who had parted from me
loving so few hours before—frozen like a statue and
mt hard, but with one burst of fierce reproach greet-

ing me. 5

“*T have discovered all of your deception!’ she
said, with her eyes flaming in her white face. ‘T
am convinced, and yet I have refused to believe
the truth until I have it from your ownlips. If you
oe one word to say in your own self-defense, say

now.’

‘“As she spoke, there moved forward a step from
the shadow at her back a shape which I had not
seen before, a tall, gaunt old man, from whom Rose
shrunk even then and half put out her hand to me.

I heard her ay

***Oh, Ray, wih tell me it ig not_true!’ but he
stopped her and silenced me when I would have
spoken.

“*You have prosely deceived and misled my
daughter,” he said. ‘Kor that you-are answerable
to me, you have any explanation to make or
one extenuation to plead, I am willing to hear you.
My daughter goes with me now, and I will meet you
—or, better perhaps—you can write me_to this ad-
dress anyth Py may wish to say.’ He thrust a
ecard into my hand, but I dropped it and sprung for-
ward, with my hands clutching my wife's mantle
detaining her. I only realized that she was leaving
me, that I was losing her through my own secrecy
and deceit. Something like a flash went over her
pale, cold face at the sight of mine, and she stop-
ped, resisting her father’s efforts to draw her away.

‘*Tt is not true, Ray?’ she breathed.

“T could only drop my head in shame, and ex-
claim, brokenly:

“* Forgive me, Rose! I loved you soI dared not
risk the chance of Pee Te Isaw her grow hard
and white and cold ag T remember what a wild

 

 

sweep of despair went over me; that I tried to dr:
her away forcibly, that I pleaded for myself wit!
all the words I could master, but she would not lis-
ten. She put up her hand. The gesture and the
blaze of her eyes silenced me.

““T never can forgive you—never!’ she said.
baie turning to her father—‘Take me away,
quick!’

“I fell back, and they were gone in a moment. I
was dazed, stricken, Incapable of action for what
seemed hours. The full sense of my misery came
upon me in the middle of darkness, the emptiness of
desolation all about in the little house where my
dearest happiness had been. The stupor which had
been upon me seemed to burst and fall away all in a
moment. I staggered to my feet and found a light,
and stood looking about at the familiar things, not
one of which was not associated with her pi Aeuee,
It dawned upon me in a vague way that it was all
unreal, that it was a great mistake which would be
cleared away soon; great though my offense had
been, Rose never would cast me off for that. I
picked up the card from where it had fallen and
turned it in my hand. If I could go to her—but there
I thought of her gesture, her look of eee anger
and despair and scorn, as she had declared—‘I never
can forgive you—never!’ :

“A clock, striking somewhere within sound,
warned me. It was almost morning, and I must be
off bpon my journey before noon. There was no
time to see her had I not, coward-like, shrunk from
the ordeal. I sat down and scrawled a few hasty
lines. I begged her if there had been any mistake,
any misunderstanding, any supposition of. greater
wrong on my part than this deception, which I con-
fessed, that she should come to me there, or send
me at least one word of forgiveness or assurance of
love. I went out in the breaking dawn and dis-
patched it by the first messenger I found. No an-
swer came. I grew calmer as I waited, and in my
last hour at the house I wrote again, detailing my
own fault at length and imploring my wife, if she
could pardon the offender for the sake of the motive
urging the offense, to join me at a junction by the
way. I wrote again when I was really on the way,
again and again after I reached my post. I never
received one word or token from Rose, but after six

‘months there came a line in an upright, crabbed,

unknown hand and signed with her father’s name,
Rose was dead—dead without forgiving me.”

The slight nervous tremor and the pallor had
come back to Captain Leigh Bernham’s lips. Ex-
cout that he sat eet upright, bronzed and
self-contained, an admirable example of what stern
discipline may effect.

“Pardon me,” said Lenoir, softly. “I can not
think you had cause for much self-reproach however
deeply you might sorrow. Your offense was so
slight that a woman’s true love should have easily
covered it.”

“T am not sure now that it was so represented to
her. Only a week or so ago I came into possession
of alittle box which had belonged to Rose, one I
had given her, and in which she kept the old lover’s
notes I had smuggled to her. They were there still,
and with them my own later letters with unbroken
seals. Whether she got them or not itis certain that
Rose never read those pleadings and explanations of
mine, That is the story, and I don’t know now why I
should have toldit to you. It has scarcely a bearing
on what I have to ask of you. No word was sent ‘to
me of the little daughter ose left; I never knew the
existence of the child until accident discovered it to
me. I can bring forward a witness to declare that
Wilma is the child of my dead wife, and I shall sure-
ly claim her as mine. \ wanted to ask you to break
the facts of the case to the Richlands. Can I pre-
sume that far on your sees Lenoir?”

“For much more than that, I hope, Captain Bern-
ham. In any way I may be able to serve you.”

Lenoir answers unhesitatingly though not with-
outan inward twinge. He had meant to keep aloof
from Ethel, in thought as well as reality, so far as
might be possible. e had thought that he might
not see her again, or forno more than the briefest
moment of ee when her hand should touch hi
her sweet face surrounded by its glory of brigh'
hair look up at him, her voice murmur a simple fare-
well, meaning little to her, but another cadence
added to the song of his life.

The captain emptied the dead ashes from his pipe,
turning his face from the other’s direct view.

“There is a trifle more. 1 have a fancy I should
like you to witness the cffering up of my sacrifice.
Some papers concerning this story Ihave told you,
Rose’s letters and my own; 1 don’t imagine any
Phoenix will rise from their ashes. A little weakness
has induced me to keep them this tong.

He stirred the coals in the grate until they blazed,
then By" his hands to an inner breast-pocket of the
coat he wore, It stayed there, and Captain Bern-
ham’s face ‘really and perceptibly changed at tast.
It was startled and ghastly in rts sudden alarm.

A certain pocket-book to which he had transferred
those papers for the purpose of having them always
upon his own person, had completely and recent
disappeared.

 

CHAPTER XXITI.
FOR THREE DAYS,

Crayton, tipped back in one of the leather-covered
office-chairs, his heels in complacent familiarity
with the banker’s desk, was listening to the story of
Wilma’s disappearance, interspersed as it was by
the banker’s ejaculations of regret and annoyance,
by no means grown Jess after three hours down

wn,
“Most inexplicable occurrence to my mind and
very distressing to all of us,” he said, passing his

-hand over his smcoth face and rubbing his soft

white Fas together, with the aimless motion of
mental dissatisfaction. So much prosperity and so
little disappointment in all the enterprises of all hs
smooth, well-regulated life left Howard Richland at
a loss in meeting even this departure from the usual
way. However Mr, Richland might endure greater
trials should they come to him, he was perplexed
and disturbed to a degree over this.

Crayton had looked in at the bank with the say
Jroid belonging to his class, the assurance which
recognizes no inner scroll of any man’s life sacred
from intrusion, He greeted the banker with a care:
less nod and a good-morning,

“T haven’t any one to interview,” he said, “na

 

 
Saat

 

terrible disaster to chronicle, and have left the com-
monplac.s to the lesser lights of our ilk. How did
you leave the ladies this morning, Mr. Richland?
Let me hope Mrs. Richland’s indisposition had no

later continuance.” }

“It was but a sing faintness and did not re-
cur,” answered Mr. Richland, with his usual pre-
cision. “I left them both quite well though very
much distressed. You are the very man I want to
see, Crayton. Come in here and have a seat for a
moment.”’

Crayton went in, nothing loth, to the inner office
with its comfortable appomupente, its wall fres-
coed, its woodwork carved, its furniture solid, heavy
and plain, very careless over the mark of distinc-
tion this attention from the banker appeared.

“Mrs, Richland suggested consulting you,” the
banker went on, after making his first explanation,
“and I remembered that you knew something of
the person who is Wilma’s guardian. For my ‘part
Iam quite bewildered. They will ascertain at the
house if Wilma has returned, and upon my word! I
don’t know what more you might do unless to sug-
gest the best means of following her up without
making the affair a matter of public comment.”

“Count on me provine good as an amateur de-
tective,” said the reporter, confidently. ‘‘A man
who is in all sorts of places every day, and has had
experience with all sorts of people, has a better
chance of stumbling over mysteries than others who
might set to work in a more methodical way. ’Pon
honor, much as I appreciate the compliment con-
ferred, I must declare that Mrs. Richland is a lady
of decided penetration.” f j

The two were sitting in consultation still when
Lenoir was ushered in, Crayton catching a doubt-
ful glance in his direction answered it with his usual
unconcern, ;

‘“‘Don’t mind me,” he said, lounging across to a
window which overlooked the street, as apparently
indifferent to the world without as to the two men
within. Lenoir took him at his word. People in
general had a habit of not minding Crayton so long
as his duties did not lead him to interfere with them,
Besides it was not Lenoir’s mission to betray any of
the confidence Captain Bernham had placed in
him.

“T have come on private business,” he said, “ re-
garding Miss Wilde.

“Regarding Wilma! Have you heard of her, Mr.
Lenoir?—what?” ,

“T am authorized with a message from Miss
Wilde’s father, Mr. Richland, An acquaintance I
have recently made, Captain Leigh Bernham, who
is stopping at the St, Clair now, is prepared to au-
thenticate his claim in that capacity. He will give
the best of references for your satisfaction and as-
surance of his responsibility, At his request I under-
took to transmit his wishes, to inform you of his
right, and to avoid, if possible, the tedious formali-
ties of any legal process.” : ‘

“Wilma’s father! Upon my word, this is growing
to be a complex affair, My dear fellow, are you
sure there is no mistgke about it? Icertainly under-
stood that Wilma was an orphan, without relatives
or any degree.” ‘

It only needed this latest phase to disturb Mr.
Richland’s serenity to its greatest depths.

‘It was the general supposition, I believe. Some
early misunderstanding effected a separation be-
tween Captain Bernham and his young wife; he was
called away to duty upon the frontier, and received
news a few months later of her death, Captain
Bernham bad unconsciously gained the enmity of
his wife’s father; their marriage had been a secret
one, aud he was never apprised of his daughter’s
existence. Accident and the testimony of an old
servant recently revealed the truthto him, If any
difficulty is put in the way of his plasere es davgh-
ter he is prepared to put the matter in the hands of
a lawyer, but I trust there may be no difficulty when
he presents his claim in proper form. He has heard
of your extreme kindness to her, and believed it
best to advise you in some such way as this, at the
same time to spare Wilma the suddenness of the
shock an abrupt statement might give her.”

“But there is a difficulty,” Mr. Richland asserted.
“There, Lenoir, don’t look as though you supposed
we would throw an obstacle in the way of the child’s

ood. She came to us almost under protest from

er guardian, Crayton here can tell you more of
him; I know him by name, merely, this Dr, Dallas,
who is her responsible protector. { had hoped to
suceeed him if any change could be effected in re-
aoe to see ee vs strange story puts an end
that expectation, I suppose,

“You think the difficulty apprehended will be in
opposition from Dr. Dallas?” -

“T iknow nothing whatever of that person, let me
repeat. The difficulty lies in the fact that Wilma
has deserted us, gone off in the most incomprehen-
sible and inconsiderate manner. Iam quite used-up
between the surprise, first from her action, and now
the later one of this revelation of yours.”

And there the story of Wilma’s disappearance
was repeated again, and discussed with even more
dissatisfaction on the banker's part than before.
With no newer conjecture of what motive’ must
have prompted her came the knowledge which
promised additional disappointment for themselves,
whatever it might PREPS, favorably for Wilma.
Mr. Richland would not selfishly have consigned
Captain Leigh Bernham and his claim to oblivion if
he readily could, but there was actual regret in his
thought that Wilma was lost to the place in his
home and heart which the lack of any child of his
own had left unfilled. 7

Crayton, failing a little in his self-absorption, and
finding nothing worthy of his attention in the fami-
liar sights of the street, lounged back to his place by
the banker's desk. He had picked up a penand was
oe idly over a sheet of blank paper lying
there.

“Thaven’t an idea of how my wife and Ethel will
take this added surprise,” said Mr. Richland, as the
Toe ages rose. ‘Can’t you spare time to
come back with me, Lenoir? I am ering. back to
the house directly. You, too, Crayton. t a re-
lief it would prove on the top of all this perplexity
to find that Wilma had really gone back to her guar-
ie Why, Lsay! How in the woréd did that ever
here?”

He had gone across to Crayton’s back, and stood

glaring down at the scribbled sheet, torn in strips

 

now and strewed over the desk, Crayton, pen in
hand, scrawled over another line, Mr. Richland’s
amazed eyes following him. :

‘Upon my word, I never would have believod it if
Thad not seen for myself. It’s the very fac-simile
of Gertrude’s hand, the very shade and turn she
gives her letters. Improbable as such an occurrence
might be at any time, and impossible as it would
have been at this particular time since I haven’t
been away from the place, it really struck me first
that Gertrude must have been here and left a writ-
ten message. Strange how very like. What is it
you have written?—‘I, Rose, take thee, Robert ’—
was it Robert? No matter, of course. You must be
acquainted with my wife’s chirography to imitate it
so perfectly.”

“Never had the pleasure of seeing it that I am
awavo of, but I have rather'a facility for running
different styles. As for ladies’ writing that always
runs in the same groove, sloping and Italian, all hair
lines and shades at the curves, a very little modifi-
cation will suit the hand to any of the sex.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Richland admitted, doubtfully.
Crayton had deftly twirled the fragments of paper
together, rolled them between his palms, and tossed
the ball so made into the waste-basket. ‘‘ You are
both coming?” ‘

“Sorry, but I have an engagement too near at
hand. Lenoir here can bring back any news there
may be to me,”

_ Lenoir, approached near enough to overlook the
little scene, darted a quick glance at the reporter’s
sallow, undemonstrative face. His keener eyes had
read the fragment—‘‘I, Rose, take thee, Raymond”
—and he had instantly connected the names with
the story he had so recently heard. What could
Crayton know of it? Crayton’s expression did not
OtrAy and Lenoir very soon dismissed the specula-
ion,

The reporter sauntered away in his solitary direc-
tion, and the other walked briskly through the
streets back to the Western avenue mansion. No
lessening of anxiety had occurred there during Mr.
Richland’s absence. Ethel had just returned from
her drive in a nervous flutter until assured that no
tidings of Wilma had come. Dr. Dallas had been
there and gone, so the hope they had all encouraged
that she might have voluntarily returned to his care
was ended.

That scene in the library had not gone beyond its
four walls. Mrs. Richland had silently fainted in her
chair, and Dr, Dall with his own unwearying
patience, had waited the natural course of restora-
tion. A little apprehension mingled with his waiting
gene it was quite over. His eye fell on a cut-glass

agon upon the mantle filled with some fragrant es-
sence, and he took it down sprinkling the unconsci-
ous face liberally from its contents. Then as he ob-
served signs of returning consciousness he retreated
toa window and half withdrew behind the falling
drapery. This was through no consideration on
the part of the man; it was simply the policy of
supreme selfishness. i

“Give her a moment to come thoroughly back to
herself, to fully comprehend the force of the declar-
ation I made, and there will be no useless scene, no
hysteria or other excess of nervous agitation. Trul,
a woman with her amount of nerve should be a mat:
for the sex; I positively thought for a second that
she was not going to give a sign, There’s always
a tender spot with even the sternest and coldest of
them, however, and I flatter myself that I havefound
gas area Madame Richland’s vulnerable
point.

He turned preeantly to meet the steady, dark eyes
silently watching him.

“Oh, recovered,” he said, advancing: from his
position within the shadow of the curtain. ‘And
no bad effects from your-late shock, let me hope. I
see; not even occasion for me to prescribe. Believe
me, I would willingly be of service in that way, if at
all necessary. Permit me to felicitate you upon

our wonderful powers of self-command, Mrs. Rich-
and; but I recall you were noted for that rare virtue
when you were not Mrs, Richland.”

There was a smoldering fire in those steady eyes
now, a burning redness in the closed lips in vivid
contrast with the still whiteness cf the perfect face
—a warning of surging, hidden passion-fires had Dr.
Dallas rightly interpreted them, She neither no-
ticed these later words of his nor.made any refer-
ence to the weakness which had overtaken her.

“Tf that is the truth,” she said, ‘‘why are you
telling it to me now? Why are you notstill keeping
the soaren which you have kept so well for seventeen
years

“Perhaps that very lapse of time may have re-
leased me from the obligation of keeping it secret;
in fact, I may as well say that itis so. You were the
smallest concern in my share of that out-of-the-way
bit of by-play of seventeen roan ago. at patron of
the occasion paid me liberally according to his
means for the services rendered He had his own
reasons for wishing the child dead; I had discovered
his hatred of it before it was ushered into existence;
but with too much conscience to permil the small
lifo to drift out before it was fair st begun through
any gross neglect. It must be dead to you, that was
his edict. I was bound to obey instructions,, of
course, and I don’t pretend to any particular qualms
in doing so. I ywas Hi in those days, and let us
hope not quite a fool. Idid my bidding in the sim-
plest way, and found means to discover all I then
cared to know. I discovered what relation existed
between my patron saint and my patient, what dis-
torted and overstrained views ‘of, his, along with
some personal disappointment which I put down to
quite a wrong basis then, influenced the strong feel-
ing which he expressed and from which‘he acted, I
traced up the child and kept the remembrance of
his anxiety: before me, letting you drop out of sight
as a doomed character whose part in the play was
well over, It was left me to understand that the
dead life which disturbed my patron saint’s mind at
a later date was to be yours from that time forth.
Thave not even attempted to reconcile that depar-
ture from his plans as I understood them. You
were to enter some institution of sequestered sister-
hood and be dead to all the world.,.Whether that
was So much duplicity on his part, or if he was over-
ruled by your will afterward, I wouldn’t pretend to
say now. I retained my knowledge, and my very
good friend was happy to remember my service of
that time at various intervals in a substantial way

 

_THE INHERITANCE OF ie aa

during the seventeen years since—remembered it
handsomely as his circumstances would permit upon
his death-bed. And only then I suspected for the
first how much a wider sphere gratitude should
have attained in the upper stratum, No more duty
was owing to my patron saint, so, manifestly, my
duty to myself is that to be developed next.”

‘“You mean,” interrupted Mrs, Richland’s quiet
voice, “‘that after extorting bribes to insure your
silence from him, all his life, he is no sooner dead
than you betray the dast confidence he reposed in
you. You thnk to have gained a hold upon me
which shall answer the same as the power you have
held over him.”

“Ah, but there you mistake,” answered Dr.
Dallas, with that humbly deprecating gesture, “I
have a taste for mysteries—almost any one of m
regular patients can tell you so, and a faculty whic
possibly may run into a species of harmless mania

or followlng up the same. Let us call it that, and

say Ihave a mania for mastering mysteries of this
sort. Then there are family prides and family
honors which might be so nearly affected by the
same; fancy the gratification of such responsibility
as having family pride and family honor hanging
upon a word withheld or spoken by me. There is
something irresistibly charming, inexpressibly de-
lightful in the thought.”

‘‘ That tells me nothing of what you want or ex-
pect of me. Don’t boast or attempt indisputable
triumph before you have gained grounds for the
same: it isin exceedingly bad ‘taste to do so. Dr.
Dallas.” z

‘* And Mrs. Richland is an oracle from whom there
isno appeal. ‘Man wants but little here below,’ m
dear madame, and my want is most moderate.
want Wilma Wilde s eedily found, and when found,
I want that you shall urge no interference with my
own claim which I may bring forward.”

‘“‘And then you would betray all you know or
ae you know, to my husband.” __

‘““My dear madame, betray! It is the second
time you have used the word to reflect to my disad-
vantage. It is the code of the profession never
to betray. With such family pride and family honor
as I have already made reference to hanging in the
balance—”’

“You might possibly find yourself forestalled in
any disclosure youhad to make. You have shown
mé what I may expect: from you, Dr. Dallas. Take
the assurance that Iam quite capable of that much
in return.”

The flame had made a leap into the hitherto color-
less cheeks. Even Dr. Dallas, phlegmatic, design-
ing, eueenee a feeling akin to admiration at
sight of the face answering so aptly to a strong res-
olution, and in the second it required the unwont-
ed impulse to turn cold again he found himself left
the solitary occupant of the room, Mrs. Richland’s
clear, bell-like, vibrating tone without ringing dis-
tinctly in his hearing.

‘* You will find Dr. Dallas in the library, William,
waiting to be shown out. Attend to your duty at
once,””

“True grit, and not a waver,I believe, by my
soul!” the doctor muttered to himself, between set
teeth, with a smile which was no favorable index
upon his face. ‘It is well to havea host in reserve,
my high-handed madame. Forestall me if you
like; eat humble-pie to your heart’s content; trust
in winning forgiveness for the simple deception re-
giles from girlish folly as you will doubtless put
it; call up the pathetic story of the early unhappy
marriage; gain all the sympathy and avert all the
blame, and then be overwhelmed by the evidence I
can bring to bear. Iowe you that much full for
your scornful treatment of me.”

There is never pity in a heart like his; never mercy
in a narrow, sordid soul. He would have had no
feeling but of exultation had he been a witness to
the moment of utter prostration which succeeded,
robbing her of all that brave assured bearing, bow-
ing her pallid, and with every nerve relaxed with
the swift throes of agitation rushing over her.

““Mine—my very own—Wilma mine!” were the
words her softened lips whispered to lerself, breath-
lessly, over and over again. ‘‘Mine and 1 never to
know it, not_to suspect it when my heart yearned
over her to the strain of breaking.”

She was invisible still when Mrs. Latham’s car-
riage, rolling past the door, deposited Ethel, but ten
minutes later, when her husband returned with
Lenoir in his company, her quiet, contained presence
was the first to meet them. ;

If it was less quiet, or less contained, as Lenoir's
mission was unvailed, not one there had any percep-
tion of it. 1

“‘Gertrude’s presence always does me good,”’ her
husband had said once, in confidence to a frien
“She is calm, with a reliance which an earthquake
would not shock. I don’t believe in men who require
a prop, but I’m proud to declare in.my wife as pure
stuff as ever shone in a Spartan mother.”

That stuff, had Mr. Richland only been aware,
shone at its brightest in the half-hour after his re-
turn. Wilma claimed by a strange father who had
not suspected her existence until less than a fort-
night past; Wilma, for whom the father-love and
the mother-love had sprung up, and been recognized
so very recently—Wilma gone from both; the two
separated by such a chilling, dread-inspiring barrier
that never in time could they be mutually drawn
by the influence which was so powerful with each.

There could be but one aim now as conceded b
gvcrs acclamation—though had they observed,

. Richland was mute there—Wilma must be
found, no method must be left untried, and Lenoir
carried: with him authority to insert a carefully
worded advertisement in each of the leading dailies.

ter, Erle Hetherville came in with set white
face and blue eyes stormily ablaze—came in on his
fair fiancee as it chanced, quite alone.

“What does it mean?” he broke out, with perfect
abruptness, ‘ truth is there in this Crayton
has n telling me, that Wilma is gone without
peomeention and without warning? What has driven

ei manana os to Hee a er A

el wondered at vehemence, looking up into
his stern face, : fe

“We are all very much distressed, Erle. It is true
that Wilma has gone, leaving no reason and no
trace, She said in the note she Ieft that jf was her
duty to go, and that she world areoel ta a friend.
We are all at the greatest joss Wichuut one trace of

 

 
 

_ person she was in mind, laying

‘the gate an

22

 

a clew to show us in which direction to turn with a
hope of finding her.”

“She must be found, she shall be!’’ declared Erle,
in the same strangely vehement way.

But the days wore themselves out, and Wilma’s
friends were worn along with them through anxiety

for her; but neither Erle’s declaration, which was |

followed by his earnest action, nor Captain ft
Bernham’s widely instituted search, nor Mr, Rich-
land’s prea following of their two examples,
resulted inany return or hint of success. Crayton
had faded out of the field almost before the others
engaged in it—faded as well from the familiar
places which had known him daily before, but which
now knew him not.
Thus for three days.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A STRICKEN VILLAGE.

Tree busy, anxious days they had been, up inthe
little Westmoreland village. SE ante typhoid
was sweeping its way with an irresistible force, and
had stricken a third of the population in this short
time. Scarcely a family where one or more mem-
bers had not succumbed to the disease. One of the
Biffin children had died, and on the morning of the
third day the still little form lay in its plain casket.
Before night another one had passed out of life, and
the same grave would receive them both.

There were indefatigable workers in the midst of
the suffering, pee ple Dr. Joy, burly and
gruff, and inveighing against the willful disregard of
all sanitary measures, until the shock of a calamity
like this fell upon them, courting disease by their
habits of living, their over-crowded, ill-ventilated
houses, was doing his best to mitigate the affliction.
His own regular round of patients, together with
this added strain, had kept him at his best effort for
three days and three nights, but the doctor was one
of those prickly human burrs that will bristle all
over and resent as an injury any recognition of his
own warm-heartedness, or persistent sacrifice of his
own comfort.

“Tf I care to waste any time in blowing up these
foolhardy villagers,’ Dr. Joy would say, *‘and pun-
ish them with physics and gs they ought never
to need in this healthy atmosphere, it’s their look-
out, not mine. They have no business to leave the
door open for the thief to walk in. If they had
taken the advice of Miss Erle there, and drained off
the quagmires at their hack doors, three months
ago, they might have spared themselves the visita-
tion. Talk about the hand of Providence! In ninety-
nine cases out of a hundred the people owe such
visitations to their own folly and neglect, For the
credit of human intelligence I’d like to see some

common sense brought to bear among the lot, and

as long as they shirk that result of their own ac-
cord they’ll have to take it in the homcopathic
doses we can force upon them.”

Prudence was invaluable, and Miss Erle spent her
days chiefly at the village. Even when not there in
lans and issuing
orders for the comfort of her stricken flock. Wilma
went with her, the quiet little hands and Sees
voice and sweet face exerting a soothing influence
over the invalids until gruff Dr. Joy, stopping her
once, laughingly declared that her ministrations
bid fair to riv. own bitter draughts and caustic
lectures. :

Miss Erle had driven down to the village for the
second time that day. It was near evening, the
wintry sun vo nen in occasional cold gleams _be-
tween gray clouds massed against thesky. Wilma
had gone with her into the Biffin cottage, and stood
for a moment aoe down at the two still little
forms already robed for burial. It seemed a rw
escape for them as she turned away and met the
sight of the narrow house overcrowded with the liv-
ing yet sharp-featured, unhealthy little faces look-
ing out from all sides, another child and the mother
taken down with the disease.

Prudence had worked wouders in bate oe | neat-
ness and order out of of the chaos which reign-
ed, but at its best, and subdued by the presence of
sickness and death, such a prospect as life there
offered turned Wilma sick at heart for a moment
and made her glad to get back into the free air, with
a chilly her ag rushing through the straggling vil-

e streets,

rag They say some one is wanted to stay with Mrs.
Brooke,” said Miss Erle, coming out to join her a
moment later. ‘‘Cases have multiplied so fast, and
the people here are so inefficient, that those who are
competent to attend are obliged to change from
place to place as they are most needed. The Brooke
woman is low, past hope of recovery the doctor
eres Would you mind sitting with her, Wilma.
while I visit the other places? e is both tranquil
and conscious now.”

“T shall not mind in the least, except to be ged
of any chance of usefulness, and if you think Mrs.
Brooke wlll not be alarmed. She appeared so strange-
ly and so strongly agitated when I was there with
you first that I have never gone back.”

“She was wandering then, her odd conduct sim-
ply the result of a delirious fancy. She will not

ow you, but she does not much notice what goes
onabout her. You know the house?”

Wilma answered in assent and turned that way,
while Miss Erle continued the course of her round.
A little brown detached cottage, with a few feet of
walk in front, and a gate swinging, as some careless

ser-through had left it. Wilma went in, closin;

quietly admitting herself, as her soft
knock elicited no response. re was burning ina
little polished stove, a few articles of furniture were
ranged about the walls, a shelf of shining tinware
and common delf filled a corner, but the room was
empiy of any presence. A door ei into a
second room was sai and through it she had a
glimpse of a narrow , With a gay coverlet thrown
over, and a bright rag-mat on the floor before it.

She went through into the sick room quietly. No
one was there except the prostrate form upon the
bed. Mrs. Brooke was in a slumber, which the girl’s
silent movement had not broken. Wilma sat down
by the bedside, looking a ati ra into the
s! meer face, thin and worn and touched with age,
the hair, which struggled down upon the pillow, iron
gray, the hollow cheeks and wrinkled forehead and
closed eyes looking deathly in their pallor and hard

stillness. She was so perfectly still that with a little
thrill of awe Wilma put out

er hand to touch the

 

Se DG Rene Ee.

pale forehead, Light as the touch was it aroused the
sleeper, and the sunken eyes came wide with astart-
led eo a up into the young tace bending above her.

‘I did not mean to wake you,” she said, ‘I came
to sit with you for alittle time. If you can sleep

in, do so,”’

he woman shrunk away, her eyes, startled and
ee not leaving the girl’s face.

te 0 are you?” she asked, in a hollow whisper.
““You touched me, didn’t you?”

“Yes; it was I that waked you. I am Wilma Wilde,
— stay with Miss Erle. Can I do anything for
you?”

“No, no,” the woman answered, and lay still, with
that same strange look still fixed upon Wilma’s
face. Such a steady sort of awed gaze that Wilma
grew embarrassed under it first, then restless, with
something very like a dread of those fixed, staring
eyes. She was glad when a neighboring woman
came in presently to give the medicine the doctor
had left. The interruption seemed like the lifting of
an incubus which had weighed upon her.

“Are you staying?” the woman asked, in a whis-

r. ‘“Dllnot be then. My man is coming down
with it I’m thinking, and my hands are full enough
at home, It’sasore day for all that brought the
scourge down upon us.”

She went, and still the sick woman regarded
Wilma with that same intent, curious look, The im-
pression she derived from it lingered with her after-
ward—an uncomfortable sense, a vague realization
of some meaning or some cause underlying it which
had an undefined relation to herself.

The sound of a footstep anda i.nock at the outer
door brought a relief to her sense of oppression. She
arose hastily, with a desire to escape the gaze-which
followed her even then. She had not doubted open-
ing to Miss Erle, but, instead, it was a masculine fig-
ure looming against the gray clouded atmosphere,
which obscured all trace of the sunset. A rather
tall, thin figure, with an overcoat buttoned to the
chin and traveler’s ae slouched about his ears; for
the first instant she did not recognize any thing fa-
miliar about him,

“Miss Wilde!’ exclaimed the voice belonging to
the form. “I fancy I need never be tempted to rail
against unpropitious fates after this, and I should
as soon have thought of looking for you in Jericho!
I wonder if you have an idea of what a hue and cry
has been raised after you, Miss Wilma?”

His glove had come off and he was clasping her
hand before she had recovered from her first start
of surprise. Certainly Crayton was the last Bena
she could have expected to meet in the falling
focer upon the threshold of that plain little cot-

age in the isolated little Westmoreland village.

Oh, Mr. Crayton, did you follow me here?” cried
Wilma, having lost his words in the start her peg
nition of him had given. ‘‘ Did they send you? Oh,
Iam sorry, sorry, if I have distressed them much;
but indeed I cannot go back. If you would promise
that you will not mention having seen me,”

“Surely you must know where my weakness lies,
Miss Wilma. And yet I venture to assert that you
would never forgive me should I consent to ruin all

our future prospects by too close observation of an
mpulsive young lady’s whim. ane you haven’t
a even of what a service I might do you by
merely mentioning our meeting here!”

“Lam very sure that the very best service you can

“8 render me will be to_keep silence, ns Cray-

If it were possible that any prospect could be
made tempting enough to Ferree me back to them,
I should pray that I might be kept in ignorance of it.
Iam well cared for, and am hee in finding myself
of use here. Iam staying wi iss Erle. Oh, Mr.
Crayton, promise that you will not force me to leave
here by betraying my whereabouts to them. It is
best as it is, believe me.”

“I must promise against my better judgment,
then. But then, I never could refuse a lady, ore
cially a young and pretty one. I’m not obliged to
relate that I’veseen you here—certainly not. Lcame
on a matter of different business, and because I
chance to stumble across the charming object of
much solicitude on the part of certain friends of
mine just now, it isn’t at all incumbent upon me to
betray the knowledge which accident merely has
revealed. I see that is the view — take of it. eek
well, my dear Miss Wilma; much gratification as it
might afford me to report your safety and your con-
tinuance of regard, Imust in all gallantry submit to
your wish instead.”

“T should like them to know,” said Wilma, “that
Iam safe, and that Ido hold them in most grate-
ful remembrance. If I should write just a line say-
ing that, and iffyou would kindly mail it in the city
and not mention seeing me, it would be the very
greatest favor I could ask.”

She had come out by his side, drawing the door
close so only the faintest murmur of their voices
could be dist: ogni in the rooms within.

“TJ would advise it,’ said the reporter, earnestly.
“Let me tell you, the Richlands are in a terrible
state of anxiety regarding your disappearance,
which is equivalent to a Greek puzzlé to them, Do
you suppose you could manage to make out with a

neil and my note-book here? I'll see thatit’s put
n a form for safe delivery. I rather expect to go
back at midnight, and to be busy meantime.”

He produced the articles which were required
from an inner pocket, and whistled some discon-
nected bars of an air as he ed away through the
gap between the squat little houses while she hur-
riedly wrote her message. The air was a keen chill,
and Wilma’s benumbed fingers produced a tremu-
lous scrawl—her own love and gratitude, sorrow for
their distress, an assurance of her safety, and that
the course she had taken was much for the best.

‘“‘And I venture that yonder is Miss Erle’s turn-
out,” said Crayton, as he received the little missive.
“Ts she waiting there for you?”

“If you only would promise me ds Wilma
will n

said, wistfully. “If you certainly ot betray
having seen me; if you will mail that to Mrs. Rich-
land, I will be so truly indebted.”

“ And as I said I can’t refuse; but temembor, the
concession is given against my better hecge

“Thank you the same, however,’ id Wilma,
warmly, and leaving him, went down the street to
meet Miss Erle, who had stopped the carriage to
consult with Dr. Joy tigen the sidewalk.

“You, Wilma!” said Miss Erle, in ee PL
thought you understood that I meant to for you,

 

 

ee

Just as well, perhaps, since it is so Jate, and Dr. Joy
has promised to look in on Mrs, Brooke directly, and
stay with her during the night. Did I see you speak
with some one here just now?”

She had nodded her parting to the doctor as Wil-
ma came up, and they were turned on their home-
ward way now. . Beart

“Yes; it was Mr. tee Wilma answered.
‘He promised when I asked him to say nothing of
seeing me here.” ,

“You can’t = it concealed always, Wilma.
Crayton! Odd that he should come to the village.
Was he going there, do you know—to the Brooke
woman’s house, I mean?’

Miss Erle glanced back at the step which was
empty now, and the bare outlines of the little house
against the gloom.

The doctor did not look in there immediately as

had been his intention, Another patient grown sud-
denly and seriously worse claimed him, and it was
two hours full before he looked in at Mrs. Brooke's,
and meatime Crayton had passed the time without
interruption by the dying woman’s bedside. Surel
and slowly dying to her own knowledge, percepti-
bly near death to the first glance of an experienced
eye. ;
Het wide, preternaturally bright eyes had turned
to meet Crayton as he entered, but fell away with
their brightness dimmed ina single moment. He
dropped fato the seat Wilma had vacated shortly be-
fore and leaned forward to look into the pallid face.
She glanced up again with an awakened purpose be-
fore he had spoken, perhaps wishing to ascertain
her condition first.

“T don’t know who you are,” she said, in her la-
bored, ee tone. ‘Can you write?”

“Can and will with the greatest pleasure; my
very mission up here by the way, and I came pre-

ared with all the necessaries. ou aon’t know me,

ut Ihave the advantage there, Mrs. Brooke. Is it
something oe wish to confess regarding an occur-
rence which took place some seventeen years ago?”’

“Yes, yes,” she mere pee “Give me
time, let me think until it is all quite clear. His face
has haunted me, often and often, but I’ve seen it in
the flesh just of late, and it’s a girl’s face now. I
know I’m dying, and I couldn’t go into the grave
oe with the weight upon me. Are you ready to
write?”

“Quite ready in a second, when I put a match to
the lamp here.’’ He did it, shading the flame care-
fully from her eyes, changing his seat to one beside
the little table holding the lamp, and upon which he
had spread his material for writing. ‘Ready, now;
go ahead, Mrs. Brooke.”

“*T can’t tell it as it should be put down,” said the
woman, ‘You can do that, or it will make little
difference, I dare say, so the plain truth is there, 1
hadn’t meant to ever tell it, and I don’t know that I
should now but for his face coming up before me,
and that girl the very picture of him.”

She had not much difficulty in speaking in that
wee voice what was distinct to the reporter’s
ear, but she was weak, and the continued effort
wearied her, and her recital was madé at intervals,
but Crayton was patient in waiting and helped her
with his quick understanding of her broken utter-
ances. ‘She began:

“Some eighteen years ago I was housekeeper for
Matthew Gregory, and bad been for years before
that. He was a very bad man, but still not a hard
master, any way not tome. I never could find the
heart to blame
married a ae young thing when he was well in
his prime, and it turned out unhappily as such ill-
matings generally do. His wife ran away the
second year with some old lover who suited her bet-
ter, leaving their baby-girl in its father’s care.
that was long enough before my time in the house.
Kighteen years ago the little thing had grown up to
be a young lady, the loveliest creature that could
have been found any where in the two cities, and yet
she had scarcely been outside the walls of the old
house on the Manchester road, except for one year
she had been sent away to a schiool. It had been a
lonely life for the child, and her father never gave
her any care or liking that might be seen in those
days. She had been called Gertrude after her mo-
ther, but the name was dropped after the disgrace
was brought by the other Gertrude. She grew up
without a name until some one who chanced to
see her said she was just like a white rose, as pure
and sweet, so after that she was called The Rose,
and at last Rose,

“She was seventeen or nearly when a rich lady
who lived further out on the road saw and took a
fancy to our Rose.. Nothing would do but she must
have her for a companion, and she got her way,
though the master was ec oppo:ed. He had

rere meaut that Rose should go into a convent,
and he had sent her for a year to a convent schoo
with the understanding that she was to take the
vail when she got through with her studies, but she
rebelled at the end of the year, and he brought her
away again but without giving up his plan.

“Rose went to be companion to the fine lady.
She had as much will of her own as Matthew Greg-
ory himself, and she overruled him in those two
things, in leaving the convent and in going from
the old house to the new home that was offered her.
He had been bitter hard in his censure of the mo-
ther; and he had all his resentment stirred up
eae the daughter now, for all he gave way to

er.

“There was a worse shock to come to him soon,
when Rose Seearcsree from her employer’s house,
leaving word only that she had ed in secret
and had gone to her husband. I don’t know what
means her father took to trace her up. He did it
though; he found her out, discovered more than I
knew of afterward,

“He came to me one day to say he had discov-
ered another person to fill my place. I was all taken
aback at that. I had been with him for half a
dozen years; I was a quiet body and grown used to
his silent ways. It struck me at last that the man
had gone mad to be thinking of a change; but he sat
down and explained to me so graciously that I was
ere of the confidence he was putting in me,

ough his news gave me a sore heart for many a
day. Rose had ben vilely deceived, he said, She
pag oe te x a ae he Agra aui place he

scovered, where n she sw d was
her husband visited her PET bo

now and then. The man

im so much as others did. He had

 

 
 

had another wife married in secret, too. What Mr.
sob sg” wanted of me was to get a place in that
man’s house, to find out whether the other wife was
a lawful one or not, and which of the two he’d be
apt to give up first if it came to the choice. He
had found that Mr. Bernham, which was the young
man’s name, was looking for a@ servant, one who
could be discreet, and when I went to him with the

‘THE INHERITANCE

recommendations Mr. Gregory furnished, I had no |

trouble in getting the place.

“Tf I hadn’t known I never could have believed
that young Mr. Bernham was such a viJlain. He
was so frank, seeming so fond of his wife, who was
his true wife without a doubt. She was a foreigner,
a mere child, too, without a relation in the world,
and with some fortune in her own right which was

OF

ried past; a woman, thinly-clad, and shivering, flit-
ted before her eyes, a vivid contrast in suggestion of
her worn, pinched, impoverished condition to this
air of warmth and luxurious comfort. Homeless in
the streets! There could be nothing in the thought
to strike a chill to her heart, or change the weary
listlessness of her expression. Her glance went back
to the glowing coals as she answered:

“A dreary day, indeed!”

Observant of the ennuied face, Ethel forbore to ut-

' ter the thought which had been first in her mind

keeping them then. The marriage was kept secret ,
because somebody who was expected to leave a

great deal of property to Mr. Bernham would be
sure to disinherit him if it ever found it out. It
was the very same story that had been told to Rose,
and which she was believing in then. My foreign
mistress fairly worshiped her husband, but she had
a hot temper, and she was dead jealous of him for
all her love. She told me about their having a quar-

with the sight of the bitter outdoor weather. It had
been a sad wonder where Wilma might be on this
freezing wintry day; while they had every luxury
about them, might she not be unsheltered, friend-
less and alone, suffering, when all this abundance
might have been freely hers.

“T fear that Howard is more than half-right,”
Ethel thought, with another glance at the graceful
shape lying idly back ina chair before the hearth,
the white, ringed hands loosely folded, .and the
drooping jashes almost sweeping the fair cheeks.
The face was like fine sculpturing, as perfect and as

' still. ‘Gertrude certainly has not seemed well of

rel ounce when a very beautiful young lady had |

looked so strangely at her Raymond in the street;
she had been sure it was some other love of his, but
she quite believed him, after they had made it up,
that it was all an imagination of her own. She
would trust him perfectly in every thing, she said,
and she meant it, but she couldn’t help her own
nature, poor thing!

“Tt took me whole weeks to discover all my old
master wished to know, but I did at last.

in the city, dated four months before the time our
Rose had disappeared. _I found out what I could of
Mr. Bernham’s plans. He had been a military stu-
dent, and was expecting his commission now daily,
put he meant to resign it rather than be parted
from his wife.

‘“When he had learned that much, Mr. Gregory
came to the house one day when my young master
was out. He had an interview with Mrs. Bernham
and he must have told her the whole story. He had
been with her a good hour when the bell rung and
“s went up, and as 1 opened the parlor door I heard

er say:

“<7 will go with you and show her such proofs
that she shall be convinced, but I will never see him
again so long as we both live—never!’

‘She was dressed to go out, but she looked more
like a corpse than a living woman with the glimpse I
had through her vail. She left a note with me to be
given to her husband, when he should come, and
went away with Mr. Gregory, and I knew then, well as
Iknew afterward, that she would never come back to
that house. I gave the note asI was bound to do
when Mr. Bernham came. I never knew what it was
she wrote, but I shall never forget the awful look of
despair on his face when he had read it. He was
like a man gi wild foratime. He shut himself
up alone and came out, hours afterward, looking ten

ears older than before. He talked with me quietly

or a time, not once referring to her, but of the
house and what was to be done. He had got his
commission, he said, and would leave next morning
to join the army on the frontier. He said good-by
to me, and gave me my wages, and a reminder, and
left the house overnight. “{ think he couldn’t bear
to stay in it alone.

‘* Somehow I got a restlessness over me next morn-

ing to really see him off, and to say a last word,
maybe, for I never could harden my heart against
him, though I had tried. I knew what train he

would take, and I was at the depot before the time,
looking for him in the crowd there. Isaw him pres-
ently, but while I was studying whether or not to
push through and speak, the very picture of him
came up from the other side. There they stood,
face to face,so much alike that I couldn’t have
sworn which one was my master. They shook hands
and spoke, and then I knew, for there was a differ-
ence in their voices, and a change came into their
faces as they talked: but I stood dumbfounded and
bewildered until they had gone away together be-
fore my very eyes. I wasn’t ae at understanding
then, but I knew the truth afterward. They were
twin brothers, and the one that was my master was
not the one who had married Rose. But when I
was sure of the truth, Rose was gone, no one knew
where, and when I taxed Mr. Gregory with having
known, he_ advised me to hold AY. tongue on the
matter. He gave me quite a sum of money as I was
out of a place, he said, but it was no more than a
bribe, as I knew, but I took it, and it’s that has been
on my conscience ever since.

“Rose died at her father’s house months after,
and /eft a tiny babe that must have grown into the
girll saw here. She has the very face of my young
master, which was the same as her father’s face,
and a little look of Rose; she ought to know the
truth which Matthew Gregory would never tell her,
Her father was killed in a battle, I believe; at least
that was the report.”

That was the story as Crayton took it down from
her broken telling of it. All the strength which had
sustained her seemed exhausted as it was done. _ Dr.
Joy entered ai the moment, and after one searching
glance at her, turned to the reporter.

“Does she want to sign that?’ he asked, his eye
falling upon the paper. “It must be done at once if
atall. e is almost gone.”

The dyin,
help, she affixed her name to the sheet with the two
men as witnesses; and with her work complete, she
drifted quietly out upon the great eternal sea.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
CRAVEN DALLAS, M. /D.

I saw the |
certificate of their marriage by a clergyman known |

woman rallied, while, with Crayton’s |

 

| time alone, than that she should have taken u
New life to result now inthe shock of hi

A sticur snow fell during the night, and the air ,

was full of cutting, bitter, frozen sleet next day.
rattled against the plate-glass of the long windows
iu the Richland drawing-room, and made a slippery
coating over the snow w!
the gutters.

“A bitter day to be out,’ said Ethel, with a little
shiver anda glance at the cheerless aspect, Mrs.
Richland looked around listlessly. She had a glimpse
beneath the sweep of the ruddy silken curtains
within of icy pavement, where occasional forms hur-

re it was not broken upin |

late. She always was quiet and undemonstrative,
but she has appeared like one moving in a dream
for days past, ever since the day that Wilma was
lost to us.”

She went out a few minutes later, leaving the
other alone. Then Mrs. Richland locke1 up at a lit-
tle object which had strangely fascinated her all the
morning. It was simply a common-looking brown
envelope engine. her husband’s address in stiff char-
acters, only such a letter to all outward appearance
as any business-man may receive by the score every
week; but common-looking and coarse, Mrs. Rich-
land could not overcome an uneasy impression the
sight of it had given her. She had singled it out
from the package when the mail was brought in,
and when her husband passed it to her inadvertently
along with the papers and a magazine and a letter
for herself, that impression so strong led her to let
it remain under their cover while he talked on, un-
consciously making references to his own volumi-
nous correspondence.

““ By the way,” he remarked, folding the last mis-

sive with his methodical precision, ‘“‘I asked Lenoir
to bring Captain Leigh Bernham around with him
this evening. Itis only right that we, as Wilma’s
friends, should extend much courtesy to Wilma’s
father, though the slight, if any, has been rather on
his side before this. I certainly thought he would
have taken the initiative and called upon us after
breaking the case, Lenoir reports him busy and
anxious and half-disheartened at finding no trace.
Lenoir himself is a fine young fellow, by the way—
talented and bound to make his mark. I find my-
self really attached to him.”
His gaze chancing to rest upon his sister’s face
caused her a sudden embarrassment unlike her
usual control, and making a hurried apology she left
the breakfast-room where they were gathered. He
turned to his wife with a slightly-troubled expres-
sion.

‘*Do you suppose there can be a danger of Lenoir
entertaining more than a mere friendly regard for
Ethel?” he asked. ‘‘The possibility occurred to me
once before when something suggested it, but I’d be
willing to stake my own honor against his, and of
course he is aware of the engagement. Ethelis a
very lovable girl, but I should not like to think that
fo is to meet with any disappointment through

er.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Howard, that Ethel
might also care for Lenoir? I have imagined before
now that he was even better suited to her than Erle,
and scarcely doubt that there would have been a
sehen kee had that childish engagement never
existed.’

“There might have been in that case, but it did
and does exist, and Ethel is too true to depart from
her duty, no matter for what fancy. Your idea is
preposterous, Gertrude, if it reaches the extent
of her wavering from Erle. Ethel is a Richland, and
we have always been good as our word, I believe.
Why, it is one of our proudest boasts that no dis

race has ever touched our family, and I would feel

t a blot on our family honor, kept spotless for
enerations, if any thing could induce her to prove
faithless to Erle now. A very preposterous idea,
my dear!”’

“If she really could not love the one to whom a
childish promise bound her,” persisted Mrs. Rich-
land, her earnest. eyes upon her husband’s face—
‘if in spite of her own efforts to be true she found
herself lacking, Joving the other as she should the
man she is to marry, could you not pardon her for
breaking her unconsidered promise, for proving at
least true to herself?” ;

“That doesn’t apply to Ethel in the least,” he
answered, uneasily. ‘‘Ethe) did consider her

romise, and it is quite too late for even the remo-

est contemplation of a change. She has not the
serene thought of it, I will warrant. Just as I say;
a Richland never has been and let me hope never
may be associated with the disgrace of broken honor,
through word or act.” ‘

“Ttfwas only a suppository case I was putting,”
Mrs. Richland said, quietly. “‘ Ethel has no idea of
proving any thing but true to her word, Iam very
sure.””

The conversation lingered with her after her hus-
band had gone to his day’s business.

That inexorable family pe and jealousy of the
family honor, how could it stand the shock, the
knowledge and dread of which hung so threaten-
ingly over her? Ah, better, better far had she
never known any thing different from the loneliness
and rebellious dissatisfaction of her cheerless girl-
hood days; better that she had borne the weight of
misery which had come to her later ehnouen pl!
’ iliation
and pen and disgrace which would reflect from her
to the kindly, generous but proud man who had
been the best of indulgent husbands to her for fif-
teen years.

She had carried the letter addressed to him which
he had missed into the drawing-room, and placed it
in sight on the low marble mantle, and there it had
lain like some evil tempter before her sight in the
hours since. The stiff, legible characters of the ad-
dress staring back at her were like a challenge.
Studying ag she looked, she put up her hand pre-

 

HATE.

 

23

 

sently and took it from its pine plane, Mrs. Rich-
land seldom hesitated when she had once reached @
decision, and she did not now hesitate in mastering
the contents of that aggravating missive. There
fell from the envelope, as she opened it, a card,
printed:
Craven Datuas, M. D.

and on the reverse side was written in that stiff
hand of the superscription:
_ ‘Dr. Dallas will do himself the pleasure of call
ing upon Mr. Richland at six this evening, and
hopes to be admitted to a private audience. He
ventures to assert that the revelation which author-
en his demand will prove fully satisfactory to the

rin

That was all. Mrs. Richland crushed the card in
her hand and sat looking into the coals again with
that deeply-absorbed ag which might have been
looking back through the years which were past, or
forward into that threatening future the shadow of
which was upon her even now.

Later that day Lenoir was admitted into Captain
Bernham’s apartment, and made known the mission
with which the banker had charged him.

“ Go with you to the Richlands; / go there?” said
Captain Bernham, taking a turn across the floor
an ushing back the hair from his forehead in
vexed impatience. “Tl be hanged first!’ Seeing
Lenoir’s quiet surprise the captain modified - his
tone suddenly. r pS

“Tin not used to polite society,’ he said, shortly;
“T've roughed it on the frontier with little enough
of ladies’ society at the barracks. for the greater
part of the last seventeen years. I'd find myself
wonderfully out of place in a fashionable drawing-
room, I’m afraid. My compliments to Mrs. Rich-
land, and that as my reason for declining.”

‘‘Let_me hope you may conclude yet not to de-
cline,” Lenoir urged. ‘Iam very sure you will not
regret it if you once £93 Captain Bernham. They
are so warmly attached to Wilma and so deeply in-
terested in whatever may pertain to her tis,
that they are prepared to receive you quite as a
friend with that bond between you. Let me for
you at the time I have appointed for going this
evening.”

The captain had stopped and was craving sloeeeay
out at the chill aspect the street presented. After
all, why should he not go? Rose was dead to him,
and he was nothing in the world to Rose. He
had thought after that night at the opera that he
should never wish to see her face again, but now an
undefinable longing came over him to stand before
her, to touch her hand perhaps, to hear her speak.
and with the presence of the man whom she bad
preferred to him there as a reminder, to bring the
conviction yet more firmly home to him that a bar-
rier impassable as the grave itself stretched between
them. A weaker man might have shrunk from
such a trial of himself, but Captain Bernham’s iron
discipline had stood him through trials before this
and would again. e

“T have reconsidered,’ he said, when he turned.
“You may come this way, or I will take up with
you at the office if you like better.”

Lenoir, promising to return, left him. There is so
much irregularity attendant upon the business of a
newspaper daily, such lack of smooth connection
sometimes in its various departments and in the
movements of its detailed corps, that no one of the
many composing the great whole can always be
informed regarding what unexpected duty may de-
volve upon him at a moment’s notice. It proved so
in Lenoir’s case this late afternoon. Some one of
the staff had failed in the amount of ‘copy’ which
should have been forthcoming at that hour. Could
Lenoir make good the deficiency? It was the chief
of the staff asking it in the tone which takes for
Fane the assent which he did not wait to hear.

noir, thus appealed to, could and did, but the
gas was flashing through the streets and the red
glow of the furnaces was reflected over the city
and fell like dull stains on the dark, rough surface
of the rivers, before he returned to redeem his
promise to Captain Bernham,

The latter had come down into the street, expect-
ing him minutes before. He was pacing the pave-
ment slowly, that consoler of many a tedious hour
before this, his meerschaum, his companion now,
his tall, soldierly form and bronzed and bearded face
perfectly distinct in the glare illuminating the front
of tke hotel.

The two paused in it fora moment while Lenoir
made his explanation, then linked arms and walked
away. Inthe time he had passed walking up and
down there no intuition had come to Captain Leigh
Bernham of the watchful eyes upon him, no single
quiver warned him of what wistful, longing, despair-
ing a they were, losing no motion of his, reading
the changed, stern face, noting the gray which min-
gled in bis luxurious bc.,rd and tinged the hair, cut
close to the massive, handsome head. They followed
him down the line of light as the two walked together
in the direction of the bridge. 5

Then the tall, muffled form, which had been sta-
tioned within the shadow of a doorway opposite,
passed out and mingled with the crowd upon the
street. When the proprietor of the slop which
owned the doorway found time to look out tor a mo-
ment he missed the quiet lady who had been wait-
ing there through the previous half-hour. The tall
shape, graceful and well-poised, despite the disguis-
ing wraps, went with swift, unhesitating steps
through the thronged and lighted streets. Her way
took her to a dingy, over-huilt, locality, where the
original tenements jostled each other to make room
for the handsome compact blocks fast approachin:;
them, up the steps of one that had shabby gentee
written all over its spindling hight, fiom the narrow
windows, with their flimsy inner drapings, to the
soiled white stones under her feet, with rusty balus-
trades on either side. Her hand was upon the bell-
pull when the door was thrown open and aman

 

came out from the large bare hail. e made a step
forward and dropped her hand upon his arm as he
was

eer:

“Mr. Crayton, I was on my way to ask for you.

No, don’t turn back. Ionly wished to know if you

have discovered anything regarding Wilma. I have

some way had an impression that you might.”
Crayton, never very readily surpri and cer-

tainly never taken aback by any such simple, unex-

 
  

im)
|

 
 
    
  
  

. of the banker’s face.

 

pected, occurrence, took the meeting coolly, wat-
ever his speculations regarding her appeara.ce un
attended at that hour and in that place may have

eon.

“Tsaid before this that you were a lady of un-
usual penetration, Mrs. Richland, and this proves it.
Iam most happy to inform you that I have news re-
garding Miss Wilma; in fact, it was somewhere near
this time last evening that I promised not to betray
the fact of ee eae her to any of you.”

“You have seen her? Surely you will not refuse
to tell me where?”

“ Surely I will not,’’ Crayton answered. They had
both descended to the sidewalk, and he offered his
arm over the way. ‘“‘Rash promises are better
broken than kept, you know, and, truth to tell, I
hadn’t an intention of keeping this one. I left Miss
Wilma up in Westmoreland with our friend Miss

’ Erle, with abundance of employment in the way of

angelic ministrations among alot of sick villagers.
She gave me a little note for you, expecting, I rather
believe, that I would post it from some part of the
city. Twas just starting out to deliver it in person,
knowing how precious it was sure to be to you.”

She gave an upward glance into his face to detect
if her fancy of a poms meaning in his words had
any foundation, but he was fumbling at a pocket,
from which he drew forth a little folded slip, appa-
rently quite indifferent to her. Just then they came
upon the stronger glare of light and the stir of the
crowd which thronged Fifth avenue.

“Did you have your carriage?” Crayton asked, as
she paused there. ‘‘Can I take you to it, or send it
to you, Mrs. Richland?”

“Thanks, but I am not going back now. I will
not detain you,’Mr. Crayton. Thanks again for the
service you have done in bringing tidings of Wilma,
and this from her hand.”

“And that cuts short my hope of aseat anda
comfortable ride across,” soliloquized the reporter,
as he watched her disappear within one of the gay
bazars lining the way. ‘“ Whew! what a wind it is.
That is too bitter to face in crossing the bridge afoot,
Til be bound.” He took a car from the Sixth street
terminus, settling back into a corner, and was appa-
rently dozing in a moment’s time.

And meanwhile Captain Bernham, with Lenoir,
had reached the Richland mansion. A clock was
striking the quarter-hour as they entered; it was.a
quarter past six. Precisely as the same clock had
rung out six chimes, William Thompson had an-
swered a summons and opened to Dr, Dallas,

‘Show me at once to your master,” commanded
the doctor, loftily, ‘he is expecting me. Or, stay,
where is he? I'll not trouble you, my man.”’

Mr. Richland was at that moment in the library,
and at a word the doctor turned that way. 18
banker glanced inquiringly at the visitor who ad-
mitted himself in that unceremonious manner, and
rose to draw a chair closer the fire with true cour-
teous hospitality.

“Be seated, sir, said the banker. ‘You wished
to see me, I presume.”

“Thanks, Mr. Richland, yes. You were expect-
ing me, of course—Dr. Dallas, Craven Dallas at
your service, sir. I had the pleasure of informing
you by letter this morning of my intention just now
put into effect.”

Dr. Dallas delighted in smooth, well-rounded sen-
tences, and never more particularly than when the
velvet of his words covered the inclination and the
ability to use hidden power of his own to a ruthless
purpose. A stiffness came into Mr. Richland’s man-
ner instantly.

“*T received no such letter,” he said. ‘‘ Will Dr.
Dallas kindly explain what his business may be in
brief terms? I am expecting friends at any mo-
ment now.’’

Any resentment the doctor may have felt at the
change of tone was quickly smothered.

“T explained in my missive of the morning that I
havea revelation of importance to make to you. I
would really rather not be pare in breaking
it. We medical men learn to be cautious over the
chance of giving sudden shocks after knowledge
gained from along course of practice. When you
are fortified to hear what I fear may prove disagree-
able news—”’

“Pray say whatever you may have to say briefly
as possible,” Mr. Richland interrupted him. ‘‘Iam
a man of few words myself, Dr. Dallas, and prefer
being dealt with after my own fashion.”

“Your will is my pleasure, then,” the doctor re-

lied, smoothly, but with cold gleams coming into

is restless eyes. “It is my duty to inform you, Mr.
Richland, that oor have been laboring under a mis-
apprehension for the past fifteen years, which may
prove both disagreeable and embarrassing in the re-
sult. |The lady who kindly listened to your suit then
was unfortunately not free to listen, She had a
former husband alive at the date of her marriage
edo she has a daughter, the issue of that first
marriage, alive to-day.”

‘eee

CHAPTER XXVI..
WHERE THE DOCTOR MADE HIS MISTAKE.

For one second Mr. Richland’s face was a blank,
The astounding impudence of the man sitting there
under the glow of his own br tee ae warmth of
his own fireside, and deliberately attacking him with
an assertion which exceeded all limits of possibility,
took his breath for asecond, while his comprehension.
of the reality of the charge came slowly. Indigna-

‘ticn and amazement came with it, struggling into

every line of his smooth, florid face.

Mr. Richland was never much given to demonstra-
tion. His was both a generous and noble spirit, but
it was not..a quick or clever one, This accusation
was the furthest from any which might have gained
credence with him, and except for bewilderment
it vas no other result than to arouse his indignant
surprise. ;

“Upon my word, the man is surely mad!” ejacu-
lated Mr. Richland, with a half-pityinz, half-angry
stare into the sallow countenance, sneering and, for-
bidding, with the crafty eyes not meeting his own
honest ones, but still watching furtively every change
“You surely ave mad, Dr.
Dallas, to come with such a oa shameless at-
tempt atimposition. Understand, sir, that my wife
is above all reproach.”

 

THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

 

Se = a

 

 

“Tam. quite as sane as yourself, Mr. Richland
‘You might be pardoned thinking me otherwise if I
bad come with an unbased assertion only, but I have
the pleasure of announcing myself an eye-witness,
an active agent I may say, to a share of what the ac-
cusation embraces. I can very positively swear to
the identity of the present Mrs. Richland with a a
tient I had under my care, seventeen years ago. She
was the only daughter of my friend and patron lately
deceased, Matthew Gregory.”

Mr. Richland leaned forward in his chair, a quick
change flashing into his face, his lips parting, but
sober second thought was there in time to check the
impulse which would have led him to speech. Let
the man bring forward his charges, absurd and pre-
sumptuous as they may be. He was very evidently
determined to be heard, and it would be time
enough to summon William Thompson to put him
out forcibly, if need be, when he understood
wae this groundless revelation was intended to

““You were about to deny that,” said the doctor,
drawing a quick inference from the other’s manner.
‘“You were not kept in ignorance of your wife’s re-
lationship with him then, and that should be one
point toward your concession of the whole truth. I
certainly assure you that it is truth, and I can prove
so much of it that I think you will not refuse to con-
cede the rest. If you doubt my word you are quite at
liberty to callin the lady herself and see how she will
face the facts I have to tell. I had the pleasure of
wringing a tacit admission of it all from her, not
very long since. If you want perfect satisfaction,
a all means let Mrs. Richland have a hearing

sO.

“You must know that you have made very un-
qualified and preposterous charges,” said the bank-
er, in the slow, heavy way of a man assured in his
own stand, but perplexed by the movement of an
enemy. “TI could not think of subjecting Mrs. Rich-
land to the nae annoyance of refuting them. You
have attempted to perpetrate a most atrocious slan-
der, and my advice to you is to drop the matter be-
fore you further commit yourself. I am willing to
overlook this much of whatever malicious intention
has led you so far.”

“But I have no desire that you shall overlook it,
Mr. Richland. I tell you in sober fact that the lady
you have supposed to be your wife was the wife of
another man living when you married her. I tell
you more, that she is the mother of a child who lives
to-day, whom you have had in none a house,
whom you have known as Wilma Wilde. I daresay
it never occurred to you to wonder what was the
strong interest your wife found in the girl. You had
no reason to suspect, of course, a fact of which the
lady herself was in ignorance until a short time since
but the maternal perception is strong and subtle an
far-reaching, as surely this proves. I repeat, your
wife has never been your wife, and Wilma Wilde is
her daughter, acknowledged by her, as I shall prove

‘ou.

Mr. Richland breathed a silent inspiration of relief.
Not wavering nor convinced by so much as a line,
such a poate unmistakable assertion necessarily
resulted in the extreme of annoyance to him, but
this the doctor’s last words had materially lightened.
Lunatic or villainous schemer, whichever he might
be, Dr. Craven Dallas had surely overreached him-
sel Wilma, his own wife’s child—Wilma, the
daughter of a marriage consummated before he had
ever met her, and existing still when she had taken
vows of closest fealty to him! Carefully as he might
have concocted the remainder of his plot, in making
a casas Dr. Dallas had surely committed

mself,

In that moment Mr. Richland had a grateful if
vague andincomplete comprehension of what wise
orderings are those of the inscrutable Providence

ruling all. Not many days since he had been in-
clined to regret the chance that had resurrected to
knowledge this unknown and unsuspected father of

Wilma, who would claim her whenever found; it had
a selfish regret springing from his own warm affec-
tion for the girl, and his ownintentions ae a the
future. Now with this atrocious attempt to fix a
base scandal vag! them, the very fact which had
been a source of scarcely acknowledged dissatisfac-
tion would serve to refute it. What better testimony
than that of Wilma’s father to offer against what-
ever cunningly-woven deceit Dr. Craven Dallas
aaa have in readiness? He could almost smile in
anticipation of the doctor’s entire defeat, but that
his indignation was too deeply touched to admit of
it. That same indignation was very aa re-
et in his face turned coolly incredulous upon the
other.

“You have been ently of attempting the basest
of subterfug2s, one calculated to inflict the very
deepest injury. 1 presume there can be no doubt
of your motive, and the desire to extort money
never led to a more villainous endeavor. It has
failed as it deserved to do. I hope it will not be
necessary to assure you’in yet more unmistakable
terms.”

There was menace in both voice and face, which
Dr. Dallas did not fail to note, but the fact in no way
lessened his complete serenity.

“ By the powers! it is a pity to mar such perfect
trust, such entire belief in that thing which never
had any existence, a woman’s good faith, You are
not by any means alone in finding yourself a victim
of long and deep deception, Mr. Richland. Iam not
departing from the truth in any single statement of

e, as the result shall show—a result which I in-
vite, and one I fancy you will even consider worth
money to stop before the evening is over. Three
years before you fellin love with the present fair
mistress of this fair mansion, that interesting expe-
rience had its precedent in her life, and she was even
more easily wooed and won than in your subsequent
short and successful courtship. She was married to
a wild young mnilitary student, who called himself

mond Leigh. It was not his own name, however,
but that fact does not affect the validity of the mar-
riage. His real namewas Bernham, Ah, possibly
you may have received some hint which leaves my
statement already seeming less absurd.”

The banker h a a great start, and his ruddy
face turned pale. The effect of that sallow, sneering
countenance opposite, that quietly impressive yet
mockingly Se tone, and the sudden drag-

forward of the name which had been associated
with his own stronghold «f defense, combined, gave

' wife.

 

 

him a start and a stunned sense of having lost some
important part from his hitherto unshaken trust.
Dr, Dallas had gained an advantage which he was
quick to follow up.

‘They married in secret, and lived in secret for a
little time, but my old friend Gregory was more than
equal to the portion of caution exercised by the
young pee He had intended his daughter for a
convent lite, and it had been a clashing of two stron;
wills between them, and she had first resisted ani
then conquered in a way Matthew Gregory was apt
neither to forget nor forgive. He found them, and
he found means to separate them; what means, it is
safe to infer that no living person very well knows.
Young Bernham’s commission and orders came in
time to prevent an explanation and reconciliation, if
such might have been made, and a few months later
came the report of his death. She believed it you
ean give your wife credit for that, Mr. Richland;
but, unfortunately for your case now, instead of
meeting questionable honor, death upon the battle-
field, Lieutenant Bernham had thrown up his com-
mission, and taken himself to that Eldorado—the
mining districts of California. Life in the mines
has a wonderful fascination with it, and it is not so
strange that he stayed there quite as good as dead to
Reoele here, so far as his own intervention was con-
cerned.”

Mr. Richland had listened with a dread and a sick-
ening fear weighing upon him. He would have liked
to throw the lie back in the man’s face; he wanted
to proclaim his own unshaken belief in his wife, and
he could only sit weighted down by that chilling ap-
prehension, his gaze held by the cold, crafty lights
of, the gray eyes turning the full of their mocking
triumph upon him now. With an effort he broke the
spell upon him and arose, a purple flush coming into
his face, and his voice sounding hoarse and unnat-
ural to his own ears,

“Tt is a base fabriction, all of it. How dare you
attempt to impose it upon me?” |

“T have dared more with less assurance before
this, Mr. Richland. Try me in regard to this if you
dare. I am willing to substantiate my own state-
ments. If you doubt still, or if you wish further
assurance, by all means let Mrs. Richland speak
for herself. I can bring a witness to prove the
date of her real husband’s death—not a willing wit-
ness, perhaps, but who will not dare to refuse his
testimony.’

Mr, Richland, his hand on the back of his chair,
stood staring in a bewildered way upon Dr. Dallas,
easy and confident opposite. The date of her
real husband’s death; and if there were truth in
any of this miserable story he had been hearing, that
other husband was alive and expected every moment
there in that very house. What horrible delusion did
the doctor labor under since he could render such a
vivid impression of it with all these contradictions
rising toconfuse. Mr. Richland could make nothing
of it, And while he stood, not speaking, the library
door was thrown back.

“Captain Bernham and Mr. Lenoir!” the footman
announced, and ushered them in according to
He orders which had been left with him an es r

fore, :

The banker turned his pale face, and Lenoir pressed
forward, with an exclamation of alarm.

““What has happened, Mr. Richland? Are you ill?
Have you had any tidings?”

Mr. Richland, shaking off his bewilderment, gave
his hand with a negative to the questions, and ack-
nowledged an introduction to Captain Bernham, his
eyes searching the still disciplined face of the latter,
and noting his fine, soldierly form—surely a man in
whom he could repose a trust.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” he said, in that voice
sounding so unlike his own. ‘‘ You have come at an
opportune moment, most opportune since upon you,
Captain Bernham, rests the decision of an accusa-
tion which has proved to me startling and incredible
to an extreme; an accusation made by that person,
Dr. Dallas, You, sir,”—to the doctor—‘‘ may explain
as you like,” ;

he doctor’s sallow face had very slightly changed
at sight of Captain Bernham, but his eyes had taken
4 their shifting, uneasy habit, and, ‘self-acknowl-
edged or otherwise, the doctor inwardly quailed be-
fore that commanding presence, For all that, he lost
none of his cool impudence, which also might have
been mingled with a dash of defiance.

“TT have Anse now made it my duty to reveal to Mr.
Richland the rather Eo misapprehension
under which he has Jabored during the past fifteen
years. It has proved something of a shock to him,
as is simply natural that it should. You, Captain
Bernham, are a witness I should have been forced to
call upon sooner or later, You cannot refuse to bear
me out in the assertion that the present Mrs. Rich-
land was truly Raymond Bernham’s wife, and that
Raymond Bernham’s death dates no further than
two years back, Mrs. Richland has never had a
legal’ claim upon the title she Wears; she is
Ra mond Bernham’s widow, never Mr, Richland’s
With a couple of long, swinging strides, Captain
Bernham stood by the doctor’s aie His sunbrowaedt
countenance was impenetrable as steel, but his eyes
aed menace and warning down upon the banker’s
vis-a-vis.

“You, you sneaking, paltry cur!’’ the captain ejac-
ulated, in the tense, low Seis of eleeiiee Seton.
“You dare to bring such a false assertion to bear
against that lady! You, a cowardly assassin, a thief
in the night, a miserable hypocrite and sycophant,
too contemptible for notice except for the powers
you bring into action for the purpose of mischief-
making. Your charge against Mrs. Richland is false
—false to the last degree. She was never my brother
Raymond's wife.”

Dr. Dallas, cowering under the suppressed vehe-
mence of word and look, raged nevertheless at this
open refutation of the charge, to which he would
have sworn with the fullest belief of its truth, then
or at any previous time. Dr, Dallas had madc one
grand mistake in following the clew which had fallen
into his hands. He sprung up now, placing the
chair between them, for that look blazing in the
pt ada gave the doctor some chilling qualms of

istrust.

“Td swear to the truth of it,” he asserted, dog-
een “You know, Captain Bernham, and -you

eny it because ofthe fortune in your possession
now which will go to his daughter and hers, Wilma

 

 

 

 
THE INHERITANCE OF HATE.

 

Wilde. You know that you don’t dare brave out the
denial. You stole the certificate and the letters,
which would have been ample proof, that were left
in my care, but the clergyman who pronounced the
marriage ceremony is alive yet, and other witnesses
may be found, You may not find it a light matter to
commit a theft and to intrigue in keeping ion
of an inheritance which is legally another’s, Captain
Bernham.”

“Have a little care, Dr. Dallas. You hired assas-
sins to attack me for the purpose of recovering cer-
tain papers from my possession, to which I fancy no
other person living has a better right. You failed
once, but you worked more subtly and more suc-
cessfully another time. I demand those papers back
from you, and for the sake of avoiding your equivo-
capone and subterfuges, name your own price for

em.”

The banker, more than ever hopel bewildered,
more than ever weighed upon by that heavy dread
put back Lenoir, whose quick comprehension had
grasped the vaguest idea of the truth, and who
would have interposed in aiding Captain Bernham to
screen the “‘ Rose’’ he had loved and who had died
to him seventeen years before.

‘Tell me, for the sake of heaven, what does this
mean? That man has declared Wilma to be my own
wife’s child; vane Captain Bernham, have claimed
her as your daughter. Iimplore you tell me the
truth! It is too
now.”

The captain turned upon him like a flash, speaking
between close set teeth.

‘Tf you have one consideration for your wife, Mr.
Richland, do what you can to stop this matter here.
Leave me to deal with this fellow, whose motive may
be very readily understood. Once more, Dr. Dallas.
will you take the chance which is offered you, an
name your price for those papers, and at the same
time this wild surmise you have mistakenly derived
from them? You will never find a better chance of
making terms,

“T tell you I have no ppepers. You took very good
care to insure that, Captain Leigh Bernham, but

ou are apt to find greater odds which you cannot
ay hands upon before this affair is over. Ill swear
to the truth of every word I have uttered, and I'll
prove it before I am through. Wilma Wilde shall
come in for all that is her due. And, by heaven! if
it is for no more than the leveling of all this unbend-
ing pride, and in return for the scorn with which she
has seen fit to to treat me before this, all here shall
be convinced that Mrs. Richland has a difficulty on
hand in the shape of a bigamy—that she had a liv-
‘naspeaband, when she became the recognized wife
of Mr. Richland.”

“Put it strong, you charmingly disinterested old
Bitter Herbs. Say at once, why don’t you, that the
husband of that time is living yet to-day? Make the
scene effective, my dear doctor. Ring up the cur-
tain from the mysteries, and call up the grand
tableau, but take some friendly advice along with
jt, and accept the terms our friend the captain is so
liberal in o} ering.”

Another spectator whose presence had been passed
unobserved, advanced now with a careless nod to
the little group so worked upon by various strong
emotions. The reporter, coming close in the others
wake, had admitted himself, and waited, listening,
for a favorable cpap earaiiy. to discover himself.

“Make terms, by all means,’ Crayton said. ‘I
would advise it on both sides. And, by-the-by, Captain
Bernham—speaking of papers reminds me—let me
take the occasion to return the wallet, containin;
something of the sort, which you so kindly loan
me the other_night. Tt has served its pu ad-
mirably, but I have now no further use for it.”

Captain Leigh Bernham received the wallet with a
suspicious, doubtful glance, which was quite lost
upon the reporter, opened it with a quick survey of
its contents, and with a rapid movement, before
any one could interfere, dropped it ppon the burn-
ing coals, where the loose papers hed up in-

stantly. ,

“T’ve another paper may do a trifling service be-
fore following those,’’ Clayton continued, coolly.
“But first, Dr. Dallas, disappointing though ‘it
must be after you have ee so far into the facts of
the case, I am positive there will be no objection to
having youretire. There isn’t a doubt but that either
Captain Bernham or Mr. Richland here will consult
with you at some subsequent time regarding any
claims you may wish to present. Just now, any
trouble on i part-might make the locality speed-
ily unhealthy for you. A burglar, nabbed and in the
lock-up now, is only waiting an opportunity to turn
state’s evidence, and, among other interesting items,
is one of an instigation to plunder a gentler.
which, supported by the evidence of the captain
here, might proye embarrassing.”

Dr. alas ad not accepted his defeat, but he was
wise enough to see that his chance was Jost for this
oceasion. He tooka silen¢departure under the blaze
of Captain Bernham’s threatening eyes, and the re-
porter, with a thin packet in ye energie his
careless unconcern as the door closed after him, and
stood BrSYGs with a gloomy and what must have
seemed a reluctant look in ay except that wild, un-
caring Bohemian, as he faced the waiting trio.

te for evasions or subterfuges

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
ON AND ON.

Up in Westmoreland the snow had fallen and lay
now in a white, unbroken sheet, with a glittering
surface reflected under cold winter sunlight. Winds
had drifted it in the hollows and against the fences,
and a bank of it lay undisturbed under the windows
of the old Erle homestead. _

A depressing stillness reigned throughout the
house. The scourge of the village had seized upon
its benefactress. Miss Erle was stricken down in the
midst of her usefulness suddenly; fatally the whis-

r had got abroad, and the grave appearance of
luff old Dr. Joy as he came and went gave no better
assurance in answer to the general anxiety. The
little village had been stirred aside from its own
selfishness by the tidings, and in their own humble
way these o} ungrateful recipients of Miss Erle’s
bounty testified to better impulses her unweary-

ing efforts had aroused in them, Even those mouri-
ng eet some loss in their own households felt that
&@ heavier loss was in store for them should the

 

watchfulness and care they had resented before this |

be forever removed.

hours, and now, as Dr, Jo;

patient, he caught sight of her pale cheek and heavy |

eyes, e beckoned her outside the room with an

attempt to look stern, but succeeded better in look- |

ing anxious. f

SA pretty kettle of fish this I’ve got pees my
hands,” he said, blusteringly. ‘‘ Next we'll
ing you down along with the rest. Isuppose there’d
be no use ordering you off to bed, the best place for

ou, so do the next best thing and get out into this

resh, crisp air, for an hour at least. No, not one
word, and as you care to save yourself a deserved
berating, don’t you dare to venture into one of those
village houses. There never was any sense in taking
a mite like you into those places to get a philanthro-
pic heart-break over the shiftlessness of such miser-
able beings. Be off now, and see that you bring a
better color back with you.”

The doctor watched her as she went out, hooded
and cloaked, a few minutes later, her step listless,
her motion weary and relaxed.

“ That will never do,” the doctor growled to him-
self. ‘“‘An aimless walk in that frame of mind is
good as an invitation to the disease. She wants an
object, and she shall have it, by George!”’

e made a dash and overtook her at the gate.

“Here, Miss Wilma, make this walk of yours of
some account, can’t you? Goby way of my house
and take a message to my housekeeper, if you’re at
all inclined to be obliging. Tell her for me that I'll
not be home to-night, and she may send my errand-
boy across to meet me at the village if I’m not home
by noon to-morrow.

“Not much danger of my housekeeper losing
sleep through anxiety for me,” chuckled Dr. Joy, as
he turned back from the gateway. ‘‘ A stretch of
neryousness that would be which my cross-grained
old Tabitha would scarcely be apt to indulge even
without her penance of a round dozen years in
the service of that slave of all times, a country doc-
tor.”

Frapeparans though it may have been, Wilma re-
ceived the Tneseaee in the best of faith. The doctor’s
house stood a full mile beyond the village, and the
sun far down in the west warned her to make haste
to accompilsh the long walk while daylight lasted.
She had delivered her errand, and was returning
more slowly, as the evening set in. It was a sorrow-
ful heart Wilma was carrying over the homeward
way. -She had lost sight of her own troubles in a

reat measure in the task which had engrossed her
ere, but a new sorrow had arisen to suddenly de-
stroy the peace she would have found in this quiet
life. Her loving, clinging nature had gone out
to Miss Erle in even this short time. She had found
her an affable companion and a true friend, and
alas the tender tie between them was almost
roken.
The sun was down, and broad bands of yellow and

red stretched across the western sky. A locomotive

shrieked behind a pele - ene sai and rushed
on around a curve in e e. ima, pausing
to watch it, became aware, for the first time, that
a figure followed her, @ woman cloaked and vailed,
who lingered as she stood there, and followed again,
keeping the same distance. She had taken little
notice of the occurrence at first, but as she observed
that whether she walked fast or slow the woman
following timed to her own pace, the fact fixed itself
impressively upon her attention. She had reached
the village, and a glance showed her that the at-
tending shape was there still. Wilma stopped short
then, vaguely uneasy, and waited, determined to let
the vailed figure pass, and so rid herself of the dread
which was stealing upon her. But the other also
paused, and after a moment’s hesitation turned and
walked swiftly away in another direction.

She had been gone full two hours before she reached.
the old mansion again, and if she had not popes
obeyed the doctor’s instructions in bringing back a
color in her cheeks, at least she had gained a firmer
elasticity of step. had shaken off the worst of the
weariness which had weighed upon her. There was
light glowing within the curtained windows of the

allor, another one glimmering faintly above in Miss
Tinte's chamber. She went up the steps and let her-
self into the parlor. It was a large room, and now
a cheerful blaze upon the hearth and a bright flame
from the chandelier left shadowed spaces, and
Wilma, coming from the dusk and chill without, into
the light and warmth, was not aware for a moment
that the room held another presence. From this
ee in the shadow the former occupant watched

er for a moment; the small face, with saddened
eyes, looking down into the fire, the soft, dark hair
clinging about the low, wide forehead, and sarin in
loose curls about the slender throat, just as he had
her image potographed upon his mind, except that
he had loved to think of her with a happier look.
She was slow in glancing around asa step crossed
the floor at her side, thinking it only Dr. Joy, but
she did glance around at last. Glanced about to
find herself face to face with Erle Hetherville. For
a second her breath was stilled, her heart beat irregu-
lar and faint through the surprise of seeing him. e
had expected the meeting, and was greeting her
with a brother’s affectionate kindness as she re-
covered from the faintuess, which came and went
within a brief moment.

“ Wilma, dear child, knowing you were to be found
here has lifted a dreary weight from the minds of
your friends. And yet you are scarcely looking
well, 1 can understand that you, too, have been
worn and weighed upon.”

“And you—we were not exposing you before
morning, or, at the earliest, the late night train, Dr.
Joy sent a telegram only some three hours ago.
Have you seen Miss Erle?”

“T received no telegram, and I have not yet seen
my aunt. She was asleep when Icame in from the
depot, scarcely five minutes ago. 1 shall go to her
soon as she awakes, but first I have a surprising
revelation to make to you, Wilma.”

A startled fear was in Wilma’s eyes rather than
any wonder of questioning, a fear which was not
realized in this delivery of the mission with which he
was charged. Her father alive and returned and
waiting to claim her, a father’s love jonging for her,
a bright future lying before her! Her father near
her even then, and awaiting only for the tidings to
be broken, keeping his own impatience in check, and

hav- |

 

290

coming within the hour! That was the substance of

F | what Erle told her, as me stood there together, so
Wilma had searely left her bedside for thirty-six |
was turning from his |

near yet so far apart, with a painful remembrance
of their last speaking together stirring even under
the force of the tremulous surprise, half-delight and
half-terror at this revelation; the sad certainty of
the change which was to come soon to Miss Erle.
But still that haunting fear lingered, and she could
not put it into words; and there was a subdued some-
thing in his manner which was owing to more than
his own sorrowful anxiety.

As they stood talking quietly, Dorothy aeerared
in the doorway to say that Miss Erle was awake and
pre) see other nephew. He leaned over
the bed, shocked to note the change in her in
this short time. She had lain in a stupor for the
most part of her two days’ illmess, the uncon-
scious seats varied by flashes of raging fever, and oc-
easional lucid moments. She was conscious now
and weakly whispered her welcome to Erle. It was
her extreme weakness and that strangely fixed
apathy which was bafiling Dr. Joy’s best skill. She
could say but little as he sat beside her, holding one
of her thin hands in his firm, tender clasp, but she
smiled up at him the infinite content which his pres-
ence had brought her.

“We hardly parted right when I was here last,
dear aunt Erle,” he said, bolding her hand closer.
“T want to tell you at once, if it will give you oe
added happiness, that the old way is the same sti
I never broke with Ethel, and she has named New
Year’s day for our wedding.”

A troubled expression disturbed the serenity of
the wrinkled, and yet fair old face at that.

“ And is it truly for the best, Erle? I was wrong
then. I have changed since, but I knew it even the:
under my own stiff, bad pride. But I have realize
it better since, since Wilma bas been with me, andI
have learned to love her, and to know how worth:
she is of even you. If it could come to pass again,
Erle, | I would never utter one word to influence

ou.

“Tt would have been the same, dear aunt. I was
bound to consult Ethel’s wish and happiness first. I
made my mistake in supposing she would meet me
more than half way in canceling the old bonds. I
shall not be unhappy with Ethel: I do tenderly and
dearly care for her.”

It was the best assurance he had to give her, and
it did not now satisfy Miss Erle. She lay ‘still,
gathering strength for what she had to say, and
saying it presently, slowly and a little brokenly.

“My last breath shall bea prayer for your truest
happiness, Erle. There is something more. I filled
out my will that night, after you bad left me; I had
it ready for a long time, but something always kept
me back when I meant to put in the name of the
heir, to sign and witness it. did it that night, but
now I want to have it changed. I must have it done
soon—directly !””

“If you mean that you have left all away from
me so much the better. I have surely enough,
rr you as surely have disposed more wisely of
it.”

“T have thought of that, and shall leave you only
some simple remembrance and my blessing, Erle. I
want to make a provision for Wilma.”

‘“‘ And even that need no longer trouble you. ‘Wil-
ma is well provided for. lf it is not distressing you to
hear me talk, let me tell you how.” He told her
then, omitting all the painful details, of the great
good fortune which had even then come to Wilma.

Even thén, in the parlor below, Wilma had met
her father, and between the two, the strong, bearded
and bronzed, soldierly man, and the slight little
creature, whose childhood had been so forlorn
there sprung into quick realization all the powerful
strength which is ever reciprocated in the love of
parent and child. In the hours they were left alone
together Captain Bernham told to Wilma the whole
story of that early wedding, and of the ing, to
which he himself had so recently obtained the key.

“And, now, my child, we must find the dear wan-
derer, upon whom we can never urge aclaim. She
knew that the revelation was inevitably to come,
and she fied before it from her husband’s home, let
me hope not entirely through fear of us. She be-
lieved me false and dead, she believed our marriage
no marriage, and the child dead to her from its
birth, a waif of disgrace, and if power of mine can
effect it she shall believe so still. She is the wife of
a noble, true-hearted man, one whom she has learned
to love and revere. She had vay you the
daughter of my brother’s wife, whom she.thought
to be my wife, whose jealous delusion helped lead to
that long train of misery, and who died in forward-
ing a revenge upon her supposed rival in Matthew
Gregory’s house. But she knows the truth at last,
she knows where to find you, and she is sure to
come here. She may be somewhere in the near
viele now.” i

“Do you know it was in_the hope of sparing my
mother that I left them?’’ Wilma asked. ‘‘My mo-
ther! And, oh! why did I not see before!” with a
quick catching of her breath as there rushed across
her a remembrance of that vailed, muffled figure
which had followed her.

“My daughter, what?”

“She is here; she has been here, and she ma;
be gone before this. I know that it was my mother.”
And then Wilma related the occurrence of the even-
ing which had impressed her with such strange un-
easiness.

“‘ And she may be gone before this,” said the cap-
tain, with a . ‘While we have been losing
time— Hark! there is some one asking for you.
Wilma.”

A ~~ at the door amoment later and its opening
verified the accuracy of the captain’s sharp hearing.
A half-grown village lad stood there, a messenger
who had come up at this late hour to make inquiry
after Miss Erle. ‘

“T ha’ got — ar ome. ment explained this
appearance, staring wide-e at the surroundings,
will hhis band went in are of the pocket some-
where concealed in his ragged garments. ‘I wor-
runt to ha’ brung it to you till the mornin’, but I
moughtn’t get away to fetch it then. I goes to the
quarry now that the old man’s down.”

“It was your mother who waited on Mrs. Brooke;
I remember now,” Wilma said, encouragingly, as
the boy’s be poe — evident.

‘Yes, and it’s from the one that’s taken w
after her. There it is now, and the old woman saya

 
 

26

 

FLEE SUN EE Re ie Oe AT ee,

 

she’d bet her eyes that this one’s a lady ’cause she
shows it and no showing off neither.”

Wilma had got hold of the paper which he pro-
duced at last, and Dorothy summarily hustled the
lad away. The slip of paper which had come thus
pe, was a fragmentary outburst, betraying

ow the burden of her anxiety had weighed upon
the writer,

“*My own dear child—mine—I may call you so in
this way now that I know the truth. had not
meant to reveal myself by so much as this, but you
also have known, and so near you it is taking all my
will to refrain from once seeing you, once taking
you to my heart; and I dare not so tempt my own
resolve. Icould not go quite away without once
looking upon your face again, but when I followed
you this afternoon and thou, ht Boa recognized me
—" There followed some illegible words. Then—
“Something strange is coming over me, but I have
been without rest, Ihave shut myself in an armor
forso long that now when I Jay it down I am lost.
re your mother, little Wilma; forgive her if you
find that which shall need forgiveness. As for me
I shall go on and on—”

‘ oe there the writing ended in a broken, waver-
ine.

msc: alarms me,” said Wilma, in quick, low tones,

looking with the rear she could not put in

words up into her father’s face.

“We must go to her at once; you may save—Hea-
ven knows what!”

But it seemed in the time after that, that no earth-
ly power would suffice in bringing relief to the tem-
pest-tossed soul and worn-out dy whose poor
refuge was in the cottage where so important a
part had been brought to light of the great mistake
which had resulted in such manifold misery. She
was again the Rose of times past, always the strick-
en, despairing Rose, weighted by her burden and
without a hope. Onandon! She was surely going
into the depths of the Valley of the Dark Shadow.

&

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A HOLOCAUST.

fue banker sat before the fire in his own bed-
chamber, a bright dressing-robe eet with
the purplish pallor which had come into his hitherto
florid, contented face. It was the morning of the
second day after the bitter revelation of truth had
come to light, the morning of the second day since
the wife who had been his pride had taken flight be-
fore the consequences of that revelation, and now it
was the lack of trust in his generosity which ce
with him most. The blow had fallen in severe force
upon Mr. Richland. He had given way before it,
not so much with the yielding of a weak character,
as with the stun of a shock which had bewilde:
and suspended the forces by which he ‘had regulated
his entire life, and failing now left him helpless,as a
child at this emergency.

Ethel had just left him fora moment, and in her
absence, Crayton, admitted below, made his way u
to the banker’s room unannounced. Mr. Rich a
looked up with a start at seeing him.

‘*Ts there any news?’’ he asked, with the tremulous
eagerness which fears disappointment. ‘ Have you
heard anything of her?”

Few looking into the banker’s changed, worn face
could have resisted a thrill of pity and sympathy,
and the reporter's, if concealed, was none the less
genuine.

“There is news, Mr. Richland; a telegram from
Captain Bernham. They have found her, as I was
sure they would, up there in Westmoreland, where
they have gone. T ey have sent the word to have
you ip them there.’

What was there in the reporter’s tone to strike
such quick dread to the banker’s heart?’ Slow to
realize even the consequences which must come to
himself, the scandal of publicity which could not
well be avoided now, the humiliation of that un-
compromising Richland pride, the honor of the
name tarnished, and through one he had trusted to
the uttermost, his perceptions were proving unusual-
ly quick in all concerning her.

“She has been much troubled, the weight of so
much dread hanging over her had worn her down.
She has been ill up there. Captain Bernbam asks
you urgently to come at once, if possible, and by
your presence stop the rumors which may otherwise
get afloat. If you are able to go by the afternoon
train, so much the better.”

I Now—any time. Ill, and away from her own
home? My poor Gertrude!”

The banker had roused himself, speaking with
tremulous excitement, but with his voice breaking
suddenly at the last. There was more roe his
mind than he had yet given utterance to. The sub-
ject he had pondered through the long hours of the
night and day was struggling in his mind now. His
look fixed oe the reporter, and a confidence in
him which had grown notwithstanding the part
So had taken in raking to light these long-con-
cealed facts, ——— him to speak.

“She has been blameless through all,’’ he said.
““She is dearer to me than my own life, and she
never was mine. He was the husband of her youth,
the father of her child, and yet—oh, my God! must
I give her up? I ask you to tell me, in all trath and
all honor, what do you think will insure her future
happiness best?”

here was a huskiness in the reporter’s voice
which he could not quite command, a was eae
about his inouth that betrayed the true manly feel-
ing which never been wholly lost under will-
ful self-neglect.

“On my soul, I’m sorry for you, Mr. Richland
but I do believe she has cared for him ail along. 1
do believe that the assurance she seemed to have
of his falsity would never have prevailed upon her
to enter upon a second ‘marriage had she not also
believed him dead. I think that since she discov-
ered him yet alive she has suffered tortures which
neither you nor I can understand, which would kill
her or drive her mad to longer endure,”

The banker wrung his hand, ae his face away
to conceal the spasm which convulsed it,

“I believe you are right, Crayton, He, is a noble
follow,,Captain Bernham, and better suited, loving
er ds truly aseven I, [ don’t think [ can mistake

 

my own duty now. Will you kindly let Ethel know
of this? She will go with me there, of course.”’

“There is another matter to be considered, Mr.
Richland, that of the mischief Dr. Dallas’s malicious
tongue would do, I really believe it will be better
for all concerned to buy him off; while the matter
must inevitably be made a nine days’ wonder, at
least let it be presented in its truthful form, with no
misapprehension to reflect upon her. I am willing
to undertake compromising with him, if you care to
leave the task to me.”

“T shall be glad to have you do so. I'll give you
an order for any amount you like. Or, now I re-
member, there’s a et of bills in my escritoire
there, which I intended for Ethel, if it is enough.
Will you look?”

Crayton got out the roll of bills under the other's
direction, and ran over the amount.

“Enough in plenty, Mr. Richland. A thousand
dollars, and trust me that the old fox doesn’t get
more than half of it.”

He met Ethel on his way out, and stopped her to
deliver her brother’s message.

“T could not quite give him the full impression
I derived from the telegram,” he said. ‘I fear she
is much more seriously ill than I led him to imagine,
It might be as well to prepare his mind for a great
change before he sees her.”

“Poor Gertrude!” Ethel sighed, tears in her eyes.
“And to think we never knew the sufferings
she must have borne; so true, so noble at heart,
and believing she had been so wronged; hiding her
wound from that wrong through all these one
and filling her entire duty in the household here
and to my brother, with her own passion never be-
trayed. Oh, it was hard, hard! e owe much to
you, Mr. Crayton, for discovering the truth which
may lighten her burden for many years.”

“Lord knows whether it has been productive of
good or harm,” said the reporter, ican oT
can’t lay claim to any particular good intention in
dragging the secret facts to light. There’s never
much good in anything I’ve had a hand in, Miss
Ethel, and I followed the clew I got of the story
with about as little aim as I’ve put into the rest of
my life. I had a curiosity to see where it might lead
to, and if there was anything better in my share of
the affair, it was a vague hope of sparing you some
shock and pain by forestalling Dr. Dallas, who was
on the same track with a worse motive. Yousee you
have very little to thank me for.”

Crayton did not go directly to the old house on the
Manchester road. It was near evening when he
made his ae there, two hours after he had
seen the banker and his sister aboard the train for
the Westmoreland village.

The doctor met him in a sulkily defiant mood. He
had expected some overture before this time—some
jan to make terms and to insure his silence, and
more than ever he had fixed himself in his resolve to
maintain the stand he had taken, to hurl all the
forces of his malignity against the fair, proud
woman whose unconcealed scorn had made of him
a bitter enemy. Dr. Craven Dallas was eminent!
mercenary, but there was a venom in his cold-
blooded composition which could at times reach be-
yond his covetous impulses. In his passion of that
night he had failed to comprehend Crayton’s de-
claration, which might have made clear to him his
own mistake.

He was in his laboratory when the reporter let him-
self in with his usual lack of ae formalities.
Dr. Dallas met him with no very well pleased ex-

pression, but the reporter was there, and not to be
rebuffed.

“A rather bad habit that of leaving your front-
door unlocked,” he said, coolly helping himself to a

chair. ‘Of course you are delighted to have me
drop in unannounced, at any time, but you might
chance to have some more unwelcome visitors. You
have been very successful for a considerable time,
Dr. Dallas, but mal-practice and extortion through
blackmail, and instigation to assault and robbery,
might succeed in bringing you into even more dis-
eeable quarters than these. What a confounded
odor you keep here, by the way, and hot enough to
ive a fellow a foretaste of what] he may ara at
he end of that sa which sports good intentions in
place of a Nicholson pavement.”

“Tt might be made a short step between places,”
the doctor answered, grimly, with a glance at his
we furnace and a mixture bubbling in a vessel
over it.

The reporter. made known his business shortly,
with no useless superfluity of words.

“You don’t deserve anything better for your in-
terference in the case than a trial on the charge of

attempting to extort money unlawfully, but of course |

ou know ee secure so far as a complaint
rom them is concerned. 1 have been authorized to
ascertain what price will secure the silence of that
mischievous tongue of yours. You know me, Dr.
Dallas, and you know I could easily bring testimony
to bear which might end by lodging you at the
State’s expense for a respectable term of years.
Take my advice and name a reasonable price, and
wash your hands of all things pertaining to the
affair from this time out.”

‘“No argument and no offer of
me,’’ the doctor answered as coolly. ‘‘If you want
any result to offer in way of interviewing, Mr. Cray-
ton, take this: that I mean to reassert my right to
command the actions of my ward when she is
Le Mane 5 to light; that she shall inherit the fortune
which is hers by right, and that the Richland pride
shall be brought to a lower level. You have some-
thing to learn yet if you have never realized that
there is sometimes more satisfaction than money
gained in a grand stake of revenge.”

“You are apt to find a small obstacle in the way
of your estimable purpose, however. The fact is,

‘ou have most een iously deluded yourself, Dr.

allas. You will nd @ difficulty in assuming any
rights of guardianship to Miss de, since she is at
present under her own father’s protection. Acute
as you deserve to be rated, my dear doctor, I really
can not comprehend how you so blindly exchanged
the identities of the brothers Bernham. Captain
Bernham is fully qualified to hold his own against
even you, I imagine.”

as he might, Dr. Dallas found himself over-
reached, and the end was that he took UP with
Crayton’s offer, his good faith being assured by the
cloge knowledge certain transactions of his

ours could induce

 

oe

which the reporter held, together with a self-con-
viction that Captain Leigh Bernham was not the
Ea he might wish to provoke to further anger or
action.

It was not in the doctor’s nature to accept a de-
feat quietly, and the bitter disappointment of this
one must have blinded him. He went back to his
mixture over the charcoal furnace as the reporter
left him. A shelf near was filled with bottles of
various sizes and shapes. The supposition is that
he ee down the wrong one and added to his com-
pound.

Crayton, just descending the steps, felt them rock
under his feet, and heard a dull explosion. Mrs.
Gerritt, in the opposite wing, was momentarily
stunned. The reporter, rushing in to burst open
the door of the laboratory, was met and driven back
by a sheet of flame. Out of the way as it was, and
its timbers inflammable [as tinder, the old house on
the Manchester road was a holocaust which still
could never suffice for the misery bred within its
walls. From the still smoking es was taken a
shapeless mass, which was given a burial in that
same crowded, shadowed churchyard: where Mat-
thew Gregory had been laid.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
AS IT WAS,

Tue last of the dreary November days had worn
away. December followed them and the new year
was ushered in.

Mellow lights glowed in the parlor of the old man-
sion up among the Westmoreland hills. 'There have
been changes there since the eventful night of Wil-
ma’s coming in from her walk to the doctor’s house.
An eventful night, and one when the saddening ele-
ment held its supremacy, for Miss Erle, holding fast
to her nephew’s hand, had passed from a light slumi-
ber into a sleep which knows no waking, and at the
same time, in the little bare cottage in the village,
the anxiety which had awakened in the hearts of the
watchers there was deepening, with how good cause
they afterward knew.

o need ever of the self-sacrifice decided in the
heart of each of those widely different, noble men
—each prepared to lay down his own best happiness
to insure peace to her. No more weary burden very
soon for Rose; no further need of the marble-like
mask, no more ennui and weariness; no more hom-
age of the fashionable world for Mrs. Richland,
noted and quoted for fifteen years!

During those sad days of waiting there was no
jealousy and no distrust; no discord of enmity be-
tween those two, the husband of those few bright
happy weeks of her don life, and the husband of
these later years. en all was over, as it was ira
brief four days’ time, those two found consolation
and comfort each in the other.

Miss Erle was laid to rest beside her kindred, in a

uiet spot there among her native hills, followed. by
the villagers, who, failing to appreciate all she had
been to them in life, came to a recognition of the
full measure of their loss with her death, Another
funeral cortege at a later date, an imposing proces-
sion, went out from the Western avenue mansion,
where the marble remains of that dearly loved wife
of two husbands had been conveyed. A white
tapering shaft in the Allegheny cemetery marks her

‘ave, and the world is none the wiser for the pain-

‘ul drama of her life.

It is Ethel who sits in the parlor of the old house
up in Westmoreland, this evening of the early new
feat Miss Erle’s will, which was never changed,

ad left the bulk of her property to Ethel, Besides
there had been some charity bequests, and Erle
would not hear to the renunciation which Ethel
urged. The house in the city was unbearable witha
sorrowful reminder at every turn; and it was Ethel
herself who had proposed returning here. Captain
Bernham and Wiima were here as well, at Mr. Rich-
land’s urgent solicitation. Their mutual grief had
resulted knitting those four more closely than
ae brightest prosperous friendships ever could have

one.

Erle had gone back to Hetherlands, and despite
his sincere mourning for his aunt, he was ligliter-
hearted on his journey than he had been for weeks
before. The cause of it had come about most unex-
pectedly to himself. He had gone into Ethel’s pres-
ence, one day, as the holidays were drawing close at
hand, not shrinking from the duty which prompted
him, but with a depression which revealed to him-
self how futile had been his effort to return the full
ardor of his ee devotion to the allegiance
where, in all honor, it should belong. The trousseau
had arrived and been packed away from sight, in
those darker days, and no reference made to their
previous plans, until Erle broke the subject, a trifle
abruptly, on that occasion.

“Tt has come to a time when I must speak to you
regarding our marriage, Ethel,” he had said. ‘I leave
it entirely to your decision if any change shall oc-
cur in our plans. It seems ill-advised to be speaking
of this so soon after the sorrow which has come to
us both, but ours has been a quiet, long-standing be-
trothal, and I think it is your brother’s wish that
there shall be little as possible deviation from our
first arrangement. It is my desire as well; and if
you also agree, we will still be married plainly and
privately, upon New Year's Day.”

There was a troubled light in the soft, hazel eyes,
as Ethel heard him, but the pure fair face was quie'
in its resolve.

“There must be a change in our plans, Erle—one
of which I have been wishing yet dreading to
speak to you. I scarcely know how to tell you, even
now. This great grief of Gertrude’s death, and the
knowledge of all she had borne, has shocked me to
a comprehension of the great wrong I might have
done us both. I do not love you with the love I
should hope to bear my husband, Erle; I know now
that I never can. I would be doing a great wrong to
marry you at all. Howard is needing me, too, and
my duty, the gratitude and love I owe him in return
for long years of watchful tenderness, is to devote
myself to him from this time forth.

tle made a remonstrance, pleaded strongly even
while his heart beat quick at thought of regained
freedom; but Ethel remained firm. “And g0, at last,
he had accepted his dismissal at her hands, an
gone back.to Hetherlands. He had spoken no word
te Wilma, She was sodeeply under the cloud yet,

 

 
 

fea wat

THE INHERITANCE. OF. MATE.

27

 

 

of the sorrow which had come upon her; her first
duty was owing yet to the father, who for so long a
time had been bereft of wife and child. He could
be content, he ae with this measure of light-
heartaibags which had come. to him=contented to
wait a fitting time to tell his love again to Wilma.

Ethel, sitting alone, the firelight playing over the
somber mourning dress she wears, the glow from
the chandelier lighting the bright hair and the pear]-
like face, is thinking sadly but not gloomily of the
many changes. There will be still another one when
spring opens. They have made all calculations for
a trans-Atlantic journey—her brother, Captain Bern-
ham, Wilma and herself. Her brother’s failin,
health is the first object pone the move, and it
will be better for all of them to be removed from
the associations of these familiar scenes. She is re-
calling some vague reminiscence of that other Eu-
ropean: tour,;her: brother’s wedding-tour, when she
was a very little child, as the door opens and she
looks up and rises with a slight cry, as, with quick
step, there advances to meet her—Justin Lenoir.
She has thought him gone to his new field of action
before this, and his sudden appearance is a surprise
from which she does not.recover at once. There is
something which is not embarrassment, but an ea-
ger excitement kept down as he holds her hand for
a@&moment and utters those commonplaces which
people always use in greeting. She remarks her
surprise and wonder, and he answers her. His book
has delayedhim. It is just out now, and he has his
first assurance of its success. She has always been
sure that it would succ: and says so now, and it
is a truth that he finds asmuch delight in her simple
faith as with the favorable reviews with which the
critics have seen fit to receive it.

‘T shall be ready to go within another week,” he
said; ‘and this encouragement I have met has re-
sulted in placing me better even than 1 hoped for in
the new work Lam to take up. Ishould have gone
without seeing you again except for a recent chance
meeting with Mr. Hetherville. (That chance meet-
ing had cost Erle more trouble and maneuvering than
either of them was ever to know.) Oh, Ethel, Ethel!
I know that you are free of your own accord, and I
dare to plead for myself what your heart withheld
from him. ‘I have loved you since we first met, up
in the mountains, and I never could school myself

uite to be reconciled at thought of ever losing you.
His asking much now and offering so little except
my love, but if you can trust to that I shall be the
most blessed of men; I shall strive to gain much for
your sake as I never could have striven alone for
ar own advancement,”’

thel, finding her hand clasped in his

ing not a word, did not resist when he
bee ae face down to his shoulder.

“My darling, my darling!” he repeated, accepting
all that the concession from her meant. “ wy, only
love, and you were my love at first sight. Did you
know that, Ethel? Tell me, my own, when did you
know first that you could care dike this for me?”

“When I met you first, pale and worn by over-
work, last summer among the mountains,’ she an-
swered, truthfully.

Mr. Richland was less surprised than Ethel had
expected he would be when the announcement of
this result was made known to him. The old pride,
which had always been his worst fault, had been
humbled. In its place had come a softer, better
sentiment, which shone pre-eminently bright at
what might have been a little lingering, concealed
disappointment to him even now, But he had had
his lesson, ea | nerd and he was not lacking in
aro of Ethel’s choice,

he marriage was fixed to take place in early
spring, and the time between seemingly flew away
upon lightning wings. Lenoir was assured of ob-
taining leave of absence from his new situation,
which he retained at his own and Ethel’s des
notwithstanding Mr. Richland’s urgent representa-
tion that such a course was unnecessary, since Ethel
and Ethel’s husband should share equally. of his
bounty, but the young people were firm in declining
his generosity. ;

“Justin has his own way to work out,’’ Ethel
said, with a glance which showed how entire her
belief was that he would make it. “You must not
spoil his chance by depriving him of achief incen-

ive, Howard.”

Their plans had been changed only this far, that
Ethel should return with her husband aftera brief
two months, leaving the remainder of the tourist

arty to their own timie and their own pleasure on

he other side of the ocean.

It was to bea very quiet marriage. An invitation
was dispatched to Erle to be present upon the
occasion, and a a dozen hours after the letter
containing it had been mailed he came in upon
them unexpectedly—almost.

‘ain, say-
w her

 

“Yousee the Ors of attraction was too stron
for me,” he declared, laughingly; and then hear
4 real pleasure the tidings hs had crossed on

@ way.

Later that same day he succeeded in finding
Wilma alone, and before she could even suspect
his intention hehad caught the slender little form
close in his arms, his rippling golden beard swept
across her dusky hair, and his bold, blue eyes look-
ing oa re her caused her own shy, soft, dark
ones to fall.

“Mr. Hetherville, for shame! Let me go!”

“You shall never, never go,’ he answered her,
“never until you have promised to be my own
loved, ¢herished wife. I don’t exact any promise of
your loving me,’ he laughed. ‘‘Iam very sure of
that already.  Guileless little heart, it could not con-
ceal the truth from me, Ihave your father’s con-
sent, Wilma. My own little love! Can you and will
you bewha yy with me?”

“‘ Dear Erle, so happy that I am frightened.”

There was a double wedding, of course. Crayton
was there and até of the cake, and drank the health
of the two young a and was the wild, reckless
Bohemian even under his forced good behavior of
the day. He is that still, one of those talented men
of frooa impulses and bad habits, who, with versatile
ability will never achieve a point in life. As such,
ee nes him, por soare - = S a ee

orse recklessness before he one wit)
life in the true Bohemian way,

 

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the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama-
tions and Recitations in each book.

Dialogues.

The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em-
brace twenty-seven books, viz.:

Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fourteen.
Dialogues No. Two. Dialogues No. Fifteen.
Dialogues No. Three. Dialogues No. Sixteen.
Dialogues No, Four. Dialogues No. Seventeen,
Dialogues No. Five. Dialogues No. Eighteen
Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No. Nineteen.
Dialogues No. Seven. Dialogues No. Twenty.
Dialogues No. Eight. Dialogues No. Twenty-one.
Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-two.
Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-three
Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Twenty-four.
Dialogues No. Twelve. | Dialogues No. Twenty-five.
Dialogues No. Thirteen. | Dialogues No. Twenty-six.
Dialogues No. Twenty-seven.

15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book.

These volumes have been prepared with especial
reference to their availability in all school-rooms.
They are adaptéd to schools with or without the fur-
niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac-
ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and
female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet
offered to schools, at any price, contain so many
available and useful dialogues and dramas, serious
and comic.

Dramas and Readings.
164 12mo Pages. 2 Cents.

For Schools, Parlo:s, Entertainments and the Am, .
ateur Stage, eet Original Minor Dramas,
Comedy, Farce, D ess ieces, Humorous Dialogue
and Burlesque, by roted writers; and Recitations
and Readings, new ind standard, of the greatest
celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. Russell.

DIME HAND-BOOKS,

Young People’s Series.

Bravie’s Dime Hanp-Booxs ror Youne Prorie
cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially
adapted to their end. They constitute at once the
cheapest and most useful works yet put into the
market for kd circulation.

Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games.
Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortunc-Teller.

Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket.

Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion.
Book of Dreams, Book of Eeauty.

Hand-Books of Games.

Brapie’s Diwe Hanv-Booxs or Gamrs AnD Popular
Hanv-Booxs cover a variety of subjects, and are es-

 

pecially — to their end.
andbook of Summer Sports.
Book of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing.
Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving.
Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism,
Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player.
Handbook of Winter Sports.

Manuals for Housewives.

Brapie’s Divg Famriy Serres aims to supply a
class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per-
son’s use—the old and the young, the learned and
the unlearned. They are of conceded value,

1. Cook Book, 4, Family Physician.
2. Recipe Book. 5. Dressmaking and Mil.
8. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery.

Lives of Great Americans

Are presented complete and authentic biographies
of many of the men who have added Jester to the
ao by their lives and deeds. The series em-
races:

I.—George Washington. | _VII.—David Crockett.
IL.—J ohm Paul Jones. VIII.—Israel Putnam.
J1.—Mad Anthony Wayne IX.—Kit Carson.
X.—Tecumseh,

IV.—Ethan Allen. ss
V.—Marquis de Lafay-| XTI.—Abraham Lincoln.
J.—Pontiac.

ette.
VI.—Daniel Boone, .—Ulysses S. Grant.

SONG BOOKS.
Se area —_ Ber Rome, Nos. 1 to 83, containing-
6 0; 10) T co) j 2
Totod in the market, ion of copyright songs to be
Schoo! ! Melodist, | Music and Words.

Pocket Jok ae sian =y 3
ocket Joke Book, im Crow Jok 2
Paddy Whack Joke Book, te
The above publications for sale by all newsdealers

or will be sent, ipt
BEADLE & AD Waa Sr Ne yPne O

 

 
 

@ ME pl BITIONS oe i
ae piMe For gcHoo¥ page ee oe i

t Nos. 1 to 26 tnclusive. 15 to 25 Popular Dialogues and Dramas in each book. Each volume 100 12mo pages, sent
| post-paid, on receipt of price, TEN CENTS. a

Me

 

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 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 of every age, both male and female. 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.

a

 

 

 

  

{

Dime Dialogues, No. 1. Dime Dialogues, No. 5. Dime Dialogues, No. 9.
Meeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies. | ‘The Three Guesses. For school or parlor. Advertising for Help. For a number of females, j
Baiting a Live Englishman. For three boys. | Sentiment. A ‘Three Persons’ ’’ Farce. America to land, Greeting. For two boys.
Tasso’s Coronation. lor male and female. | Behind the Curtain. For males and females. The Old and the New. For four females and one
Fashion. For two ladies. | The Eta Pi Society. For five boys and a teacher. male.
The rehearsal. For six boys. | Examination Day. For several female characters. | Choice of Trades. For twelve little boys.
Which will you Choose? [or two boys. | peg in “ arene » For several males. | The Lap-Dog. For two females.
The Queen of May. For two little girls. | The Schoolboys’ Tribunal. For ten boys. _| The Victim. For four females and one male,
The Tea-Party. _ For four ladies. | A Loose Tongue. For several males and females. The Duelist. For two boys.
Three Scenesin Wedded Life. For male andfemale. | How Not to Get an Answer. For two females. The True Philosophy. For females and males,
Mrs. Sniffles’s Confession. For male and female. | Putting on Airs. A Colloquy. For two males. A Good Education. ' For two females.
The Mission of the Spirits. For five young ladies. | The Straight Mark. For several boys. The Law of Human Kindness. For two females, )
Hobnobbing. For five speakers. Two ideas of Life. A Colloquy. For ten girls. Spoiled Children. For a mixed school. |
The Secret of Success. For three speakers. | Iixtract from Marino Faliero. Brutus and Cassius.
Young America. For three males and two females. | Ma-try-Money. An Acting Charade. Coriolanus and Aufidius.
Josephine’s Destiny. For four females, one male. The Six Virtues. For six Roung ladies. The New Scholar. For a number of girls.
The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers. The Ivishman at Home. For two males. The Self-made Man. For three males.
Dogmatism. For three male speakers. Fashionable Requirements. For three etd The May Queen (No. 2). For a school.
The Ignorant Confounded. For two boys. | A Bevy of I’s (Eyes). For eight or less little girls. Mrs. Lackland’s Econdmy. For four boys and three

The Fast Young Man. For two males. | girls.
Should Women be Given the Ballot? For boys,

 

The Year’s Reckoning. Twelve females, one male. s
The Village with One Geatienian. For eight females Dime Dialogues, No. 6.
and one male. |
| The Way They Kept a Secret. For male and females. Dime Dialogues, No. 10. |
| witeecr ar ate sha re males. .
Bias ' illiam Tell. For a whole school. j ‘k Twain’s Shoe. For one male and
Dime Dialogues, No. 2 | Womans i nts Nor seven fem aes an 4 tw males. Mra Mar Twain one &
sof Li ales | Allis not Gold t itters. For male and females. | The Old Flag. School Festival. For three boys,
aos - Te ite Glace oe ones The Generous Jew. For six males. The Court of Folly. For many Bias,
Doing Good and Saying Bad. For several characters. | ieee , For three males and one female. Great Lives. For six boys an girls.
The Golden Rule. For two males and two females, | The Two Counselors. For three males. Scandal. For numerous males and females,
The Gift of the Fairy Queen. For several females. The Votaries of Folly. For a number of females, The Light of Love. For two boys.
Taken in and Done for. For two characters. mee Betty 's Beaux. For fcur females and two 7 eee ee ae ee girls,
ry ’s Visi ity. S : e Deaf Uncle. Fo
The Peo Romana, For avo, ee characters. | he Libel Suit, For two females and one mele. A Discussion. For two boys.
Trying the Characters. For three males. Santa Claus, For a number of boys. The Rehearsal. For a school.
The Ha y Family. For several “animals.” | Christmas Fairies. For several little girls. The True Way. For three boys and one girl.
The Rainbow. For several characters. The Three Rings. For two males. A Practical Life Lesson. For three girls.
How to write “Popular” Stories. For two males, , The Monk and the Soldier. For two R
The New and the Oid. For two males. Dime Dial No. 7 1776-1876. School Festival. For two girls.
A Sensation at Last. For two males. e Dialogues, No. 7. Lord Dundreary’s Visit. For two males and two
The Greenhorn. For two males. females. '
The Three Men of Science. For four males. The Two Beggars. For fourteen females. Witches in the Cream, For 3 girls and 8 boys.
The Old Lady’s Will. For four males. | The Earth-Child in wer ons For girls. Frenchman. Charade. Numerous characters,
The Little Philosophers. For two little girls, | aoe ty oo Windbae eae a male.
einen ee meio Woman: A Poetic Passage at Words. Two boys. Dime Dialogues, No. 11. |
A Connubial Eclogue. The ’Ologies. A Colloquy. For two males. |
The Public Meeting. For five males and one female. | How to Get Rid of a Bore. For several boys. Appearances are very Deceitful. For six boys. |
‘The Enylish Traveler, For two males. Boarding-School. For two males and two females. e Conundrum Family. For male and female. - |
Plea for the a For two males. Curing Betsy. For three males and four females. |
Dime Dial No. 8 Bree Pride. ih Caliogay or tid fexuaten The Way to. Do itand Not to Doi, or three femal |
it oe rue 2. ‘olloquy. For two females. e Way to Do it and Not to Doit. For es, |
ime alogues, No i Are peter Por cere ar dan ge! fo ome Healthy, etc. For one male and one
rhe wo Views of Life. lolloquy. Fortwo females. female. |
Dices etn Glawention fer ten fomalbé. The Rights of Music, For two females, | ‘The Only True Life, For two girls.
Keeping Bad Company. A Farce. For five males. | A Hopeless Case. A - in Verse. Two girls. — | Classic Colloquies. For two boys.
‘Courting Under Difficulties. Two males, one female, | The Would-be School-Teacher, For two males. I, Gustavus Vasa and Cristiern, |
National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four males. | Come to Lifetoo Soon. For three males. II, Tamerlane and Bajazet.
Escaping the Draft. For numerous males. | Hight O'clock. For two little girls. Fashionable Dissipation. For two little girls. |
‘The Genteel Cook, .. For, two tples, | True Dignity. A Colloquy. For two boys. ‘A School Charade. For two boys and two girls, |
Masterpiece. For two males and two females. | Grief too Expensive. For two males. Jean Ingelow’s ‘Songs of Seven.” For seven girls, |
The Two Romans. For two males, Hamlet and the Ghost. For two persons. | A Debate. For four boys.
‘The Same. Second Scene. For two males. Little Red Riding Hood. For two females. Ragged Dick’s Lesson, For three boys,
‘Showing the White Feather. Four males, one female. Ni Sr Ap pliaation ee eae ae aay School Chemsse a aa
‘The Battle Call. A Recitative. For one male. | Colored Cousins. A Colloquy. For two males, iB roe ea For two boys, ap
: For three is
The Real Gentleman. For two boys,
Dime Dialogues, No. 4. Dime Dialogues, No. 8.
}
"The Frost King. For ten or more persons. - | The Fairy School. For a number of girls, Dime Dialogues, No, 12,
Startiag in Life. For three males and two females. | The Enrolling Officer. For three girls and twe boys.
Faith, Hope and Charity. For three little girls. The Base-ball Enthusiast. For three boys. Yankee Assurance. For several characters,
Darby and Joan. For two males and one female. The Girl of the Period. For three girls. Boarders Wanted. For several characters,
‘The May. A Floral Fancy. For six little girls. The Fowl Rebellion. For two males and one female. | When I was Young. For two girls.

‘The Enchar.ted Princess. 2 males, several females. Slow but Sure. For several males and two females. | The Most Precious Heritage. For two boys.
Honor to Whom Honor is Due. 7 males andifemale, Caudle’s Velocipede. For one male and one female. | The Double Cure. For two males and four females,

 

The Gentle Client. Several males and one female. The Figures. For several small children, The Flower-garden Fairies. . For five little girls.

Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males. The Trial of Peter Sloper. For seven boys. Jemima’s Novel. For three males and two females,

"Lhe Stubbietown Volunteer. 2males andifemale. Getting a Photograph. For males and females, Beware of the Widows. For three girls.

A Scene from ‘ Paul Pry.’’ For four males. The Society for General Improvement. For girls. | A Family not to Pattern After. For ten characters,

The Charms. For three males and one female. A Nobleman in Disguise. ree girls and six boys. | How to Man-age, An acting charade.

Bee, Clock and Broom, Yor three little girls. Great Expectations, For two boys. | The Vacation ade. For four boys and teacher,

The Right way. A Colloquy. For two boys. Playing School. For five females and four males. | That Naughty Boy. For three females and one

What the Ledger Says. For two males. , Clothes for the Heathen, For one male and one fe- male. ' yg
‘The Crimes of Dress. A Ponogny. For two boys. __ male. Mad-cap. An acting charade. |
The Reward of Benevolence. For four males, A Hard Case. For three boys. All is not Gold that Glitters. pening Bore

Tho Letter. For two males. | Ghosts, For ten females and one male.; Bic Transit Gloria Mundi. Acting

 
a

 

THE STANDARD DIME DIALOGUES—Continued.

 

{
i The Chicken’s Mistake; The Heir Apparent; De- | Doxy’s Diplomacy. For three femaies and a num:
Dime Dialogues, No. 13. Beer us fromm pei, Done Wane to'be Goods Only a | er ot Incl as," ie : :
; runken Fellow ; e Two le ins; Ow | mchman. For two ladies and one gentlenion
ole pete Moca ee eS to Condemn; A Nonsense Tale; Little Boy’s Decla- | oo aoe Be Boys. For two boys ano one girl.
Before and Behind the Scenes, Several characters. mation; A Child’s Desire: Bogus; The Goblin Cat; A Rainy Day. For three young ladies

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 Sleeping Beauty. For a school.

An Innocent Intrigue. Two males and a female.
Old Nably, the Fortune-teller. For girls.
Boy-talk. For several little boys.

Mother is Dead. For several little girls.

A Practical Illustration. For two boys and girl.

Dime Dialogues, No. 14.

Mrs. Jonas Jones. For three gents and two ladies,
The Born Genius. For four gents. 2
More than One Listener. For four ao and lady,
Who on Airth is He? For three girls.

The Right not to be a Pauper. For two boys.
Woman Nature Will Out. Fora el sekooi,
Benedict and Bachelor. For two boys.

The Cost of a Dress. For five persons.

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 Aaeent: ‘or two boy Seeres
A Woman’s Blindness. For three girls.

Rum’s Work. (Temperance). For four gents.
The Fatal Mistake. For two young ladies.

Eyes and Nose. For one gent and one lady,
Retribution. For a number of boys.

Dime Dialogues, No. 15.

The Fairies’ Escapade. Numerous c

A Poet’s Perplexities. For six gentlemen,
Home Cure. For two ladies and one gent.

The Good there isin Each. A number of boys.

Gentleman or Monkey. For two tom

The Little Philosopher. For two little girls,

Aunt Polly’s Lesson. For four ladies.

A Wind-fall. Acting Charade. For a number.

Will it 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. Fortwo 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 gentleman.
The Mee! of the Winds. For a school.

The Good They Did. For six ladies.

The Boy Who Wins. For six gentlemen.
Good-by Day. A Colloquy. For three girls,
The Sick Well Man. For three boys.

The Investigati Committee. For nine ladies,
A ‘Corner es. For four boys.
The ev Re me oat rt “ ne Is. i,
The Boasters. loquy. For two

Kitty’s Funeral. For several little girls. ae
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,

Dime Dialogues, No. 17.

LITTLE FOLKS’ SPEECHES AND DIALOGUES.

To be Happy You Must be Good. For two little girls
and one oi

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

rhe vil tho ois init, F bo

e reisinit. For two yo ys.

Wise and Foolish Littie Girl. For two-girls. /

A Child’s Inquiries. For small child and teacher.

The Cooking Club. For two girls and others.

ae tO i For two boys. L

undri ears to Come. For boy and

Don’t Trust Faces. For several ena woe

Above the Skies. For two small girls,

The True Heroism. For three little boys.

Give Us Little ee a Chance; The Story of the Plum
Pudding; Ill a Man; A Little Girl’s Rights
Speech; Jo "8 Opinions of Grandmother; The
Boasting Hen; He Knows der Rest; A Small Boy's
View of Corns; Robby’s Sermon; Nobody's id;

Boy's View of

Nu at Grandpa Gray’s; Little
How Columbus vered America; Little Girl’s
View; Little Boy’s Speech on Time; A Little

Boy’s Pocket; The Midnight Murder; Robby Rob’s
GA decide, How the Baby Came; 4 Boy’s

Observations: The New Slate; A Mother’s Love; |

The Oreownin’ Glory; Baby Lulu; Josh on
the Bumble-bee, Wren, ‘Atigator: Died Wesiettey'

 

 

|
|

Rub-
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; |

The Little Musician; Idle Ben; Pottery-man; Then
and Now.

Dime Dialogues, No. 18. *

RF Wishes. Several characters, male and female.

No Rose Without a Thorn. Two males, one female.

Too enh 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 Be

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. Fornumer-
ous characters.

A little Tramp. For three little boys.

Ei Times. For two gentlemen and four ladies,

The Lesson Well Worth Learning. For two males
and two females.

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.
ornia Uncle.

males.
Be Kind to the Poor. A little folks’ pla: ,
How People are Insured. A “duet.”
Mayor. Acting Charade. For four characters.
ees Fiend. For four boys.
A dergarten Dialogue. For a Christmas Festival.

Personated by seven characters.

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 aarenconS . 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 Dialogue;, No. 20.

The Wrong Man. For three males and three females.

Afternoon Calls. For two little girls.

Ned’s Present. For four boys.

Judge Not. For teacher and several scholars.

Te! 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 sfx little girls.

“Sold.” For three boys. ‘i '

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 characters.

Keeping Boarders. For two females and three males.

re

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 eg Hood. For two childrem.

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 Ha: Return. Yor four males,

Cinderella. For several children.

Too Much for Aunt Matilda. For three females.

Wit spaces Wile. For three females and one male.

A Sudden Recovery. For three males.

The Double eo For four females.
Counting Chickens Before They were Hatched. For
four males.

Dime Dialogues, No. 22.
ee Dark Cupid. For three Gentlemen and two

les,
That Ne’er-do-Well. Two males and two females.
High Art. For two girls.
For two bo:

le *s Supper. For four girls,
A Practical Exemplification. For two boys.
Titania’s Banquet. For a number of girls,
T oisieur Thiers in America. For four boys.

Strange Adventures.

ub; Calumny; Little Chatterbox; Where |

For three males and three fe- |

or Good. For one lady and two gentlemen. |

God Is Love. For a number of scholars.
| The Way He Managed. For two males, two femaics.
Fandango. For various characteys, 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 Ridiculous.

males.
Heart Not'Face. For five boys.

or fourteen

Dime Dialogues, No. 23.

Rhoda Hunt’s Remedy. For three femaies, one male.

Hans Schmidt’s Recommend. For two males.

Cheery and Grumble. For two little boys.

The Phantom Doughnuts. For six femaies.

Does it Pay? For six males.

Company Manners and Home Impoliteness. sor twe
males, two females and two children.

The Glad Days. For two little boys,

Unfortunate Mr. Brown. For one male, six temaies.

The Real cost. For two girls.

A Bear Garden, For three males and two temales.

The Busy Bees. For four little girls.

Checkmate. For numerous characters

School-Time. For two little girls.

Death Scene. Two principal characters ana adjuncts,

Dross and Gold. Several characters, male andfemale.

Confound Miller. For three wales and fwo females.

Ignorance vs. Justice. For eleven males

Pedants All. For four males.

Dime Dialogues, No 24.

The Goddess of Liberty. For nine youn, sadies
The Three Graces. For three little girls.
The Music Director. For seven males,
A Strange Secret. For three eo
An Unjust Man. For four males.
The Shop Girl’s Victory. For 1 male and 4 females.
The Psychometiser. For 2 gentlemen and 2 ladies.
Mean Is No Word For It. For four ladies.

imsical. A number of characters of both se
Blessed Are the Peace-makers. Seven young girls.
The Six Brave Men. For six boys.
Have You Heard the News? A gossip’s catastrophe.
The True Queen. A colloquy in verse. 2 young girls.
A ht e. 4 males ‘ female. and severai
Lany a Bas Adial 10 tit! ds

and Busy. logue in rhyme. le tellows
The Old and the Young. 1 xentionalt ano little girt.
That Postal Card. For 3 ladies and 1 gentleman.
Mother Goose and Her Household. A whole svhco}
fancy dress dialogue and travestie.

 

Dime Dialogues, No, 25.

| The Societies of the Delectables and Les Misers blos
| _ For two ladies and two gentlemen.
| What Each Would Have. For six little boys and
| _ teacher.
, Sunshine Through the Clouds. For four ladies.
| The Friend in Need. For four males.
| The Hours. For twelve little girls.
In Doors and Out. For five little boys.
' Dingbats. For one female and three males.
| The Pound of Flesh. For three boys.
| Beware of the Peddlers. For seven mixed characters.
, Good Words. For a number of boys.
| A Friend. For a number of little girls,
The True Use of Wealth. For a whole school.
Gamester. For numerous characters,
Put Yourself In His Place. For two boys.
Little Wise Heads. For four little girls,
| The Regenerators. For five boys.
| Crabtree’s Wooing. For several characters.
Integrity the Basis of All Success. For two males.
A Crooked Way Made Straight. Gentleman and lady.
How to “Break In” Young Hearts. For two ladies
and one gentleman.

Dime Dialogues, No. 26. :

Poor Cousins. _For three ladies and two gentlemen.
Mountains and Mole-hills. For six ladies and seveial

tators.

A Test That Did Not Fail. For six boys,
Two Ways of Seeing i For two little girls.
Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Are

Hatched. For four ladies and a boy.
All is Fair in Love and War. 3 ladies « 2 gentlemen.
How Uncle Josh Got Rid of the Legacy. For two
males, with several transformations.
The Lesson of Mercy. For two very small girls.
Practice What You Preach. For four ladies.
Politician. For numerous characters.
The Canvassing Agent. For 2 males and 2 females.
Grub. For two males.
A Slight Scare. For 3 females and 1 male.
Embodied Sunshine. For three young ladies.
| How Jim Peters Died. For two males.

| For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, post:
paid, to any adi , On receipt of price, ten cents
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 William Street, New York.

 

 

 

 
 

THE DIME SPEAKERS.

Nos. 1 to 23, inclusive. Fach Speaker, 100 +» ges 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,

Independence,

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

ch sof Light Bricads’
© 0! rigade,

After the Ba: fag 7!

The Glass Railroad,

Case of Mr. Macbeth,

Prof, on Phrenology,

Annabel Lee,

 

Washington’s Name,
The Sailor Boy’s Syren,

J. Jeboom’s Oration,

A Dutch Cure,

The Weather

ise iee.,
osO

An Old Ballad,

Penny Wise, Bound Fool-
Satay Night's Enjoyts,
lat’d’y Night's Enjoy’
“Tn ‘a Just Cause," en
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,
Woinat;
Alone,

‘The Rebellion of 1861,

Disunion,

Dime National Speaker, No. 2.

Union and its Results,
Our Country’s Future,

The Statesman’s Labors .

True Immortality,
Let the Childless Wee),
Our Country’s Glory,
Union a Household,
Independence Bell,
The Scholar’s Dignizi.y,
The Cycles of Prog: ess,
A Christmas Chant,
Stability of Christianity,
The True Higher Law,
The One Great Need,
The Ship and the Bird,
fecumseh’s Speech,
Territorial Expansion,
Martha Hopkins,
The Bashful Man’s Story,
The Matter-of-Fact Man,
Rich and Poor, :
Seeing the Eclipse,
Gelang! Git Up.

ng ’
The Rats of Lite,
Creowning Glory of U.S.,
Three Fools,
Washi

ington,
Our Great Inheritance,
Eulogy on Henry Olay,

Dime Patriotic

America to the World,
Love of Country,
Right of Self-Preserva-
Our Cause, [tion,
A Kentuckian’s —
Kentucky Steadfast,
‘Timidity is Treason,
The Alarum,
April 15, 1861,

e Spirit of ’61,
The Precious Heritage,
The Irish Element,

Train’s S; h.

Christy’s pponely,
Brigand-ier-General,

The Draft,

Union Square Speeches,
The Union,

Our Country's Call,

The Story of an Oak Tree,
L-e-g On My Leg,

343

 

ON er Hazard P
“Iyer Haz erry,
‘var Domain, :
page of Belief,

¢ 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 stin,
Man and the Infinite,
aaa. of the Eagle,
Washington,

The Deluge.

Speaker, No. 3.

History of Our af

T. F, Meagher’s A: dress,

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 Wetchword

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.

an ‘oss on the War,

e Bluntly Considered
nen Risin, i
The Wasp and the Be

Comic Grammar, No. 1,
I’m Not a Single ‘Man,
A. Ward’s Advice,
Buzfuz on Pickwick,
Romeo and Juliet,
Happiness,

Dogs,

ARexan Bul
‘exan um,
How to be a Tiecioias
The United States,
Puff’s Acc’t of Himself,
Practical Phrenology,
Beautiful,

Cab’

 

bage,
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 Dog Jock,

The Wishes’ Toilet,
Brian'O’Linn.

Crockett to Office-seekers
Who Is My Opponent?
Political Stump Speech,
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. 1. Pricieres or Tron Enuncration.—Faults
in Enunciation; How to Avoid Them. Special Rules
and Observations.
EC. If. Tas Art or Oratory, Sheridan’s List of
the Passions: Tranquillity, Cheerfuln:

ess, Mirth,

In-

rief,

Despair, ear, Shame, Remorse,

Courage, Boasting, Pride, Obstinacy, Authority,

Commanding, Forbidding, Affirming, Denying,

Difference, Agreeing, Exhorting, Judging, Approv-

ing, Acquitting, Condemning. Teaching, Pardon-

ing, Arguing, Saat Refusing, Granting, De-
pendence, Veneration, Hope, Desire, Love, Re-
spect, Giving, Wonder, Admiration, Gratitude, Cu-

ce Persuasion, Tempting, Promising, Affecta-
tion, Sloth, Intoxication, Anger, etc.

SEC. fT. THe Component ELemenrs or aN Ora-
TI0N.—Rules of Composition as applied to Words
and Phrases, viz.: Purity, Propriety, Precision.
As applied_to Sentences, viz.: Length of Sentence,
Clearness, Unity, Strength, Meuse of Speech; the
Exordium, the Narration, the Proposition, the
Confirmation, the Refutation, the Peroration.

10) . 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; Histor

of a Life; the Bugle; the Bells; Byron; Macbet

and the Dag! er; Hamlet’s Seog Uys Old Things;
Look Upward; King William Rufus; the Eye; an
Essa Onto Musik; Discoveries of Galileo.
EC. V. OnsrRvations or Goop AUTHORITIES.

Dime Humorous Speaker, No. 6.

Raillery, Buffoonery, 4 sy, Delight, Gravity.
uiry, Attention, Modes.y, Perplexity, Pity, ¢
elancholy,

 

A Sad moe
A String of Onions,

AT. ic Story,

ae antes
and Echo
Fashionable Women,
Fern Thistles,
Good-Nature,
Gottlieb Klebcyergoss,
Schlackenlichter’s snake,
Hosea ene Opinions,
How the Money Goes
Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of
Jwy Oration,
If you Mean No, Say No,
Jo Bows on Leap Year,
Lay of the Henpecked,
Lot Skinner’s Elegy,
Matrimony,

Nothing

to Do
Old Caudle’s Umbrella,
Old Grimes’s Son,
Paddle Your Own Canoe,
Parody on “ Araby’s

Dime Standard

The World We Live In,
Woman’s Claims
Authors of our Liberty,
The Real Conqueror,
The Citizen’s Heritage,

Italy,
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, 5
Dream of the Revelers,
HowCyrus Laid the Cable
The Prettiest Hand,
Paradoxical,
Little Jerry, the Miller,
Fosay Thoughts

‘og ho iy
The Ladies" an,
Life,
The Idler,
The Unbeliever,

Poetry Run Mad,

an 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 Eee
The Sea-Serpent,
The Secret,
The Shoemaker,
The Useful Doctor,
The Waterfall,
To the Bachelors’ Union
eague,
United States Presidents,
Vagaries of Popping the
Question,
What I Wouldn’t Be.
Yankee Doodle Al,
Ze Moskeetare,
1933.

Speaker, No. 7.

The Two Lives,

The True Scholar,
Judges not Infallible,
Fanaticism,

Instability of Successful
Agriculture, [Crime,
Ireland,

The People 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 Coen
True Moral Courage,
What is War?
Butter,

My Deborah Lee,
The

ce,
The Pin and Needle,
The Modern Puritan,
Immortality of the soul,
Occupation,

Heroism and Daring,

A Shot at the Decanter.

din,

Dime Stump Speaker, No. 8.

Hon. J. M. Stubbs’ Views | A

on the Situation,
Hans Schwackheimer on

Woman’s Suffrage,
All for a Nomination.
Old Ocean, Sea,
The Sea,the Sea, the open
Star Bangled Spanner,
Stay Where You Belong,
Life’s What You Make It,
Where’s My Money,
a from Conscience,

an’s Relation to Society
The Limits to ete
Good-nature a Blessing,
Sermon from Hard-shell
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 0:
New England and Union,
The Unseen Battlefield,
Plea for the Republic,

 

merica, [Fall
cs Right of Secession’ é
Life’s Sunset,
Human Nature,
Lawyers,
Wrongs of the Indians,
‘pps in behalf of Am.

iseries of War,(Liberty,
A Lay Sermon,
A Dream,
Astronomical,
The Moon, [zens,
Duties of American Citi-

e Man
Temptations of Cities,
Broken Resolutions,
There is no Death,
A Fruitful Di

ruitful Discourse,

A Frenchman’s Dinner,
Unjust National Acqui’n,
The Amateur Coachman,
The Cold-water Man,
Permanency of States,
Liberty of Speech,
John ompson’s Dau’r,
House Cleani
It Is Not Your Business,

Dime Juvenile

|
| A Boy’s Philosophy,
Hoe Out Your Row,
Six-Year-Old’s Protest,
| The Suicidal Cat,
| A Valediction,
| Popping Corn,
|.The Editor,
| The Same, in rhyme,
The Fairy Shoemaker,
‘What Was Learned,
; Press On,
f The Horse,
| The Snake in the Grass,
Tale of the Tropics,
Bromley’s Speech,
-The Same, second extract
The Fisher’s Child,
Shapcariat Scholar,
A Maiden’s Psalm of Life,
A Mixture,
Play for Skates,
laying Ball,
Ah, Why.
Live for something,”
Lay of the Hen-Pecked,
The Outside Dog,
Wolf and Lamb,
Tron a for a Kin;
'rogs AS ora
Sick Lion, : 5
Country and Town Mice,
Man and Woman;

Home,

The Lotus-Planter,
Little Things.

A ee Soliloquy,
Repentance,

A Plea for Hegs
Humbug Patriotism,
Night After Christmas,
Short Legs,

Shrimps on Amusements,

Ben Buster’s Oration,
Hans Von Spiegel’s 4th,

Speaking for the Sheriff,
Daking.a Shweat,

Then and'Now, —

Josh Billings’s Lecturing,
Doctor De Blister’s Ann’t,
Consignments,

Hard Lives,

Dan Bryant’s Speech,

A Colored View,

Original Maud Muller,

obody,
Train of Circumstances,
Good Advice.
The Itching Palm,

1.—Desatine 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 Drpate.
Why there are few good
Debaters, Y
Prerequisites to Oratori-
cal Success, \
The Logic of Debate, |
The Rhetoric of Debate,
Maxims to Observe,
The Preliminary Premise,
Order of Argument,
Summary.
11.—CaarrMan’s Guipg,
Ordinary Meetings and |
Assemblies, |
The Organization,
Order of Business and
Serre
The “ Question.” How it
can be Treated,
The “ Question.’’ How to
be Considered,
Rights to the Floor,
Rights of a Speaker as
pains the Chair,
Calling Yeas and Nays,
Interrupting a Vote.
Organization of Delibera-
tive Bodies, Conven-
tions, Annual or Gen-

 

eral Assemblies,

, The Order of.

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
Le Dream, [Another,

Mee
= ever Use Tobacco,

A Mosaic,

The Old Bachelor,
Prayer to Light,

Little Jim,

Angelina’s Lament,
Johnny Shrimps on Boeta
Mercy,

Choice of Tad

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,

aw [Come,
A undred Years to
The Madman and his
Little Sermons, [Razor,
Snufiles on Electricity,
The Two Oradl

The Ocean Storm,

Do Thy Little—Do it Well

Little Pu:
Base i

sal [Fever.
Prescription for

Spring

Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker, No. 10.

Drum-head Sermons,
Schnitzerl's Philosopede,

 

Josh Billings’s Advice, “Woman's Rights,’

A Hard-shell Sermon, Luke Lather,

The Boots, The Hog,

The Squeezer, Jack Spratt,

Noah and the Devil, New land Tragedy,
A Lover's Luck, The Ancient Bachelor,
Hifalutin Adolphus, Jacob Whittle’s Speech,
Digestion and Paradise, | Jerks Prognosticates,
Distinction’s Disadvant- | A Word with Snooks,
Smith, {ages, | Sut a

Gushalina Bendibus, | A Mvle Ride,

A Stock of Notions | Josh Billings on Buzzers,

| Trovatore,
| Kissing in the Street,
| Scandalous,
Slightly Mixed,
The Office-seeker,
| Old Bachelors,
| Woman,
| The Niam Niams,
| People Will Talk,
| Swackhamer’s
| Who Wouldn’t be Fire'n,
Don’t Depend on Dadda,
| Music of Labor,

|The American knsign.
Debater and Chairman’s Guide No. 11.

Preliminary Organization
Permanent Organization,
nsiness,

Considering Reports, Pas

ers, etec.,
Of Sbsidiary 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 Pre
cedure
ne % Report,
ie Committee of thr
Whole,
Miscellaneous,
Treatment of Petitions
he Decorum of Debata,
Hints to a Chairman.

Iv.—DEBATES.

Debate in full:

Which is the Greatest
Benefit to his Country
—the Warrior, States.
rebate

ebates in Brief:

I. Is the Reading of

“Works of Fiction to be
We te 2
re ers & Bene-
fit or a "Oureh to So-
ciety?
Nor Qupzartony amp
'HRASES,
Latin,

 

 

 

. , .
eee * ne

poses > = RCSA AIP ESI SPEED

 

Nee

 
 

 

THE DIME SPEAKERS—Continued.

 

Dime Exhibition

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,
Ttaly’s Alien Ruler,

Curse of One Man Power,
ty of Peace (1814),
Critical Moment,
East and the West,
1ere any Money in it?
Are we a Nation?

al Science,

ence of Liberty,

10 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,

  
   
  

 

 

Speaker. No, 12.

| Grayelotte,

| 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 pareay

What We See in the Sky.
| 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,
Topics Uncongenial to

reatness,

Live for Something,

Civil & Religious Liberty,

Second Review of the
Grand ay

Dishonesty 0 Politics,

The Great Commoner,

Character and Achieve-
ment,

“T.Can’t,”

“Tt Might Have Been,”

Don’t Strike a Man When
Down,

On Keeping at It

Treasures of the Deep,

Keep Cool,

The Precious Freight,

A Skete

Sword the True Arbiter,

Aristocracy,

Baron Grimalkin’s Death

Obed Snipkins,

A Catastrophe,

Cheerfulness,

Mountains,

Last Lay of the Minstrel,

The Unlucky Lovers,

The Dread Secret,

Civil Service Reform,

Dime Ludicrous
Courting,
Higher,
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 Virst Knife,
Der Loddery Dicket,
A Canni-Ballad,
Woman’s Rights,
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 Cigar,
Terrible T’-tale,

Silver Wedding,
Prohebishon,

The True Gentleman,

The Tragic Pa,
SABBATH-SCHOOL PIEcEs,

A Cry for Life,

The Sabbath,

Gnarled Lives,

A Good Life

To Whom Shall We Give
Thanks?

Resolution,

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
The Heart,

The World

Beautiful ‘thoughts,

A Picture of Life,

Be_True_ to Yourself,
Young Man,

Time is oer

The Gospel of Autumn,

Speak Not Harshly,
ourage,

The Eternal Hymn,

Live for Good,

The Silent City.

Speaker, No. 14.
mg

Queer eople,

Biting One’s Nose Off,

Golden Rules,

The Singular 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,

On Courting,

On Laug’

On Winmen's Rights,
n men’s

The Healer,

The Criminal Lawyer,

Ballad of Matilda Jane,

Water,

The Ballad of a Baker,

Good for Something,
A Moving Sermon.

‘orever,

Karl Pretzel’s Komikal SpeakerNo.15

Schandal,

Don’d Been Afraid,
Gamboling,
Indemberance,

Gretchen und Me go'‘Oud.
Hope.__Das ish vat it is!
‘* Dot Musquiter,”
Leedle Gal-child’s Dream
Dhere Vas no Crying,

9

Leedle Speedch

Pells. Pells. "

The Puzzled Dutchman,

Address to a School,

His be per ae

Translations from Esop,

The Treachery of Jones,

aa Call a Man a Liar,
an,

ure,
Bust. A “Dialect,”
Simon Short’s Son Sam,
Reckermember der Poor,
Natural History Views,
The Cart before the Horse
To See Ourselves,

Sorrowful Tale,
The Loafer’s Society,
It’s the Early Bird, etc.,
On Lege Beer,

mn. r
cee eae

ot Yo OW,
The Best Cow i Peril,
Frequent TS,
In for the Railroad,
aoe 7 the Sink,

of yor Zong

The Tilinvis Assemb Ys
The Cannibal Man,
Boss Bagshaw,
Pretzel as a Soldier,
The Raccoo
My Childho
Schneider's Ride,
Boy Suff

He vas Dhinkin’
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 Testimony,

 

 

Abner Jones’ Testimony, |

| Watches of the Night,

I Have Drank My Last, The Successful Life,

The Spirit-Siren, Better Than Gold,

Rum’s Cy Seed-Time and Harvest,
Life is What we Make it, | Invocation to Cold Water
Taste No Now.

{Learn,
The Evil Teast, g The’ Great Lesson to
The Toper’s Lament,

Hel
The Hardest Lot of All, | God's

or,
The Curse of Rum, Value of Life Work,

The Two Dogs. A fable, | * es the Situation,”
The Source of Reform, Died of Whisky.

The Rum Fiend A Story with a Moral,
True Law and False, Breakers Ahead,

In Bad eke Ichabod oy A

The Only True Nobility, | Effects of Intemperance,
The Inebriate’s End, The Whisky Why is It,

A Drunken Soliloquy, Local Option,

The Work to Do, Be Good to the Body,

To Labor is to Pray, Worth Makes the Zan.

Dime Eloquent Speaker, No. 17.

An Adjuration, Anatomical Lecture,
The Kings of Business, Minnetunkee,

Purity of Speech, The Printing Press,
Parson Caldwell, The Sabbat!

Value of eee Busybodies.

Hand that Rocks World, Anatomical Lecture 2,
Swelling Manhood, A Blow in the Dark,
Summer, The Specter Caravan, |
‘Woman’s Love, The True Saviors,
The Bricklayers, True Fame,

Words of Silver, Something to Shun,

Drive on! Drive on! Plea for Ireland,

 

The caret Smile Whene’er you Can,
The State Immortal, The Wood of Stars,

The Moral Factor, A Thought,

Walking with the World, | The Housemaid,

The only Safety, The Goblin Cat,
Knowledge, Aristocrats,

Be Careful what you Say | The Knightly Newsboy,
Stand by the Constit’n, | A Call to Vote,

A True Friend, The Modern Fraud,

The Mocking-Bird, Running for Legislature,
The Want of the Country To a Young Man,

The Value of Virtue, Heads,

She Would be a Mason, The New Dispensation,
Evils of Ignorance, Turning the Grindstone,
The Use of Time, - hort Sermon.

 

Come Down,

Hail Columbia Speaker, No. 18.

Columbia, ink or Swim,
eee The Buff and Blue,
ape or Liberty, The Union,

The American Hero, The Martyr. Spy,
Resistance to Oppression, Lexington
Patriotism, Our Only Hope,

Green Mountain Boys,
Eloquence of Otis,
Washington,

Declaration of Independ-
The Liberty Bell, [ence,
, Washington’s Attributes,

 

 

Intellectual and Moral
Power,

Thanatopsis,

New Era of Labor,

Work of Faith,

A Dream,

La Dame Aux Camelias,

Penalty of Selfishness,

ights Out,
Clothes Don’t Make the |

an,

The Last Man,

Mind Your Own Business

My Fourth of July Senti-
ments,

My Esquimaux Friend,

Storyot the Little Rid Hin

My Castile in Spain,

Shonny Schwartz,

The Indian’s Wrongs,

Address to Young Men,

Beautiful Snow,

Now is the Time,

Exhortation to Patriots,

He Is Everywhere,

A Dream of Darkness,

Dime Funny $

Col. Sellers Elucidates,
Clory Mit Ter Sthars und

Sthrip [otism,
Terence O’Dowd’s Patri-
Lime Kiln Club Oration,
Farmer Thornbush on
The Fiddler, [Fools,
The Regular Season,
The School Boy’s Lament,
Dot Baby Off Mine,
Bluggs Once More,
Views on Agriculture,

| One Hundred Years Ago,

| De’S)

 

7

America Must be Free, What We Are,
Freedom the Onl ore Our Great Trust,
Day of Disinthrallment, | God Bless our States,
No Alternative but Liber- Looking Backward,
Carmen Bellicosum, [ty, | Mariou and His Men,
Sword of Bunker Hill, Liberty and Union,
The Fourth of July, A Noble-Plea,
Warren’s Address, Original Yankee Doodle,
A Call to Liberty, Wolfe’s Address,
Good Faith, Watching for Montgom-
Revolutionary Soldiers, |The National Ensign, [ery |
Our Responsibility, God Save the Union,
British Barbarity, Our Natal Day,
How Freedom is Won, The 22d of February
Adams and Liberty, New England’s Dead,
Our Duties, Repeal! Repeal!
Our Destiny, The True Hero,
The American Flag, Old Ironsides
The True Union, Our Gifts to History,
American pe posaeees Uncle Sam’s a Hundred,
Washington and Franklin | Centennial Oration.

Serio-Comic Speaker, No. 19.
The American Phalanx, | The Little Orator,
The Same, Pom y Squash,
The Old Canoe, Mr. Lo’s New Version,
Room at the jt The Midnight Express,
New England Weather, | Morality’s Worst Enemy,
Bluges, The Silent Teacher,
Leedle Yawcob Strauss, | The Working People,
A Fable, The Moneyless Man
The Tramp’s Views, Strike Through the Knot,
Moral Littleness, An cultural Address,
Yawcob Hoffeltegobble, |'The New Scriptures,
The ae Sachem, The Trombone,
Street Arab’s Sermon, Don’t ees
Address to Young Ladies, | The Mill Cannot Grind,
A Little Big Man, What Became of a Lie,
The Test of Friendship, | Now and Then,
The Price of Pleasure, How Ub vos Dot for High,
Sour Grapes, Early Rising,
The Unwritten ‘“ Claws,” | Smart Boy’s Opinion,
The Ager, The Venomous Worm.

ish, lorns,

Judge Not Thy Brother, | Up Early,
The Dog St. Bernard, Not So y:
The Liberal Candidate, | Dead Beat in Politics,
A ee Opinion of Hens, | War and Dueling,
Good Alone are Great, | Horses. A Protest,
The Great Napoleon, Excelsior, [celsior,
The Two Lives, Paddy’s Version of Ex
The Present Age, The Close, Hard Man,
At Midnight, A Pe and Application
Good-night, Old Scrooge, {ered,
Truth, Man, Generically Consid
The Funny Man, A Chemical Wedding

Dime Select Speaker, No. 20.
; Wrong and Right Road,
Save the Republic, | An Enemy to Society,
Barbara, Freitche,

The Closing Year, The Most Precious Gift.

rience ob de Reb’-
rend Quacko Strong,

A Dollar or Two,

On Some More Hash,

Where Money is King,

Professor Dinkelspeigel-
man on the Origin of

Life,

Konsentrated Wisdum,

Joseph Brown and the
Mince Pie,

John Jenkins’s Sermon,

‘A Parody on ‘Tell Me Ye
Wi Winds,”

Religion the Keystone,
Scorn of Office,

Who are the Free,

The City on the Hill,
How to Save the Repub

lic,

The Good Old Times,

Monmouth,

Hope,

Moral Desolation,

Self-evident Truths,

Won't you let my Papr
Work,

Conscience the Best
Guide,

Whom to Honor,

The Lords of Labcr,

Early Rising,

Pumpernickel and Pep-
schikoff,

; Only a Tramp,

Cage Them,

Time’s Soliloquy,

Wind a Way or Make It,

The Musquito Hunt,

The Hero.

peaker, No. 21.

| A Fogry Day,

| New Mythology (Vulcan),

The New Mythology(Pa::,)

New Mythology (Bacchi)

I Kin Nod Trink To-Niv lic,

New Church Doctrine,

Wilyum’s Watermillion,

Josiah Axtell’s Oration.

Parscn Barebones’s An
athenia,

Caesar Squash on Heat,

Fritz Valdher is Made a
Mason,

Joan of Arc,

Blessings of Farm Life,

The People,

Thermopyle,

Cats,

Jim Bludso; or, The Prai
rie Belle,

A Catastrophic Ditty,

The M >’s Defense,

Woman, God Bless Her!

Be Miserable,

Dodds versus Daubs,

The Cadi’s Judgment,

That Calf.

 

 

Dime Jolly Speaker, No. 22,

Grandfather’s Clock,
The XIXth Century,
Mary’s Von Little .
A Familar Lecture on
Science 3
Old and New Time,
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The Village Schoo!
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The Delights of Spring,
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Beasteses,
How tew Pik out a
Watermellon,

How tew Pik out a Dog,

How tew Pik out a Kat,

How tew Pik out a Wife
This Side and That,
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The Ear,
Backbone,

| they May Be H Yet
e; y Be Hay et,
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Effective Appeal,
De Parson Sowed de Seed,
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Turkey,
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‘ Independence,
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deed! A Congratulatory
Reminder,
| Stealing the Sacred Fire.
The Story of Prome-
theus Modernized
‘ Owl and the Pussy-Cat.

 

Dime Dialect Speaker, No. 23.

Dat’s W’at’s De Matter,
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ot. [man’s Rights,
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The Home Rulers,
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Scan
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For sale by all newsdealers, or seut, post-paid, to
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My Neighbor’s Dogs,
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ends of Attica,
me ents Pipe Tragedy,
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UNDER A

 

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(61 A Wicked Heart;

 

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Ry Mrs. Jennie

 

 

 

 

 
 

had another wife married in secret, too. What Mr.
Gregory wanted of me was to get a place in that
man’s house, to find out w he other wife was
a lawful one or not, the two he’d be
apt to give up fi the choice. He
had found that was the young
man’s name, Wi ervant, one who
could be discre to him with the
recommendations ‘ished, I had no
trouble in getting the’ F

“Tf Thadn’t known id have believed
that young Mr. Bernham was such a villain. He
was so frank, seeming so fond of his wife, who was
his true wife without a doubt. She was a foreigner,
a mere child, too, without a relation in the world,
and with some fortune in her own right which was

    
  
  
 
 
 
 
    
   
 
 
 
  

  

keeping them then. The marriage was kept secret ,

because somebody who was expected to leave a
great deal of property to Mr. Bernham would be
sure to disinherit him if it ever found it out, It
was the very same story that had been told to Rose,
and which she was believing in then. My foreign

   
 
 
  
 
 
 

mistress fairly worshiped her husband, but she had |

a hot temper, and she was dead jealous of him for
all her love.
rel ouce when a very beautiful young lady had
looked so strangely at her Raymond in the street;
she had been sure it was some other love of his, but
she quite believed him, after they had made it up,
that it was all an imagination of her own. She
would trust him perfectly in every thing, she said,
and she meant it, but she couldn’t help her own
nature, poor thing!

“Tt took me whole weeks to discover all my old
master. wished to know, but I did at last. Isaw the
certificate of their marriage by a clergyman known
in the city, dated four months before the time our
Rose had disappeared. _I found out what I could of
Mr. Bernham’s plans. He had been a military stu-
dent, and was expecting his commission now daily,
put he meant to resign it rather than be parted
from his wife.

“When he had learned that much, Mr. Gregory
came to the house one day when my young master
was out. He had an interview with Mrs. Bernham
and he must have told her the whole story. He ha
been with her a good hour when the bell rung and
I went up, and as 1 opened the parlor door I heard

er say:

“<“T will go with you and show her such proofs
that she shall be convinced, but I will never see him
again so long as we both live—never!’

‘She was dressed to go out, but she looked more
like a corpse than a living woman with the glimpse I
had through her vail. She left a note with me to be
given to her husband, when he should come, and
went away with Mr. Gregory, and I knew then, wellas
I knew afterward, that she would never come back to
that house. I gave the note asI was bound to do
when Mr. Bernham came. I never knew what it was
she wrote, but I shall never forget the awful look of
despair on his face when he had read it. He was
like a man gone wild foratime. He shut himself
up alone and came out, hours afterward, looking ten
years older than before. He talked with me quietly
for a time, not once referring to her, but of the
house and what was to be done. He had got his
commission, he said, and would leave next morning
to join the army on the frontier. He said Sond by
to me, and gave me my wages, and a reminder, and
left the house overnight. “T think he couldn’t bear
to stay in it alone.

** Somehow I got a restlessness over me next morn-
ing to really see him off, and to say a last word,
maybe, for I never could harden my heart against
him, though I had tried. I knew what train he
would take, and I was at the depot before the time,
looking for him in the crowd there. Isaw him pres-
ony ut while I was studying whether or not to
push through and speak, the very picture of him
came up from the other side, There they stood,
face to face,so much alike that I couldn’t have
sworn which one was my master. They shook hands
and spoke, and then I knew, for there was a differ-
ence in their voices, and a change came into their
faces as they talked: but I stood dumbfounded and
bewildered until they had gone away together be-
fore my very eyes. I wasn’t ae at understanding
then, but I knew the truth afterward. They were
twin brothers, and the one that was my master was
not the one who had married Rose. But when I
was sure of the truth, Rose was gone, no one knew
where, and when I taxed Mr. Gregory with having
known, he advised me to hold my tongue on the
matter. He gave me quite a sum of money as I was
out of a place, he said, but it was no more than a
bribe, as I knew, but I took it, and it’s that has been
on my conscience ever since.

“Rose died at her father’s house months after,
and Jeft a tiny babe that must have grown into the
girll saw here. She has the very face of my young
master, which was the same as her father’s face,
and a. little look of Rose; she ought to know the
truth which Matthew Gregory would never tell her.
Her father was killed in a battle, I believe; at least
that was the report.’

That was the story as Crayton took it down from
her broken telling of it. All the strength which had
sustained her seemed exhausted as it was done. _ Dr.
Joy entered ai the moment, and after one searching
glance at her, turned to the reporter.

“Does she want to sign that?” he asked, his eye
falling upon the paper. “It must be done at once if
at all. e is almost gone.”

The aying Motian rallied, while, with Crayton’s
help, she afiixed her name to the sheet with the two
men as witnesses; and with her work complete, she
drifted quietly out upon the great eternal sea.

 

CHAPTER XXV.
ORAVEN DALLAS, M. D.
A sticut snow fell during the night, and the air

She told me about their having a quar- |

a eee

ried past; a woman, thinly-clad, and shivering, flit-
ted before her eyes, a vivid contrast in suggestion of
her worn, pinched, impoverished condition to this
air of warmth and luxurious comfort. Homeless in
the streets! There could be nothing in the thought
to strike a chill to her heart, or change the weary
listlessness of her expression. Her glance went back
to the glowing coals as she answered:

“A dreary day, indeed!”

Observant of the ennuied face, Ethel forbore to ut-

ter the thought which had been first in her mind

 

| time alone, than that she should have taken u
_ new life to result now in the shock of hi

was full of cutting, bitter, frozen sleet next day. It |

rattled against the plate-glass of the long windows
iu the Richland drawing-room, and made a slippery
coating over the snow where it was not broken up in
the gutters.

‘“‘A bitter day to be out,” said Ethel, with a little
shiver and a glance at the cheerless aspect, Mrs.
Richland looked around listlessly. She had a glimpse
beneath the sweep of the ruddy silken curtains
within of icy pavement, where occasional forms hur-

with the sight of the bitter outdoor weather. It had
been a sad wonder where Wilma might be on this
freezing wintry day; while they had every luxur,
about them, might she not be unsheltered, friend-
less and alone, sere when all this abundance
might have been freely hers.

“JT fear that Howard is more than half-right,”
Ethel thought, with another glance at the graceful
shape lying idly back in a chair before the hearth,
the white, ringed hands loosely folded, and the
drooping lashes almost sweeping the fair cheeks.
The face was like fine sculpturing, as perfect and as
still. ‘Gertrude certainly has not seemed well of
late. She always was quiet and undemonstrative,
but she has appeared like one moving in a dream
for days past, ever since the day that Wilma was
lost to us.”

She went out a few minutes later, leaving the
other alone. Then Mrs. Richland locke’ up at a lit-
tle object which had strangely fascinated her all the
morning. It was simply a common-looking brown
envelope bearing her husband’s address in stiff char-
acters, only such a letter to all outward appearance
as any business-man may receive by the score every
week; but common-looking and coarse, Mrs. Rich-
land could not overcome an uneasy impression the
sight of it had given her. She had singled it out
from the package when the mail was brought in,
and when her husband passed it to her inadvertently
along with the papers and a magazine and a letter
for herself, that impression so strong led her to let
it remain under their cover while he talked on, un-
consciously making references to his own volumi-
nous correspondence.

“ By the way,” he remarked, folding the last mis-
sive with his methodical precision, ‘‘I asked Lenoir
to bring Captain Leigh Bernham around with him
this evening. Itis only right that we, as Wilma’s
friends, should extend much courtesy to Wilma’s
father, though the slight, if any, has been rather on
his side before this. I certainly thought he would
have taken the initiative and called upon us after
breaking the case. Lenoir reports him busy and
anxious and half-disheartened at finding no trace.
Lenoir himself is a fine young fellow, by the way—
talented and bound to make his mark. I find my-
self really attached to him.”

His gaze chancing to rest upon his sister’s face
caused her a sudden embarrassment unlike her
usual control, and making a hurried apology she left
the breakfast-room where they were gathered. He
turned to his wife with a slightly-troubled expres-
sion,

“Do you suppose there can be a danger of Lenoir
entertaining more than amere friendly regard for
Ethel?” he asked. ‘‘The possibility occurred to me
once before when something suggested it, but I’d be
willing to stake my own honor against his, and of
course he is aware of the engagement. Etbelis a
very lovable girl, but I should not like to think that
pees is to meet with any disappointment through

er.

“Did it ever occur to you, Howard, that Ethel
might also care for Lenoir? I have imagined before
now that he was even better suited to her than Erle,
and scarcely doubt that there would have been a
different result had that childish engagement never
existed.”

“There might have been in that case, but it did
and does exist, and Ethel is too true to depart from
her duty, no matter for what fancy. Your idea is
preposterous, Gertrude, if it reaches the extent
of her wavering from Erle. Ethel is a Richland, and
we have always been good as our word, I believe.
Why, it is one of our proudest boasts that no dis
grace has ever touched our family, and I would feel
it a blot on our family honor, kept spotless for
Feneraeons if any thing could induce her to prove

‘aithless to Erle now. A very preposterous idea,
my dear!”

‘If she really could not love the one to whom a
childish promise bound her,” persisted Mrs. Rich-
land, her earnest eyes upon her husband’s face—
‘if in spite of her own efforts to be true she found
herself lacking, Joving the other as she should the
man she is to marry, could you not pardon her for
breaking her unconsidered promise, for proving at
least true to herself?” .

“That doesn’t apply to Ethel in the least,’ he
answered, uneasily, ‘Ethel did consider her
promise, and it is quite too late for even the remo-

est contemplation of a change. She has not the
aoe thought of it, I will warrant. Just as I say;
a Richland never has been and let me hope never
may be associated with the disgrace of broken honor,
eae ae or act.” ‘ I Hae,
was only a sup) ory case I was putting,
Mrs. Richland said, quictly. ‘thei has no idea of
proving any thing but true to her word, I am very
sure.’

The conversation lingered with her after her hus-
band had gone to his day’s business. _

That inexorable family Pipe and jealousy of the
family honor, how could it stand the shock, the
knowledge and dread of which hung so threaten-
ingly over her? Ah, better, better far had she
never known any thing different from the loneliness
and rebellious dissatisfaction of her cheerless girl-
hood days; better that she had borne the weight of
misery which had come to her later lay a a
iliation
and pain and disgrace which would reflect from her
to the kindly, generous but proud man who
been the best of indulgent husbands to her for fif-
teen years.

She had carried the letter addressed to him which
he had missed into the drawing-room, and placed it
in sight on the low marble mantle, and there it had
lain like some evil tempter before her sight in the
hours since. The stiff, legible characters of the ad-
dress staring back at her were like a challenge.
Studying ag she looked, she put up her hand pre-

 

23

 

sently and took it from its pong Bisco. Mrs. Rich-
land seldom hesitated when she had once reached a
decision, and she did not now hesitate in mastering
the contents ot that aggravating missive. There
fell from the envelope, as she opened it, a card,
printed:
OrAvEN Dauuas, M. D,

and on the reverse side was written in that stiff
hand of the superscription:

“Dr. Dallas will do himself the pleasure of call
ing upon Mr. Richland at six this evening, and
hopes to be admitted to a private audience. He
ventures to assert that the revelation which author-
izes his demand will prove fully satisfactory to the
latter.”

That was all. Mrs. Richland crushed the card in
her hand and sat looking into the coals again with
ae ape Sage a gaze which might have been
looking back through the years which were past, or
forward into that threatening future the shadow of
which was upon her even now.

Later that day Lenoir was admitted into Captain
Bernham’s apartment, and made known the mission
with which the banker had charged him.

“Go with you to the Richlands; / go there?” said
ante Bernham, taking a turn across the floor
an pushing back the hair from his forehead in
vexed impatience. “I'll be hanged first!’ Seeing
Lenoir’s quiet surprise the captain modified - his
tone suddenly. :

“Tn not used to polite society,’’ he said, shortly;
“T’ve roughed it on the frontier with little enough
of ladies’ society at the barracks. for the greater
part of the last seventeen years. I'd find myself
wonderfully out of place in a fashionable arewng-
room, I’m afraid. My compliments to Mrs. Rich-
land, and that as my reason for declining.”

‘‘Let_me hope you may conclude yet not to de-
cline,” Lenoir urged. ‘‘Iam very sure you will not
regret it if you once £0 Captain Bernham. They
are so warmly attached to Wilma and so deeply in-
terested in whatever may pertain to her welfare,
that they are prepared to receive you quite as a
friend with that bond between you. Let me call for
you at the time I have appointed for going this
evening.” _

The captain had stopped and was clewing: Blogreay
out at the chill aspect the street presented. After
all, why should he not go? Rose was dead to him,
and he was nothing in the world to Rose. He
had thought after that night at the opera that he
should never wish to see her face again, but now an
undefinable longing came over him to stand before
her, to touch her hand perhaps, to hear her speak,
and with the presence of the man whom she bad
preferred to him there as a reminder, to bring the
conviction yet more firmly home to him that a bar-
rier impassable as the grave itself stretched between
them. A weaker man might have shrunk from
such a trial of himself, but Captain Bernham’s iron
discipline had stood him through trials before this
and would again.

“T have reconsidered,” he said, when he turned.
“You may come this way, or I will take up with
you at the office if you like better.”

Lenoir, promising to return, left him. There is so
much irregularity attendant upon the business of a
newspaper daily, such lack of smooth connection
sometimes in its various departments and in the
movements of its detailed corps, that no one of the
many composing the great whole can always be
informed regarding what unexpected duty may de-
yvolve upon him at a moment’s notice. It proved so
in Lenoir’s case this late afternoon. Some one of
the staff had failed in the amount of “ copy ” which
should have been forthcoming at that hour. Could
Lenoir make good the deficiency? It was the chief
of the staff asking it in_ the tone which takes for
praned the assent which he did not wait to hear.

noir, thus appealed to, could and did, but the
gas was flashing through the streets and the red
glow of the furnaces was reflected over the city
and fell like dull stains on the dark, rough surface
of the rivers, before he returned to redeem his
promise to Captain Bernham.

The latter had come down into the street, expect-
ing him minutes before. He was pacing the pave-
ment slowly, that consoler of many a tedious hour
before this, his meerschaum, his companion now,
his tall, soldierly form and bronzed and bearded face
perfectly distinct in the glare illuminating the front
of tre hotel.

The two paused in it fora moment while Lenoir
made his explanation, then linked arms and walked
away. Inthe time he had passed walking up and
down there no intuition had come to Captain Leigh
Bernham of the watchful eyes upon him, no single
quiver warned him of what wistful, longing, despair-
ing eyes they were, losing no motion of his, reading
the changed, stern face, noting the gray which min-
gled in bis luxurious bc«.,;rd and aes the hair, cut
close to the massive, handsome head. They followed
him down the line of light as the two walked together
in the direction of the bridge.

Then the tall, muffled form, which had been sta-
tioned within the shadow of a doorway opposite,
passed out and mingled with the crowd upon the
street. When the proprietor of the slop which
owned the doorway found time to look out tor a mo-
ment he missed the quiet lady who had been wait-
ing there through the previous half-hour. The tall
shape, graceful and well-poised, despite the disguis-
ing wraps, went with swift, unhesitating steps
through the thronged and lighted streets. Her way
fone Hee to a dingy, over-built, locality, where the
original tenements jostled each other to make room
for the handsome compact blocks fast eyEnoachin
them, up the steps of one that had shabby gentee’
written all over its spindling hight, fiom the narrow
windows, with their flimsy inner drapings, to the
soiled white stones under her feet, with rusty balus-
trades on either side. Her hand was upon the bell-
pull when the door was thrown open and aman
came out from the eS bare hail. e made a step
forward and dropped her hand upon his arm as he

was Pee =
“Mr. Crayton, I was on my way to ask for you.
No, don’t turn back. Ionly wished to know if you
have discovered anything regarding Wilma. I have
some way had an impression that you might.”
Crayton, never very readily surp: cer-
tainly never taken aback by any such simple, unex-