May 6, 1880. ? LwOrCa al Vue £030 Ollice ° V C i] V Published Every BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, Complete in this Number. N 6 3 . ° Two Weeks. No. 98 WiitrAM Street, New Yor. Price, Ten Cents, 0. “ , Se = = | WIFE OR WIDOW? WINWOOD. WY ' Ye We) Yj Ye VM, iy \ My PS ee NI Li Mii z ANE MALE iii == mm MEANT TO SAY FAREWELL, AND THEN SEE HIM-NO MORE.” I WAS 80. MISERABLE—SO UNHAPPY! 1 WIFE OR WIDOW? Wife or Widow? ETHELIND ERLE’S ENEMY, BY RETT WINWOOD, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ A GIRW’S HEART,” ‘A DANGEROUS WOMAN,” ‘‘THE WRONGED HEIRESS,” ETO. CHAPTER. I. THE FIRST BRIDAL EVE. “What do you think of marriage? T take it as those that deny purgatory; It locally contains a heaven or hell; There’s no third place in it.”—Wexssrzr, A MYSTICAL stir was in the house. Beautiful exotics decorated hall and corridor, and flanked the grand central staircase with bud, blossom and arches of living green. The air seemed heavy. with the perfume of violets and helio- trope, and at the far end of the spacious draw- in’-room hung the traditional marriage-bell, pure, perfect and stainless as though fairy fin- gers thad fashioned and suspended it, It was Ethelind Erle’s wedding-eve. Glen- oaks, the lovely country-seat of her guardian, Colonel Philip Falkner, had been profusely do- corated for the occasion. Most of the guests were already in the house, making the scene brilliant with their rich toilets and glittering jewels. The windows stood wide open, their hangings of delicate lace swaying gently inthe soft May breeze that crept up from the placid bosom of the bay. The moon stood trembling on the east- ern horizon, as if eager yet half-afraid to pour its pearl-white flood over the slumbering hills and valleys and the waiting tide that washed the.amber.sand_ below... Fair asa dream of Kden was the scene, ee Before a cheval-glass.in one of the upper cham- bers stood Dolores Gloyne. She was to be bride- maid, and wore the traditional white; but her olive ee and usually ruddy cheeks look- ed quite ghastly in the brilliant light that per- vaded theroom. In her shaking fingersshe held a scented note. - “Come to me in the conservatory, Dolores,” it said. ‘You can steal away easily enough in the crowd. I must see you alone, and this may be our only opportunity. VINCENT.” The young girl crushed the note impatiently in her hand, “T must go,” she murmured. ‘Vincent might do something reckless if I refused to see him. But it is very wrong to meet him clan- oy after the promise grandpapa extorted m me. ; Catzhing up a shawl that lay on one of ths chairs, she flung it over her shoulders and ste ped to the door. There was noise and bustle bis in the lower rooms, but the corridor seemed deserted; with a quick-drawn breath she flitted down the broad passage. _ Near the landing was a small alcove curtained with crimson damask. Just as Dolores this an arm was suddenly thrust out from the drapery, and she felt herself drawn forcibly fo: rw: “Is it you, darling?” breathed a low, musical ce, é ne drew back with a startled exclama- “Raymond. here!” she uttered, glancing into the Gack, tkadeotss face so close to her own, “You frightened me dreadfully.” wT boss fell from her — Pe = : our pardon, dear cousin,” sa e ee in a cold uaa voice. * These f are, go confounded! dark that I mistook ‘ou ind. Why do you come stealing upon one mufiied up like that?” : “*T have an errani Soe eeeN and eS : dress so conspicuous. . “Where Saas! leave Miss Erleft - ‘She is still in her chamber, I suppose. Have you any message for her?” es ae “Thank you—none. I can wait. Another hour and she will be my wife. Then I shall have no use for go-betweens,” : . There was so much exultation in his voice that Dolores again lifted her eyes quickly. The face into which she gazed was cent in its beauty, and most women f it irre- y attractive. But a shiver of repulsion ran over the girl, Raymond er was her cousin—almost her only living relative; nevertheless, she did not alton trust him. “Thope you will make Ethelind a good hus- Raymond,” she said, ly. ; ‘Am T not an idolatrous lover?” : Dolores sighed. - tae si “These fierce, headstrong passions are not the ones that endure longest, or that will suffer “T would die, if necessary, for my beautiful bride. Is not that enough?” . ‘Ahalt-snooking spate curled his lips, and he | turned impa away. ~ once more ‘ that honorable conduct?” he ‘ly. up her. shawl, and ran swiftly on to @ back staircase.~ Ifshe wished to see incent Erle and return before the hour appointed for the ceremony, there was no time to lose. The shortest route to the conservatory la: through the large dining-hall, where the wed- ding supper with its flowers, cut-glass and costly pare was’ already laid out.The three or four ‘busy attendants scarcely noticed the muffled figure that glided, ghost-like, down the long avenue between the groaning tables, and disap- peared in the cool green shadows beyond. Not a single eye followed the girl with curiosity or. icion. Dolores paused just within the conservatory, and..was straining her eyes through the per- fumed obscurity of the place when a rustling sound fell upon her. ears, and a man emerged from behind a trellis of the luxuriant bignonia. ‘How long you were in coming, Dolores!’’ he exclaimed, catching her in his arms. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, and answered with a ee sob: ki Oh, Vincent! Jt was wrong for me to come at all!’ “Wrong?” | promieed grandpapa, before leaving home, would avoid you. Now you have tempt- ed me to break my word.” “Tt was cruel of him to extort such a prom- ise!” said the young man indignantly. “‘T know be has my best interests at heart. Poor grandpapa! It seems base and ungrateful to deceive him, when he has doze so much for me. A shade of disdain crossed Vincent Erle’s handsome blonde face. ‘“You take too grave a view of the offense, Dolores,” he said. “Egbert Challoner has no right to interdict these meetings.” ** Remember, he has been like a father to me.” “ That is no reason why you should submit to him like a slave. Hoe knows that we love each other devotedly, and yet he has forbidden me the house, and-commanded you not to see me. Ani why? Simply because I am poor, and therefore not an eligible suitor for your hand. It is shameful!” 3 “Hush!” whispered Dolores, in a shivering voice. ‘Try to bear with him for my sake.” “‘T have borne too long already.” “ Don’t like that. It pains me to hear you. But it is not prudent to linger here. Tell ’ me why you sent for me, Vincent, that I may return to my own room. : “T believe you are anxious to be rid of me!” was the half sullen exclamation. “Oh, no, no, But you know as well as I do the risk we run in coming here.” There was a moment’s silence, and the young man drew her still more close to his side. ““There must be an end of this,” he said, in a low voice that wasscarcely audible, ‘‘ Weseem no nearer the consummation of our happiness than we were twelve months ago. [ have made up my mind. When this wedding is once over, I shall go toold Mr. Challoner, and make a clean breast of everything.” Dolores threw up her hands, a look of real terror on her face. “Oh, Vincent! my heart misgives me. Pro- mise me that you will do nothing rash. My grandpapa ment curse me in his anger, and si I could not bear. Wait—be patient a little longer. er breath caught itself in hysterical sobs, and she would have hid her face on his shoulder had he not suddenly pushed her from him. “Compose yourself,” he whispered. ‘‘I am certain I heard footsteps.” Dolores clung faint and trembling to the trellis, After a moment of intense suspense, her worst fears were realized. Forth from the thick shadows thrown by two large stands of blossoming plants, stopped the bent figure of a hapehty old man, “Grandpapa!” she gasped. Mr, Egbert Challoner, for it was he, confront- ed her, his face crimson with rage. ‘*You vixen!” he hissed. ‘‘How dared you disobey me? How dared me meet this fellow in opposition to my wishes?” coe forward and clung to his arm, her tears falling’ ‘ F “Do not Si y with me, dear grandpapa!” she pleaded. oe i How could I keep my word with Vincent and my own heart tempting me to break it? I meant to say farewell, and then see him no more.” Rudely repulsing her, Mr. Challoner turned to Vincent Erle. “What excuse have ys to offer for your dis- ¢ aughtily demanded. ‘‘ None,” was the cold response. ‘‘I have done nothing that I should not do over again, under like provocation. Let your displeasure be visit- ed upon me alone—that is ali I ask. It was I who tempted Dolores to deceive oe _ Mr. Challoner gazed steadfastly at the young man, without speaking, for several seconds. Then, contemptuously turning bis back on him he grasped the hand of his nddaughter. led her back into the dining-hall, and carefully oo; the CO a 5 : am surp at you should betray the trust Ireposed in you, Dolores,” he said, gloves “To avoid remark, I consented that you should come to Glenoaks and assist at the wed- was so miserable—so unhappy! > ding of your cousin Raymond. Knowing, as you do, in what disfavor I hoid Vincent Erle it is strange that you should take a base advantage of the situation.” ““T know it was very wrong—oh, forgive me.” ‘You do not deserve to be pardoned.” “Tknow it, But—but—my heart is broken.” Her head drooped, and she again broke into irrepressible sobs. r. Challoner stood looking at her in sorrowful silence. At length she grew more composed, and leaning a little toward him, said in an eager whisper: “T wish you would tell me_ why you are s0 bitterly opposed to Vincent. You never assign- ed any good and sufficient reason for the dislike you profess to feel.” “ He is not a suitable match for you.” “Because of his poverty?” ‘That is one of the reasons.” “You did not oppose Raymond’s marriage with Vincent's sister, Ethelind.” The girl’s lip took a scornful curve. ‘“‘T think I understand the real nature of the distinction you would make,” she suid, almost bitterly. ‘‘Ethelind was fortunate enough to fall heir to her mother’s fortune, while poor Vincent has nothing. It is merely a question of bonds, bank stock and dividends.’ “Nay, child, you are mistaken. Ethelind is a noble 7oune womap— sven the proudest fami- ly might fee) honored to welcome her to its cir- cle. Vincent, unfortunately, does not resemble her in character or disposition.” The girl’s face suddenly became white and drawn as if with pain. ‘What do you mean?” she gasped. “Simply this, that I have no confidence in the man, or in his professions. Let that suffice. We will speak of him no more. You must give him up. shall not brook a second act of dis- obedience,” Turning as he spoke, he left her without an- other word. Dolores stood for some moments liked one stunned. She turned giddily from the sight of glittering plate and snowy damask of the wedding banquet as if it had sickened her. At length she groped her way up the deserted staircase, murmuring with livid oe : “ Ah! how little doesmy grandfather guess of the shameful truth! And, God help me! how can I ever tell him? Iam too miserable to live! Dear, dear Vincent! I cannot think evil of you —I will not! It would kill me. May God keep you true to me—true to yourself!” CHAPTER II. THE UNWILLING SUPPLIANT. “Is there within thy heart a need That mine can not fulfill? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? " Speak now, lest at some future day whole life wither and deca ee —Mies Proctor. * Doors had scarcely regained the shelter of her own room, and thrown aside her heavy shawl, when slow, dragging steps descended the corridor. king up expectantly as the door swung open, she saw the bride-elect, Ethelind Erie, totter across the threshold. : “3 Ob, my poor friend! What brings you ere Cee Dolores started impulsively forward as’ she asked the question. Whiter than her bridal- robes, Ethelind stood before her, her fair oval face twitched with pain, and her eyes, so like violets in calmer moods, looking straight for- ward in a dreary stare absolutely appalling. ‘“‘ Hide me!” the poor creature cried at length, aunlonivey “Dolores, you are my only friend. — and double-lock the door, I want no one ut you. Dales shoved the bolt into its socket; then returning, she gently took Ethelind’s hand an drew her to a seat. _ “What has happened?” she said, compassion- ay. “Tell me all about it!” “T want to get away—away from him!” cried Ethelind, wildly. ‘I—I—hate him. ‘Tis cf no use struggling against the tecling: It grows more and more intense, I believe [ am mad to- Suh My head is burning. Oh, Dolores, pity me : ““T do pity you,” was the gentle answer. “Is is aeihae so extremely distasteful to you?” “T would rather die than become Raymond Challoner’s wife.” : Dolores sighed, and a heavy weight settled upon her heart. She had long suspected that Raymond did not possess all the love of the bride he had chosen, but this active, intense re- pugnance shocked and surprised her. i “Oh, why did you not speak of this before it was too late?” she exclaimed. ; Ethelind dropped her eyes and shuddered. | ‘*T feel like one just waking from a dream. I never fully realized what I had done until to- night when I roused up to find myself arrayed in these hateful robes. Ob, if they were only my shreud it would not matter!” rr ‘It is wicked to say such things, Ethelind.” “Is it? Ido not know. In the grave there is peace and rest. Oh, if I were only there!” . She started to her feet, and. began-to march restlessly up and down ‘the room, her hands clasped tightly on her bosom, Like the ghost of a bride she looked with her ghastly face—in which the only spots of color were the violet- blue of her eyes—and her trailing satin robe | over which fell; uncared for, the fleecy folds of | the bridal-vail. At length she paused before a Japanese cabi- | net that stood in one corner of the room. She | remained there motionless so long that Dolores, | softly following her, saw that her eyes were fix- | ed upon a small dagger of foreign workmanship that reposed on one of the shelves. “Better death than a life of misery,” mutter- ed the half-crazed creature. ‘God is merciful —he knows my temptation and despair—he will forgive me.” With ‘a frenzied laugh she seized the dagger, and in another moment would have buried it in her bosom had not Dolores arrested the up- lifted arm. ‘“My God, Ethelind, what would you do?” ag me alone! -Why did you seek to hinder me? “My poor friend, do you not know that self- destruction is the one sin that Heaven itself can- not pardon?” A distressing wail broke from Ethelind’s lips, her limbs trembled, and she sunk down on the floor as if strength had suddenly deserted her. “T told you I was mad.” . “T believe, on my soul, you are. Come, let me remove your wreath and vail and you shall lie a on my bed until you are more com- posed. Ethelind fiercely pushed away the hands that would have performed these friendly offices. “Let my vail remain. It is altogether fitting by Raymond should have a mad-woman for his ride. “There shall be no marriage! If no other yoice is lifted against such a wicked proceeding mine shall be, Oh, Ethelind, why did you cloak your real feelings until this late hour? ““Tt was a part of my madness,” she added, while a shudder passed through her, ‘T have acted like an insane person all the.e weeks. It was pique that caused me to accept Raymond Challoner. Iplightedmy trotb to him while my whole heart belonged to another.” There was a silence. Dolores felt herself turn paler, but she leaned over the stricken creature, gently clasping her arms about her. ‘Let me goto Colonel Falkner, your guardian, and tell him all this.” A sudden searlet flamed over that pallid face, creeping up to the roots of her glinting auburn hair. She quickly arrested it, and said at length in a scarcely-audible voice: “Do you think Colonel Falkner would ‘help me?” Sapo “Where is he?” “Down-stairs, among the guests, I suppose.” “Very well. You may find him, and bring him here,” Dolores poured a glass of water, and when Ethelind had swallowed it she led her to an easy- chair beside the open window. The curtains were looped back and the moonlight streamed | into theroom. The faint perfume of violets and mignonette was on the air, “Take courage. All may yet be well.” Having uttered these comforting words, she | went out hastily. Her own troubles had no | place in her consciousness at that moment. She descended the grand staircase without giving a second thought to the curious eyes that were aye her, though a very audible whisper reach- her ears ere she gained the lower hall. “That is Miss Gloyne. She is to be bride- maid. Isn’t her dress becoming?” One of the servants stood near the drawing- room door, and to him she spoke in suppressed tones. : “T must see Colonel Falkner. Please find him, and ask him to come here.” : The servant bowed, and hurried away. Three | minutes later, a tall, powerfully-built man of | two-and-tbirty bad taken her hand and was bend- | ingoverit. He was distinguished-looking rather than handsome. His eyes were large, and of a deep gray, his hair black. It was a face that never failed to attract. : “ John says you were asking for me, Dolores,” he said. “Yes, Colonel Falkner—Ethelind is in my room, She isin trouble. You had better go to her,” He Jooked at hei: with a glance of surprise. ‘There has been no blundering in the arrange- ments, I trust?” “Tt isn’t that, “Will you go?” “Tt lacks but ten minutes of the hour appoint- ed for the ceremony,” he said, referring to his watch. ‘Yes, come quickly; we have no time to lose.” They passed together up the stairs, under the arches of living green with which they were de- corated. At the door of her own room Dolores i and signed for Colonel Falkner to enter lo ne. ‘*T will wait here,” she said. 2 He went in and closed the door, A sudden thrill went to bis heart as his gaze rested upon that drooping, listless figure at the window. He trembled as he drew nearer. WHEE ORLWDOW?. “Ethelind, I am here. What can I do for you?” At the sound ef his voice’ she half-rose, with clenched hands, but instantly fell back again. “*Tf you do not save me,” she said, in a sharp, unsteady whisp.r, ‘‘ I am lost.” “Save you! From what?” ‘A broken heart—a blighted life.” Colonel Falkner looked at her curiously. She was shivering, and her face shone deadly pale in the lamplight; but her blue eyes burned and glittered feverishly. bright. “Has Raymond done anything to offend you?” he asked, after a brief pause. “Raymond! Don’t’ speak his name!” she cried, vehemently. ‘‘Thate him. 1 dread his presence—I shrink from his touch—oh, would that I could hide away from him forever!” “Poor child! How long has this been so?” A hysterical laugh broke from her lips. “How long? It has never been otherwise. He was always distasteful to me—always.” 2 ae ons then, did you betroth yourself to ‘im His tone of gentle reproof seemed to sting her beyond all her powers of self-control. Leaning toward him, she said quite fiercely: “And you ask that—you who might have saved me, by a kind word or a loving look, from this living death? Great God!” *Bthelind !” , “Let me speak. It is better so. The shame of the confession may kill me, But for your in- difference I might never have given myself to another, I hoped to forget you—in time, Oh vain delusion! And I hoped that you, too, would feel a little prick of pain when we were parted forever. Good heavens! That was a madder thought than the other! Youdo not care how deep y I suffer.” Colonel Falkner himself turned very pale as he listened to her ravings. In vain he tried to check them. The confession was as humiliating to him as it could be to herself; and he realized the overpowering shame that must be hers when she came to her better senses. “Try to calm yourself,” he said; earnestly. “Just now pon are excited and delirious, and know not what you are saying.” “ Bear with me a little longer,” she went on, in low-toned entreaty. ‘I scarcely know when this passion took root in my heart—it seems as though it had always been there. At first it was only a child’s worship of an ideal hero. But, during the six months that have elapsed since you returned from that long, long sojourn in Europe, it has developed into the love of a pas- sionate woman.” Colonel Falkner gave a shrinking gesture, as if the words only pained and distressed him. After a silence he gained resolution to say: ‘“You are my ward, Ethelind—many years my eis, T invariably think of you asa child.” “‘ Suffering develops one early.” . He turned partially away. “This is a profitless subject, my poor child. Let us dismiss it now and forever.” She rose suddenly, stood before him, and lift- ed her cold, white face. _ “have sometimes suspected that a prior pas- sion had closed your heart against me,” she said, in awhisper. ‘Tell me, is it so?” ‘Men seldom reach my age unscathed.” : Speaking thus, he drew from his breast-pocket a small locket studded with jewels, opened it and held it toward her, Ethelind bent to look. The dark, passionate, bewildering face that smiled on her from the ainted ivory seemed just such another as that ‘or which Mare Antony cee } a world away. “You loved the original of that picture?” she said, very low. “ Yes. i 7 Perhaps you love her still.” “ 1 do. ”» She da little. “ Did you meet her abroad?” “Yes, » Another pause. For her life she could not go on withthe interrogatory. She stood like a marble woman, the pitiless lamplight shining on her livid face. _. “T hope you were ha PPY in your love,” at last she ager’ to say, a smile that was only itiful. . . Pa No, for it wrecked and cursed my life.” She tried to look at him, but her eyelids droop- ed with a slight quivering that betrayed how deeply her nature was wrought upon. “Sudden- ly her fragile figure began to sway violently, and she put out both hands like a person groping in the dark. ; ' “T am faint—I am ill!” she He sprung forward and on t her in his arms just as, with a long moan, she would have fallen senseless on the floor. CHAPTER III. A TORTURED HEART. “I cannot love him, — Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, = great estate, of et and ade outh, gracious person cannot love ..” ; —SHAKSPEARE. CoLoneL FaLKNER had been an officer in the war, winning his title in wild scenes of car- 3 nage and bloodshed; but it had never before fallen to his lot to see a woman in a deadly nt and he found himself helpless as a child. A Pang of self-reproach. thrilled him as he gazed upon her eee face resting so unconsciously upon his breast. ‘‘May heaven forgive me if I have been in fault for this,” he muttered. Raising his voice he called sharply to Dolores, : who had remained on guard outside the door. ’ She entered, looking nervous and flurried. “Mercy on me!” she ejaculated, taking in the“ situation at a glance. ‘The hour has struck— they are looking for Ethelind—and now she has fainted on our hands!” With ey presence of mind she removed the bridal-wreath and vail, viciously tossing them into the darkest corner of the room; then wheel- ed a low couch up to the open window. ‘Let her lie here, where the cool air will blow over her, That will do, Now lock the door, or we shall be invaded by every bridemaid in the ouse. The caution did not come a moment too soon. Colonel Falkner had scarcely turned the key when an impatient knock sounded on the door, and a treble voice outside demanded news of the bride, who. was missing from her chamber. “Ethelind is here, with me,” Dolores called out. “Goaway, We will join you at “The hour has struck, and Mr. Challoner is waiting at the foot of the stairs,” “Tell him to be patient.” She looked dismayed, however, as she bent over the senseless bride with smelling salts and eau de cologne, “This is no ordinary fainting-fit,” she whis- pered, ‘I feel half-afraid,” “What is to be done?” “Let.us wait and see.” Dolores recalled every remedy she had ever known to be employed in such cases, but all in vain, Not a single symptom of returnimg ani- mation came back to those rigid limbs and mar- ble-like features. “A physician must be summoned,” Colonel Falkner said at length, in a nervous tone, “She might die?” “Yes, we are doing her no good. You can slip out quietly. I will undertake to keep the room clear until Dr, Lance arrives,” At this moment an imperative knock sounded on the door, c “ Open,” said a haughty voice, ‘I must and will know the reason of this delay.” “Tt is my mother,” whispered Colonel Falk ner, ‘‘She must be admitted, of course.” He undid the fastenings, and Mrs, Falkner en- tered, looking very stately and grand in her black velvet dress, with the Falkner diamonds arkling on her arms and at her throat. re- sparkli h d at her th A markably handsome woman in spite of her sixty- odd. years was the mistress of Glenoaks, and ee, a F ft oge hm belle might have coveted the urity of her complexion, the cold brilliancy of er ee eyes, and the graceful poise of her well-shaped head. , “Philip—you here!” she exclaimed, as her startled gaze rested on the figure of her son. He pointed silently to the motionless figure on the couch. Mrs, Falkner sprung forward, ef- fectually startled out of her self-control. “Ethelind! Good heavens! What has hap- pened to the poor child?” ~ “Tt is a fainting-fit.” “Of course. But, what could have caused it? Dear me. Was ever anything so unfortunate? I'm afraid the wedding will have to be put off, and all our friends sent home again.” Colonel Falkner went out ey, to tech one of the servants for the fam y physician. Long before Dr. Lance arrived, however, in spite of every precaution taken, it began to be whispered about in the lower rooms that the bride-clect had suddenly fallen ill, and there was likely to be no wedding. One of the first persons to besiege the room in which Ethelind was Raymond Challoner himself. He looked pale, anxious and nervous. “She will be better soon—will she not?” he said, in a half-imploring whisper, stealing to the side of Dolores. “T hope so.” “Well enough for the ceremony to A ont” “Certainly not,” Dolores answered, sharply. 3 oe must give her up for the present—thank * He looked at her flercely. ‘““Why do you conclude your sentence with a thanksgiving?” he demanded. * ‘Because Ethelind will have a respite she tly requires. Do you not realize what has Brong! t her to this pass? She does not love and the thought of the marriage is killing “She will think better of it when all is over.” ‘You had better give her up.” “T am not so magnanimous,” said Raymond, with a slight sneer. ‘She is necessary to my happiness, and I shall hold her to her plighted word. What else could you expect ** Nothing—from you,” Dolores answered, bit- terly. L A nobler man would have decided dit- ntly. “T donot profess to be a saint, But I am SS 4, WIFE OR WIDOW? not weak enough to bo turned aside from my Panne by this unfortunate contretemps.” “Tt is strange that you should desire an un- willing bride.’ ; “ But you are not madly in love with one who simply regards you with toleration,” he answer- ed, ere he turned away. An hour later there came a faint, tremulous motion about Ethelind’s closed lips, and her eyes opened, sending one quick, startled glance 1 round. “Philip, where are you?” she cried, wildly. Colonel Falkner drew near and took her hand. “ Rouse yourself, Ethelind,” he said, trying with ready tact to shieldher. ‘You have been very ill.” “T remember now,” she faintly panted. “I was dressed for the wedding—the guests were in the house—” A frightened look came on her face, and the words died away in an Be pe cg. aod murmur. Just at that instant she caught a glimpse of Ray- mond Challoner himself, standing near in his elegant evening costume, looking at her search- ingly. She shuddered violently, and closed her eyes. ‘““T am giad you are better, darling,” he whis- pered, bending over her. “Go away,” she panted, ‘Go, and leave me with Dolores. I am too ill to talk.” Dr. Lance now interposed in her behalf, and ina few minutes the room was cleared of all whose beers there was superfluous. All that night and most of the next day Ethe- lind lay on the couch, white, silent, and helpless, Her only interest in life seemed a desire to be let alone. Her hands remained, for the most part, folded on her bosom,and her eyes looked straight forward in a fixed, bois stare. Late in the afternoon, Mrs. Falkner c2me up- stairs for the first time since the previous night. “Do try to rouse yourself, child,” she said, drawing near the couch. ‘ Poor Raymond suf- fers dreadfully. He does nothing but pace the floor, and send messengers to inquire how you are getting on.” “ Why does he not go away?’ Ethelind asked, in a constrained voice. ** And leave you like this?” ‘*T could recover just as well without him.” Mrs. Falkner gave way to a feeling of half- angry impatience. “T don’t know the reason of your singular words and actions, Ethelind, and I have no de- sire to inquire into it, But really you ought to ive Raymond credit for possessing a little lover-like sympathy.” No answer. ‘“* He sent me to inquire how soon the wedding can take place.” Ethelind hid her face in the pillow and shud- dered. “ Put it off as long as ible—that is all I ask,” she said, and then she broke out crying, hysterically. CHAPTER IV, THE LADY OF LORN. “T’'ll dwell alone, alone, And none shall touch me—none shall look On me.” —Barry CoRNWALL, A Ltrtiez less than two miles distant from Glenoaks, on a steep declivity overlooking the broad blue waters of the bay that finally lost itself in the blue brine of the Atlantic, stood a dark, weird, gloomy old house known far and near by the singular, but in this case appropri- ate, name of Lorn. ‘A “Jorn” mansion it was in truth, standing solitary and alone on its eminence, and ever pre- senting the same dark, gray, forbidding aspect to the world, as if defying the ravaging hand of time itself. It was “A house—but under some prodigious ban Of excommunication.” Shame, misfortune, or death had’ ae over- taken its different owners, one after another until the simple country folk were led to avoid the desolate mansion as a place accursed, and it was left to molder tenantless and forsaken, as its prophetic name implied. Suddenly the whole countryside was electri- fied by the rumor that a wealthy young widow, Mrs. Faunce, had purchased to. and was coming to take possession immediately—possi- bly to bury some deep sorrow in the seclusion it offered. A few days later, vans of handsome furniture began to arrive, pictures in boxes, musical in- struments, and various articles of vertu and in- terest which went to show that the new owner of Lorn must be a lady of culture and esthetic tastes. At length Mrs. Faunce arrived with her little retinue of servants. The young widow betray- ed no inclination to cultivate the acquaintance of her neighbors, however. She denied herself to everybody who called, and all that the outer world saw of her was the occasional vision of a slender vailed figure standing on the balconies or restlessly pacing the weed-choked paths that interlaced each other throughout the grounds. Late one sultry afternoon—it was two days subsequent to the interrupted wedding at Glen- oaks—two of the women servants were engaged in dusting and cleansing one of the long passages branching off from the main hall, when Faunce drew near, She had on the disguising mantle she always wore when not in her own private apartments, and the obnoxious vail cov- ered and concealed her face. Only one servant out of allthat household had ever seen her dressed ae and that one was Joan Withers, the gaunt little old woman with the yellow face and crooked shoulders, who started up from her knees, and stood in re- spectful silence while her mistress drew near. The other, Phoebe Jelly, had been picked up in New York just before the removal to Lorn; and to her Mrs. Faunce was, and had been from the first, an embodied mystery. The girl would have given her right hand, almost, for the privi- lege of seeing that shrouded figure divested of disguise. “Joan,” Mrs. Faunce said, in alow, melodious voice, as she pent ly approached, “the picture of the ‘Crucifixion’ is to be hung in the vacant space between those windows, and the marble copy of the Virgin and child placed on a stand underneath it. You may instruct Martin ac- cordingly.” ‘Yes, madam.” ‘The ‘ Last Supper’ will show to the best ad- vantage against the blank wall oe - “Tt shall find a place there, madam.” ‘You understand all my whims and fancies, Joan,” went on the sorrowfully sweet voice. ‘“‘ The other arrangements I shall give over en- tirely into your hands.” “You can trust me, dear lady.” Mrs. Faunce passed on. The instant she had disappeared Phoebe turned to her companion and said in a hurried whisper: “Joan, why does our mistress invariably ap- pear among us in that disguise?” ‘‘She has her reasons for it, I suppose,” was the cold reply. “Tt is very strange. I have been here a week to-day, and have never seen her face.” “Humph. Had you been here all the weeks in a month, and months in a year, you might still bs compelled to make the same acknowledg- ment. “You might as well say I’m a fool, and done with it,” Phoebe angrily exclaimed. Joan smiled, shrugged her crooked shoulders, and went on equably with her work. “Pll see what she looks like before I’m many days older, and know the reason why!” Phoebe muttered, ae. Take my. advice, and never med- “ AHumph! concern you. It is the dle with what doesn safest way.” “ Joan, do you know why Mrs. Faunce so per- sistently hides her face?” “T may—or may not.” ‘‘ Perhaps she has been frightfully disfigured by small-pox.” Joan made no reply. “Or had portions of her face eaten away by a cancer, No answer. “Or is rendered hideous by some livid birth- mark.” Silence still. “Why don’t you = Joan?” Phoebe irri- tably demand * Does . Faunce go about ed because her countenance is too frightful to look upon?” “You must draw your own conclusions; I have no information to give.” Phoebe started up, as if tempted to throw her dusting-brush at the woman’s fs “You are a provoking old witch, Joan! Whatever the mystery, I am sure her husband’s death kad nothing to do with it, or with the se- clusion in which she lives. BY the way, when and where did Mr. Faunce die “T do not keep the family record.” ‘* What! you won’t even tell me that?” ‘“T prefer not to speak of any matter that my —— shows a disposition to keep to her- “Oh, T’d like to shake you!” Phoebe. ‘‘ Well, keep your secrets. One of these days I learn all about them without any help After a anat silence, Phoebe added in a medi- tative tone: “Tt is yey: possible that Mrs. Faunce has taken a vow to wear a vail for a certain veriod, as a penance for some real or fancied sin.” Joan smiled again. - 7 en why she settled down in this es. y together, and picking up brush and broom, hurried down the to put an end to the ca . abe kept on at her work for some time es but curiosity had been excited to fever- pitch, and she suddenly resolved to gratify it at whatever hazard. : “Here’s a mystery right under my nose,” she ‘| ment—the sound of her voice, ap- | “Oh, my Te child!” cried Joan, But Mrs. Faunce is very self-willed, forward, and clinging to her sleeve, tone ‘And approve 80 ar a whim?” ioe cannot truthfully say that I do and it is eae bene any caprice she sets | ti oie titered thes words, Joan shut her | as if anxious | look at the sky. | | a thought; ‘and that horrid old woman laughs at me and shrugs her shoulders as much as to say ee off.’ I’ll find out what it means if [ die or it. pagent J half fearfully all round, and listen- ing intently for a moment or two, Pheebe stole on tiptoe down the passage, and after doubling several corners, reached at length a door that stood slightly ajar. : In this room—a sort of boudoir—Mrs. Faunce; usually sat. She was within at that very mo- reading aloud, fell{ upon Phoebe’s ear as she eS trembling and palpitating, with her hand on the knob. There was & mournful cadence in those low, bell-like tones, that strangely impressed the listener, At length the girl gathered courage to cross the threshold. The room was large and lofty, and furnished with exquisite taste. Mrs. Faunce satat the upper end, an Indian screen of elabo- rate design concealing her from the view of any one standing in the passage. Stealing forward with a soft, ment, Phoebe pushed her head inc yond the margin of the screen. Mrs, Faunce sat with her back toward her. The obnoxious vail lay ona chair withinreach. Her head, now fully exposed to view, was purely classic in its outlines; immense coils of purplish black hair, pure and shining as bands of richest satin, sur- mounted it. Her countenance was hidden; only one ear, exquisitely tinted as a sea-shell, and a ar tormation of the shapely chin, were sible. The musical tones died abeuptey areys Mrs. Faunce must have ‘* Let me let me go, I say!” “But it is late—it will soon be dark. And 0 In half an hour’s time, the rain will be pouring in torrents.” «She pointed to the darkened heavens, along which a few fleecy clouds were corey g under- neath the gray, unbroken canopy that covered up, like a pall, the pale stars that should have jossomed out of the twilight. Afar off could WIFE OR WIDOW? 5 be heard the faint, low roar of old ocean, moan- ing like a stricken soul in pain. . Faunce pushed off the hands that sought to detain her. “T am stifling here,” she gasped. ‘‘ The house seems to be haunted to-night—haunted by mem- ories of the past. I shall lose my reason unless I flee from them all. As she spoke, the strange woman stepped out at the window, and as if some restless demon were in her feet, hurried over the weed-grown terrace, and down the neglected path beyond, never once pausing or looking back until she had reached and climbed one of the highest cliffs overlooking the bay. — It was quite dark by this time, but as Mrs. Faunce bared her hot temples to the cool breezes that sighed and wailed around the place she suddenly ame aware that she was not alone. Close to the verge of the cliff stood the slender re of a woman with a white cra) shawl drawn closely about her head. The pale glimmer of this wrapping through the dusk was what had first attracted the attention of Mrs. Faunce. Quickly replacing her vail, she S08 motionless, staring at the unexpected on, Only fora moment. Suddenly an odd sound, bales a: 7 ae the pecan ps, ani 6 took a single step forward, crying with u lifted hands: " : 7 be merciful to me a sinner!” The next instant she would have thrown her- self into the treacherous gloom that had a ia up the precipitous side of the cliff, like a bodily presence, had not Mrs. Faunce clutched des- pecavelst hold of her skirts, and drawn her c “ What would you do?” Ethelind—for it was she—raised her head, and looked fiercely, with glittering eyes, at the J pom who had saved her from self-destruc- ‘ tion. “ Release me!” she cried, wildly. “ But for you all would have been over—I should have ‘ound rest.” fl ‘* Ay, such rest as awaits the suicide.” “Tt is easier to bear the torments of the damned in the next world than in this.” “cc Ww h ” ‘* Because there you will be driven to madness by neither the pity nor the contempt of so-call- friends.” Mrs, Faunce drew back, looking at the girl who could give utterance to such wicked senti- ments, with a new interest. It almost seemed as if a bond of fellow-feeling had sprung up be- ' tween them all at once. “ Of course you think me very desperate, very wicked,” Ethelind went on, in a rapid tone; “and you are right. This is the second time I have been saved from the sin of taking my own life. And yet I do not wish to live. Ah, you may despise me, but you can never know through What alenehs of despond I have been called pass “What is your name?” asked, after a short silence. “ Ethelind Erle.” Was it imagination, or did Mrs, Faunce actu- ally start backward a step or two, and clench her teeth, at the mention of that name? “T have heard of you.” Her voice certainly had an odd, constrained sound. ‘You live at Glenoaks, and are Colonel Falkner’s ward?” “Yes. And you?” “Tam the Mrs. Faunce who has recently pur- chased Lorn.” Ethelind dropped her hand on the woman’s sleeve, and looked up at her again, as if anxious to penetrate tho thick folds of the muffling vail. I ought to thank you, Mrs. Faunce, for your efforts Save me—but how can I, when I do not even feel grateful? It is so hard to live—it would have m so easy to die! I had quite persuaded myself that I was justified in putting an end to my troubles.” Mrs. Faunce laughed derisively. “Troubles?” she echoed. “ You do not know the meaning of the word. Poor, foolish child! Wait until your heart has been scathed and blistered by such anguish and shame as would have killed any other woman cee eee in- deed, you will have some excuse for talking of self-destruction.” : / Turning as she spoke, without even a word of adieu, the strange woman began to descend the cliff with a slow and measured tread. When the darkness had swallowed up the deeper gloom of her retreating figure, Ethelind. threw herself on-a bowlder, and tossed back the shawl from Vor hot brow. But her face was now turned re- Mrs. Faunce gently olutely away from the black abyss of gloom / that had tempted her, ay The moments sped on, the darkness deepened, and presently a few scattering drops of rain be- gan to fall. The wind crept up from the broad bosom of the bay, damp and chill, and the rain fell faster and faster, but the miserable girl still crouched there, with uncovered head, mo- tionless as a statue. CHAPTER V. AT DEAD OF NIGHT. iv was past ten o’clock when a drenched, shiv- ering figure glided like a spirit up the elm-shad- | alee ed avenue leading to Glenoaks, and crept close to the drawing-room windows, whence a broad glare of light streamed into the twofold gloom of night and storm, A wild, white face glued itself for a moment to the glass. Within, all was warmth and brightness. Do- lores Gloyne sat at the piano, singing a pathetic old ballad. Colonel Falkner s beside her in the attitude of an attentive listener. Raymond Challoner was listlessly turning a book of en- gravings at the other end of the room, his brows knitted, his handsome face looking dark and in- scrutable. Since the night of the interrupted wedding, he had not absented himself from Glenoaks even for an hour. The poor creature standing without in the cold and rain uttered a fierce, irrepressible cr as her glance rested for a moment upon his hand- some face. It was the passionate expression of the hatred that filled her heart. 'Then she drew back quickly. Had the sound reached Colonel Falkner’s ears? At any rate she saw him start, and turu his eyes toward the window. Ethelind slunk away like a guilty creature, Where should she go? All the doors would be locked at that hour of the night, and she did not wish to exhibit herself to the servants in her drenched condition, And yet the general glow and comfort within seemed strangely de- sirable all at once. Crouching in the wet shrubbery, Ethelind no- ticed presently, a little further on, a second gleam of light, It proceeded from an apart- ment Mrs, Falkner used as her own private sit- ting-room. Shaking the rain from her gar- nee Ethelind crept up to the window, and tapped softly on the pane. ‘* Who's there?” said a voice. “Let me come in,” panted Ethelind, trying to peer into the room through the folds of erlm- son silk drawn across the window. ‘Iam wet through.” he . o’s there?” again came the angry de- mand, “Tt is I—Ethelind. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Falkner, do not alarm the house.” The next instant she heard a heavy step cross the floor, the curtains were flung back, and a resolute hand opened wide the window. But it was Colonel Falkner’s face—not his mother’s— that Ethelind saw, almost touching her own. He had seen her at the drawing-room window, after all. ‘Child, are you mad?” he uttered, drawing her quickly into the room, ‘‘ Why have you exposed yourself in this reckless fashion?” he made no reply, but stood before him with heaving chest and glittering eycs, “This is wrong, wick Ethelind. I am shocked at your conduct. You have no right to tamper with life and health as you are doing.” ‘“Who cares for life—or health?” she broke out passionately. “I’m tempted to rush back into the pitiless storm again. ‘‘No, you shall not, though I am compelled to prevent such an act of folly by brute force.” Mrs. Falkner now drew near. She had been standing at a little distance, trying to rally from the shock and fright of the sudden sum- mons at the window, and the abrupt manner in which her son had burst into the room. “Thadn’t the least idea it was you tapping for admittance,” she said, dropping her han on Ethelind’s shoulder, “ You gave me quite a start. We thought you were up-stairs, in your own room, scarcely able to sit os Instead of that you have been exposed to this dreadful storm, Ob, you rash, headstrong girl! You deserve to be severely punished.” Ethelind wrenched herself petulantly away. “Let me alone. The rain will not nurt me. Ido not. mind getting wet. It cools the fever here,” and she c both hands to her throb- es “You must takea warm bath, and puton dry clothing at once.” t “Why must I? I am not afraid of taking cold, and 1 getting the fever, if that is what you mean,” Ethelind answered, seating herself in one of the chairs. Colonel Falkner glanced keenly into her face. It was of an ashy whiteness, but wore a cold, hard, defiant expression, in which there was little that could be appealed to, to his mother he said, in an undertone: “Please leave us alone for a few moments, She is in a very bitter mood, I can manage her much better by myself.” Mrs. Falkner hesitated. In fact she felt nota little afraid of the influence this reckless, im- pulsive girl might exert upon her son. But the emergency did not admit of delay, and she re- luctantly retreated. “Ethelind,” Colonel Falkner said, in softer accents, bending over the girl the moment they were alone together, ‘‘I hope you will be a fectly frank with me and tell me why you talk and behave so snenan'y r “Thave told you— told you that dreadful po ,»” she answered, panting faintly. ‘It is only forty-eight hours since—it seems like so many years. My madness began then.” * Poor child, it possible that the contem- Distes marriage has caused you all this mis- ery As she did not reply, except to droop her head still lower with a shrinking shiver, he added, after a pausu: “Oh, why did you so recklessly pledge your hand if your heart could not go with it?’ “That is over and done with. If my motives are not clear to you, I shall not explain them further.” “Such a wicked marriage ought never to be consummated,” She suddenly flung up her hands, with such a Sasp as a drowning person might have given. ‘Will you save me from it?” she Be oe “T will do anything in my power. I have al- ery spoken to Raymond Challoner in your be- “ And he?” ‘Puts in the plea of his absorbing love, and refuses to release you. He says you will come reconciled as soon as the ceremony is once over. “Do you believe it, Colonel Falkner? Do you think I can ever learn to look upon him with toleration?” “T cannot tell. You are astrange girl, Ethe- lind. I should be at a loss what to predict.” Her scornful laugh rung out startlingly loud. “This miserable affair will end in my doing mischief to Raymond Challoner or myself. So much you may safely prophesy.” “ Hush, Ethelind.’ “During the past few hours I have felt des- perate enough to kill him!” - Colonel Falkner drew himself aloof, and a cold expression of disapproval crossed his face. He Peay. said; “T really cannot listen to such delirious rav- ings. Icommand you to be more guarded in your speech.” ‘“‘Tam your slave—I obey,” she derisively an- swered, There was a silence, While it lasted Ethe- lind sat with her face hidden in her hands. At length she looked up and abruptly said, in a hoarse, eager whisper: “T went you to tell me more about that wo- man—you know who I mean. You wear her picture over your heart. What is her name?” “Olympia Verne.” ‘Where is she now?” ‘Her body lies in the grave; her soul is, I trust, with God.” The solemn reply, so utterly unexpected, star- tled and awed Ethelind for amoment. The next she was conscious of a fierce thrill of joy. It was only a dead rival, after all, that she had to fear in this man’s affections! “Tam glad,” she exclaimed, ‘I must have hated the woman if she had lived.” Colonel Falkner’s features seemed to be slow- ly hardening into marble. ‘* Ethelind, you shock and grieve me,” he said, “T can bear no more. Will you not go quietly to your room?” “ Yes, I am ready to go now.” She rose, gathered up her dripping shawl, which had been suffered to slip from her shoul- os and with astrange smile on her face, went out. Colonel Falkner followed her, after a brief in- terval. His mother stood in the hall alone, when he entered from the sitting-room. She looked at him uneasily, and whispered: ‘‘ Ethelind has goneup-stairs. She is literal- ly drenched to the skin. What is to be done?” ‘‘ Nothing,” he answered. ‘“ You cannot com- et the perverse child to take care of herself. It the best policy not to go near her.” » Mrs. Falkner sighed Se “T never saw a person change so for the worse. Until after this — ment with Ray- mond Challoner she seemed all that was sweet- tempered and tractable.” He quickly averted his face. The subject of this marked change in Ethelind was one he felt unwilling, for several reasons, to discuss, His heart ached with a a akin to remorse when he remembered that he had himself unwittingly been instrumental in bringing it about. —« ‘* Ethelind is still a child in years as well as in experience,” he said, presently. ‘‘We must bear that fact in min , and be lenient in our judgment.” ‘*You can always find some excuse for her conduct,” mutte’ Mrs. Falkner, impatiently. ‘However, I hope you have the good sense not to suffer yourself to be drawn under the spell of her youth and beauty.” ““My heart is dead and buried in a foreign grave,” he answered, in a low, constrained tone. ‘It can never be resurrected.” Mrs. Falkner glanced quickly at her son, and breathed another sigh. She knew that he al- luded to some sorrowful episode in his life abroad—a history so sad, so touching and full of heartbreak that he had never found courage to relate it, even to her, Even now she dared not aoretean him. ‘“‘ Ethelind looked like a mad-woman when she me a’ few moments since,” she said, re- turning to the former subject. ‘I am really afraid she will do harm to herself, or somebody if this folly goes on much longer.” The same sic ening fear had been beating at Colonel Falkner’s own heart, and he said quick.- ly: “T shall keep a watchful eye on her move- 4 the door. “lamp, looked in. 6 WIFE OR a POM ments for the present, Is there a vacant room in ae same corridor where I could sleep to- ‘None. What do you apprehend?’ Mrs, or replied, looking amazed at the ques- ion. “The impetuous child might attempt to leave the house again, and I would be near to pre- vent the commission of such a reckless and fool- qish act.” ‘*Mr, Challoner’s room is near the entrance to the corridor. Ethelind would be compelled to pass it in going out. If you wish, I will make some excuse for assigning to him a room in the other wing.” “Pray do so, said Colonel Falkner, eagerly. *“ And it is quite unnecessary that any one else should be told of the arrangement.” “Very well.” An hour later Colonel Falkner found himself comfortably ensconced in the room in question, one of the handsomest in the house. Extin- guishing his light he stepped to the window, and threw up the sash. ‘lhe raln had ceased, and the moon was visible, threading its way through silvery rifts in the cloud. Pale gleams of lightning could be seen, ever and anon, play- ing about the horizon. The air had grown sul- try and sluggish all at once, and he leaned out at the wie? almost gasping for breath. Di- rectly underneath was the flat roof of the ve- randa, and he finally stepped out ee ex- pending his chest to catch what little air was 8 g. The waves, as they lapped the distant beach, still kept up their low, monotonous monologue. and a startled night-bird, now and then, fled screaming by. But no other sounds broke the solemn silence. The windows of Ethelind’s sitting-room could be seen from where he stood, and her bedcham- ber was next beyond. No gleam of light issued from the one or the other, however, and after watching and waiting for another hour, Colo- nel Falkner re-entered his own room, and leay- ing the window still open, threw himself, dress- ed as he was, upon the bed. Still thinking of Ethelind, of her foolish pas- sion for himself, which he felt utterly unable to reciprocate, and of the distressing predicament in which she had involved herself by eee into that rash engagement with Raymond Chal- loner, he finally fell asleep. After a long interval he awoke with a start, experiencing a sudden, mysterious consciousness that he was not alone. The instant he opened liis eyes he saw dimly, as in a dream, the dusky figure of a woman bending over the bed. Be- fore his half-stunned mind could gather a realiz- ing sense that the shadowy presence was a2 reality, however, there came an odd sound, like a strangled groan, a dusky hand cleft the air, and he instantly felt a sharp, stinging, half-mad- dening pain in his left arm, as if some sharp in- strument had buried itself in the quivering fh. Colonel Falkner was a brave man, and though nearly crazed with pain, not a sound escaped his lips. Turning an intent gaze toward the window, he saw the woman hurry toward it with a rustling sound, and slip over the sill. At this instant the moon struggled suddenly through the clouds that had obscured it, and its call, pale oe fell full on the midnight as- sassin ere she ppeared. Her face was in ow, but Colonel Falkner saw distinctly the dark outlines of her dress, contrasting strangely with the spectral white- ness of a crape shawl that had been drawn Sent over her head and shoulders and fasten- under her chin, He thought he recognized that shawl, and a horrible, sickening suspicion caused his brain to whirl and his heart to stand CHAPTER VI. WHO DEALT THE BLOW? ‘And pr ‘keep the e of it. urself shall keep the ke 3% you yo! Pp ye < For fully five minutes Colonel Falkner re- mained as motionless as though the would-be murderess had accomplished her purpose, and life itself had ebbed away. But, at the end of this period the pain in his wounded arm became too excruciating for further endurance, and he = the bell-rope that hung just above his ‘Another five minutes of the keenest torture elapsed, and at length a heavy step approached A sleepy-looking servant, bearing a ‘Did you ring, Mr. Challoner?” the man asked, as he rubbing his eyes just inside the door. “Tt is not Mr. Challoner, John—it is I, your master.” The man took another step into the room at the sound of Colonel Falkner’s voice. A strange look of surprise was on his face, “‘Bless me!” he ejaculated. ‘I was not aware that you had changed rooms with Mr. Challoner. you want anything, sir?” “Come here, John,” said petkeal; quietly. *T have been hurt, I think.” “Hurt?” The man stepped up to the bed, his face growing white as a sheet as he leaned over it. The first object he beheld was the bristling head of a dagger, outlined against the snowy eounterpane Colonel Falkner had drawn over him when he first threw himself on the couch. “My God!” he gasped. ing of this?” ‘Don’t stop to ask questions, man. Do you think you can pull the dagger out? It has pin- ned my arm so tightly to the mattress that I am unable to move it.” John set down his lamp, but his hands were trembling to such an extent that at the first trial he only succeeded in loosening the dagger. A shiver of pain ran through the colonel’s frame. Only by clenching his teeth could he refrain from i ea outright. ‘Take care. Now that is better. Thank you, John.” When the dagger was fully withdrawn, and the counterpane thrown back, Colonel Falkner “What is the mean- saw that his wounded arm was already bathed | in blood. But his first thought was not of him- ‘John, let me see the dagger,” he said, ina faint voice. The servant held out the gory weapon. One glance sufficed. It belonged in the house—was, in fact, the very same that had lain in the cabi- net in the room occupied by Dolores Gloyne. **Who could have done this deed?” inquired John, in amazement. “It is impossible to tell, and we have no time to waste in idle conjecture. lost more blood than is good for me. cut off my sleeve, and bind up the wound as well as you are able.” “But I have no scissors.” “Take your pocket-knife—or the dagger. I | am sure,” speaking with a wince of pain, ‘that the latter is sharp enough for your purpose.” Colonel Falkner was deadly pale, and his fea- tures all distorted with pain, but the perfect self command he exerted over his physical na- ture had the effect of reassuring the frightened | servant. After some difficulty he succeeded in tearing away the sleeve, fully ae the wound to view. It was a ghastly sig’ blood still flowed from it copiously. g “Now take my handkerchief and your own, and bind them tightl 3, the one above and the other below the wound.” This command was executed after some bungling, and drawing away, with a sigh of re- lief, John said, earnestly: — - “Tn my opinion, that’s an ugly hurt, sir. Hadn’t I better fetch Dr, Lance?’ “Yes, you may go at once. Steal away quietly, without alarming anybody in the hou:e,” *¢ Who will watch you, sir?” *¢Tf you are expeditious, I shall do very well | while you are away.” His brain was beginning to whirl, and a dead- | ly numbness to creep round his heart. . But, as | he hid his writhing face in the pillow, John left | the room without realizing the critical condition | in which he left his master. Proceeding to his own sleeping-room, the man | finished dressing himself, jammed his hat over | his eyes, and was hurrying from the house, when the door of Mrs. Falkner’s chamber opened, and she eae into the hall. She car- ried a lamp, and had drawn on a white dress- ine-geve and thrown a shawl over her shoul ers. “Where are you going, John, at this hour of the night?’ she asked, recognizing the servant after the first startled glance. He stood stoek-still, gasping with dismay. | His white, working face told its own story. ““What is wrong?” she demanded, in a fright- _ ened voice, dropping her hand upon his arm. “Tell me the truth at once.” The poor fellow lost his presence of mind en tirely, and blurting some unintelligible words, of which the bewildered woman could only dis- tinguish “‘ murder,” and the name of her son, = roke from her hold and rushed into the open Mrs, Falkner groped her way up the stairs, like one upon whom sudden blindness had fall- | en. When she entered the room above, the | bloody dagger lay right before her on the table, where John had left it. She sprung to the bed, faintly panting. “Oh, Philip! Oh, my son!” He had swooned with pain and loss of blood. The poor mother believed he was dead. She flung herself down beside him, and filled the whole house with her screams. Ethelind Erle was the first person who,aroused by Mrs. Falkner’s cries, came hurrying to the chamber. and was dressed all in black. Even the plain collar and cuffs she usually wore with so simple a toilet, were properly adjusted. Evidently she had not been in bed at all that night. She did not speak, she did not out, After a single horrified glance at the weltering figure | on the couch, she sunk down on the nearest | d her face. But ever and anon a chair, and hi shiver shook her from head to foot. E Raymond Challoner, Dolores Gloyne, and the other members of the household made their ap- I have already | You may | t, and the | She had put off her wet garments, | | pearance soon afterward. There were broken | cries and ejaculations, and a great hurrying to and fro, Kaymond was the first to recover his presence of mind. “Oh, who has done this deed of horror?” he exclaimed. weet nee put out her trembling hand and caught is, “Ts it—is it—murder?” she gasped. “Of course. Colonel Falkner was not the sort of man to take his own life. What could have been the assassin’s motive?” “Robbery, perhaps.” “No; don’t you see that the poor man’s watch and rings aré undisturbed?’ He hesitated a moment, an odd expression crossing his face. “T wonder if that deadly dagger-thrust was not intended for me? This is the room I have al- ways occupied until to-night. The assassin could not haye been aware of any‘change in the arrangements; and in the darkness one per- son might easily be taken for another.” , Dolores looked startled and frightened. ‘“‘ What a dreadful thought!” she exclaimed. Raymond turned silently away. Yes, it was dreadful! It made his fiesh creep. Yet the more he refleeted upon it the stronger grew his conviction that it was even so. Suddenly a long, loud scream once more con- centrated the thoughts of all upon the injured man and his mother. Mrs. Falkner bad raised herself on one elbow and was gazing intently at her son. “* He lives—he lives!” she faintly panted. There came a faint quiver about Colonel Falk- ner’s drooping lids, and ‘a long sigh heaved his bosom. e was ere rousing out of the swoon into which he had fallen when the servant-man | left him. But, to those gathered round the couch, it seemed as if his spirit had unexpect- aie ke from the confines of the other world. CHAPTER VIL THE STRANGE VISITANT. ‘“‘ A generous warmth opens the hero’s soul, “a And soft compassion flows where courage dwells. —C. JOHNSON. CoLoNEL FALKNER’s eyes were dazed and wild when at last he opened them and stared all round. © “What has hap- “Where am I?” he said. pened?” Mrs. Falkner could not answer. for her sobs. Bending down, she laid her face close to his, and held him fast for a moment. At length Ethelind rose and tottered toward the couch. The instant the wounded man saw ber, he seemed to shrink away with a gesture of loathing and horror that was utterly beyond his control, “Don’t let her touch me!” he cried. Ethelind answered nothing, but sat down again, looking stunned and pepe, After a long interval Dr. Lance came, He dressed his patient’s wounds, gave him a seda- tive, and when the fever and pain had some- | what abated, began to inquire into the manner in which the injury had been received. Colonel Falkner became sullen and reticent in a moment. “T would rather not speak of it,” he said, shuddering violently. ‘‘ Let me alone.” | Wewish to expose and punish the person who attempted your life, if you can point him out,” said Mrs, Falkner, gently but resolutely. He shook his head. “T can give you no clew.” “The man entered through the window, of course?” The words faltered “The man? It wasno—” on his tongue. Turning his face to the wall, he added, in a changed voice: | “You must not question me—I am not fit to | discuss the subject. I can tell you nothing.” Nothing more was saidafter that. His wound was of a painful rather than dangerous charac- ter; but he bore the suffering without a mur- mur. The only instance in which he gave way to his feelings was when Ethelind persisted in remaining in the room, S “Take her away,” he cried, violently. ‘TI can’t endure her here. She drives me beside myself.” 3 Mrs. Falkner was puzzled. She could not un- derstand why he should betray this sudden anti- pathy toward the heart-broken girl. “Tt isn’t at all strange,” said Dr. Lance, in an undertone, “Of course his wound makes bim feverish and nervous. Persons are often unrea- sonable and whimsical in such an illness,” Hours had passed, and the next day was well advanced, when Colonel Falkner, rousing out of a stupor that was not sleep, though closely re- sembling it, heard his mother’s voice speaking earnestly to some one just outside the door. A few minutes later, the thud of horse’s hoofs could be distinguished, galloping down the ave- nue, His mind was just in condition to take alarm at trifles. F é “Who has gone away?” he asked, calling his mother in. I have sent John to the nearest village on an “What errand?” « 7 She hesitated a moment, but he repeated the question in a firmer voice than before. ‘Vincent Erle is in New York, you are aware. attending to some matters of business he wen to arrange, three days ago.” ‘* Well?” “ 7 have telegraphed for him to see Detective Team; and send him down to Glenoaks immedi- ately. Colonel Falkner uttered a startled cry. The detective’s name: was well known in the neigh- borhood, he having been employed in a notori- ous burglary case in the village, some two months before. “Oh, mother., Why have you done this?” ‘‘ Because I am determined to get to the bot- tom of that affair of last night,” she answered ina low, resolute tone. ‘‘ No person’s life shall be: threatened, with impunity, in this house; least of all my son’s.” Jt was too late for remonstrance, so he. tried to calm himself and said: 4 ‘“‘ Of course you will act your own pleasure in the matter. But it will be of no use, I warn you, to bring Detective Ferret here.” “That remains to be seen.” For some time he lay silent and thoughtful, a troubled look on his face. When he spoke again it was upon an altogether different subject. “Mother,” he said, very low, ‘‘I’m afraid I acted rudely toward Ethelind last night, and again this morning.” ‘“There certainly was something singular in your behavior.” ‘‘T am very sorry. Will you send her to me that I may ask her pardon?’ Mrs. Falkner went out, and was gone some moments, but at length returned to say that Miss Erle was not in the house—that she had gone out for a walk early in the afternoon. The sick manbreathed a sigh that seemed to express relief. . “ Never mind,” he said, her when she returns.” It was not until after the lamps were lighted in the evening that a pale, drooping figure stole into the room and approached the bed. Turn- ing on his pillow, Colonel Falkner put out. his right hand, speaking her name. “ Wthelind!” She sprung forward with a gasp and a sob, seizing his hand, and covering it with her kisses and tears. “Thank God!” sho exclaimed. ‘I feel that you are not ee with me now!” “Poor child! Poor, misguided child!” ** There is to be peace between us at last?” “ Ay, peace.” : “But you draw away from me, still!” she cried, suddenly and sharply. ‘‘I see.a strange, shrinking expression in your eyes, as if you could not bear to look at me.” “It is only your faucy,” he answered, but he shuddered. ‘It is there—you cannot hide it from me. I thought at first it was gone; but it isn’t.” She crouched down beside the bed, sobbing as if her heart was broken; The sick man glanced at her neue Fe ever and anon. ‘* How can I persuade you that we are friends once more?” he asked, at length. ‘“‘ There is oue test that. would be convincing.” ‘What is it?” “Send away every other nurse, and permit me to watch with you through the night.” . Her voice was husky with passionate entreaty. She could not bear the thought of being dis- missed from his presence, and in the solitude of her room be mocked by the knowledge that ‘You can speak to be aaflered, and she could do nothing to relieve | > Her motive was misunderstood. Colonel Falkner stared aghast, at first, as if doubting if he heard aright. But gradually a very differ- ent expression stole over his features. ‘Tt is best,” he thought, ‘‘1t will help stem the tide of suspicion. For her sake I must con- sent. But, oh, it seems too dreadful! I wonder that she had either the courage or the cunning to rope it,” e Realy serene that the girl’s intense gaze never left him for a moment, he said aloud, af- ter a brief hesitation: “itis strange that you should voluntarily take « troublesome vigil-on yourself—and you will find this anything but pleasant.” “Then you do consent?” she cried, eagerly, ‘*T will not harass you in any manner—I ,prom- ise to sit quietly, not even speaking to you with- out your permission.” ‘Yes, I consent.” She did not thank him in words, but her kiss- es and tears fell upon his hand more plentiful- ly than ever, and he was compelled to draw it away. Mrs. Falkner seemed displeased when told of the arrangement—she had expected to nurse her son that first night herself. But she made no comment. Ethelind kept her word... When she re-enter- ed the room she did not speak to the wounded man at aJl, but sat down at some distance from the bed. And there she remained for hours, mo- tionless as a figure carved in marble, betraying no signs of life except at the rare intervals when some womanly office was to be rendered. pro on the flat roof of the veranda, the | up its dead, and she was here, right beside me!” At first the sight of her pale face and great staring eyes, always turned immovably toward the bed, troubled Colonel Falkner. But he be- eame reconciled to'them ‘at length, and shortly before midnight fell into a fretful sleep. His slumber seemed to be haunted by dreams, for presently he began to mutter unintelligible sentences. Ethelind caught a name, at last, spoken more distinctly than the other words, and yielding to the impulse of the moment she drew nearer, and bent over him. “JT want Olympia,” he said, inva pleading voice, ‘‘ It is strange she doesn’t:come.” The miserable girl gave a groamof utter an- guish, and fell back in her chair. i ‘‘Even his dreams are of that woman,” she uttered. ‘He never thinks of mel’ While the jealous, half-frenzied creature sat there, with her hands tightly clasped on her bo- som as if to still its wild throbbings, there came a faint sound, no louder than the pecking of a bird, upon the window-pane. ' Looking around, she saw something dark, like:a human figure, other side of the glass. Hurriedly crossing the floor she threw up the sash; and as she did this a cold hand fell upon her, and she felt herself drawn irresistibly for- ward, ‘Do not be frightened,” whispered a voice, which at first she failed to recognize. ‘Ido not come here for any evil purpose.” At this moment the lamp light streaming through the window fell brightly upon the fig- ure of the intruder, and Ethelind saw, with a thrill of superstitious dread, that it was the vailed lady of Lorn, Mrs. Faunce. ‘‘ How did you get here?” she asked, in amaze- ment. “T climbed the iron steps at the far end of the veranda.” “Qh!” | Ethelind remembered them at once— a flight of very steep stairs, that were consid- ered unsafe, and had long fallen into disuse. ‘What do you want?’ she abruptly demanded. ‘They tell me that he has been injured— Colonel Falkner! I could not rest until I: knew the worst. It seems like the actof a mad-woman to come here like this. But ob; if you knew | what I suffer you would pity me.’ Seizing hold of Ethelind’s' arm, she cried in a husky, passionate voice: “Tell me the truth. Is he dangerously in- | jured?” ‘‘ We hope—we believe he is not,” 5 ‘““Thank God—thank God! Be merciful, and let me see him. Let me look once upon his face, and then i will go away again!” CHAPTER VIII. DZTECTIVE FERRET. - ‘His eyes are like the eagle’s, yet sometimes, Liker the dove’s; and at his will he wins All hearts with softness, or with spirit awes.”’ ‘ —Homn, Mrs, Faunce did not wait for permission, but passed swiftly through the open window, and approached the,couch. The single lam had burned low, and now flickered fitiully, send- ing weird shadows trooping over the carpet... A being of thick shadows that gloom-shrouded fig- ure itself srReoHta. with its black garments, and the thick black vail muffling head a shoulders, and effectnally concealing every fea- ture, Ethelind could only stare: after her in wonder and terror. , Pausing near the head of the bed, Mrs, Faunce stood motionless, looking down at the sleeper. Some muttered words that sounded like endear- ing epithets, fell from her lips. Presently she tossed her vail aside, with an impatient move- ment, and, still Kee ber face in deep shadow, touched her lips to Colonel, Falkner’s forehead. The lamp gave an expiring flicker, at the same instant, and went out altogether, From the direction of the couch came a smothered ery, but before Ethelind conld grope her way through the thick darkness, Mrs. Faunce was again beside her. . ‘ . “Thank you, Miss Erle,” said the woman, in a strange, hollow voice. ‘* You nave done me a greater service than you are aware. I shall not forget it.” ft . ; She was gone before Ethelind could collect her wits sufficiently to reply. The» frightened ir] passed into the chamber, shut. and fastened the window, and groped her way. to. the chim- ney-piece, where she had seen a jamp and matches ane earlier in the evening,” Having struck a light, she approached the bed:.. Colonel Falkner’s eyes were wide open, a strange look of wonder and eagerness in their clear depths. “Who was in the room just now?” he asked. She dared not tell him, “Thave been here all the evening,” she an- swered, evasively. } “ T thought-I fancied—” 2 He broke off abruptly, and a heavy sigh es- caped his sige }: t : ‘What did you think?” she impulsively said, “Tt seems so strange, so wonderful,” speakin in low, husky. tones, and ssing one han wearily to his forehead. ‘I must have dream- ed it, for I imagined that the grave had given ‘© Of whom do you speak? Of Olympia?” “-Yes—ot Olympia Verne.” Ethelind @rew back, a sick feeling of dread and horror coming over her. Had she really seena ghost?—or what was the explanation of the strange scene that had trauspired? ‘ ‘‘ Are you sure this Olympia Verne 7s dead?” she asked, presently, with blanched lips. “Sure?” “Ts it not possible that you may have. been deceived?” ‘ He shook his head. ‘*T saw her in the coffin, with my own eyes. There could have. been no mistake, Oh, m God! it is too terribly certain that she is dead, and lost to me forever.” 602 He turned slowly and painfully away,, but Ethelind caught a glimpse of his face, and saw that it was fearfully distorted with anguish, ‘“Ah, how passionately he must have loved that woman,” she thought. [ Resuming her old position, she dropped. her throbbing temples on her hands, In. vain did she try to reason out the singular scene to which she had been a witness. Had Mrs. Faunce known and loved this man, long ago?,, What did it all. mean? Why. bad her secret visit callkd up the memory of the dead Olympia? It all seemed so strange, so “in- explicable, ‘he waning hours of that long night.were hours of turmoil and heartache for the miser- able girl. When at last the cold gray dawn crept sluggishly into the room, her face locked ghastly and worn, as if by the passage of. years, Colonel Falkner himself soon Dheartet her hag- gard expression, “It was very good of you, Ethelind, to kee this wearisome vigil,” he said, kindly.. ‘' But fear you have overtaxed yourself.” She murmured some inaudible reply... “Go, now, and lie down, my child. If 1 ner é any thing, Ican ring for one of -the ser- vants. * Child!” For her life, she could not :help echoing the word, and her tone was a bitter one. ‘*Colonel Falkner, why do. you persist in na lying that hateful title to me? Child, indeed! his morning I feel that I must outrival. the Wandering Jew himself in point of years,”. A pitying smile trembled about the corners of his mouth, ‘ “Forgive me. I find it hard to realize that you are no longer the inexperienced school-girl your father confided to my guardianship, five years ago.” . ‘Suffering has made of me a woman,” . “True. Again J crave your pardon.” She rose, and moved proudly away, without venturing.a reply. ut, the instant she gained her own room, and had secured the door, she threw herself on the bed, and burst. out crying. . The. telegraphic clnpaein Mrs. Falkner bad sent to Vincent Erle at. New York reached its destination in due season, and during the course of the daythe second subsequent to the at- tempted murder—Mr, Ferret, the member of the detective police, for whom she had asked, made his appearance’at Glenoaks. He proved to be asmall, yet looking man of forty, with a thin, smoothly-shaven face, and piercing light gray eyes that had an cdd knack of seeming to read one. through and through at agiance, ; i rs. Falkner received him in her own room, She looked nervous and, excited, There was something in the thought. of having a police-of- ficer in the house that well might have vroubled a more ame ig person than Mrs, Falkner— especially, which was her case, if this happened to be the first experience of the sort, “Of course,” she began, turning a shade paler, as she pointed him to a chair, ‘tof course you come prepared to work in our interests, or you would not be here at all,” i “T shall do what I can, madam,” was the grave reply. ‘ “Very good. Praymake your investigations as quietly as possible; and, above all yl spare my son any unnecessary catechising, He is too ill to be troubled.” soto Detective Ferret turned his gray eyes quietly upon her face. — _ ‘TI know nothing of the case, as yet, madam, not even the smallest particular, 0 is to de- tail to me the circumstances that have already come to light?” T will. Making a determined effort she went over the case carefully, so far asshe was acquainted with it. Not a word was said concerning the sex of the would-be murderer, however, as Colonel Falkner had never spoken of his own discovery that it wasa woman. The detective listened attentively. “It is proper to inquire, here at the outset, if your suspicions are directed against any par- ticular perpen he said. * Mrs. Falkner replied in the negative. . ‘Tam not aware that my son has an enemy in the world. And yet, robbery,could not bave been the motive that led to the crime. Nothing has been missed from the house—neither money ha omakeis discover the party, ‘You expect me r and bring him to justice?” peer : 40 WIFE OR WIDOW? ““T won’t tell you. Leave me! That is the only satisfactory thing you can do.” “I can’t bear to be sent away. Do let me help you,” said Ethelind, eagerly. She bent down and would have kissed Mrs. Falkner’s forehead had not the latter sprung back, uttering a hysterical cry, and beating her hands before her, as if beating her off. “Don’t touch me! You shall not!. I beg of you to go away. You can do me no good.” She leaned against the window-frame, such an expression of horror and aversion on her face that Ethelind drew back, and_after a mo- ment’s hesitation, left the rcom. In all her life she had never been so puzzled, so confounded. Since the night of her lonely vigil, the girl had avoided the chamber in which Colonel Falkner lay; but now, in her distress and per- plexity, she proceeded directly to it. No smile of welcome lighted Pe the sick man’s face, how- ever, as he observed her approach. It seemed, raglan, to grow colder, hawvier, and more lividly white. “Ts it you, child?” he said, in a languid voice. “What ¢an I do for you?” Ethelind’s heart beat suffocatingly fast, but she tried to still it. Scarcely knowing what she did, she stepped forward and dropped her hot hand on the sick man’s, which was lying on the pam He violently withdrew it, as if there ad been contamination in her touch— “Pray stand back,” he exclaimed. A livid grayness crept over Ethelind’s fea- tures and they seemed to harden, all at once, into stone. “Colonel Falkner,” she said, in a dry, hard tone, ‘‘ you shrink from me as if I were a leper, a thing accursed. Why is it?” ‘“‘T am nervous,” he answered, composing himself with an effort. ‘‘I frankly acknowledge that I dislike to be touched. But surely you can look leniently upon the whims of a sick man? “You havo been like this ever since that dreadful night.” ‘* My illness dates from then.” ‘You make an effort to hide the truth, but you cannot deceive me, You would rather se the fingers of a corpse than mine.” 0 a somien up pityingly, sorrowfully, into her pale face, ‘ ; ‘Ethelind, I. beg of you to cease. I hoped you had given up that fanciful notion forever.” “Tt is not fanciful!” she cried. ‘It would not hurt me so if it were. And now your mother treats me in the same inexplicable man- ner, “My mother?” “Yes, She turns away as if she had rather not even look at me. There must be a reason for this. Oh, do not put me off any longer. Tell me what it is!” She clasped her hands and stood motionless, gazing at him in a beseeching way that touched his heart. “My dear child, I beg of you to dismiss this foolish fancy,” he said, ‘‘It only makes you unhappy. Believe me, my mother and Lare the best friends you have in the world.” ‘“You will not tell me what I wish to know?” “ How can I?” ‘¢-You are cruel! I shall not ask you in.” Uttering a passionate cry she turned away with a flushed cheek and a lurid sparkle in her eyes. ; The afternoon was hot and sultry. Hurryin, to her own room, Ethelind tied on her hat, an left the house. She felt as if she should ‘stifle in its close atmosphere. Thick masses of clouds were piled up in the sky, vailing the fervid sun. Some subtile mag- netism drew Ethelind’s feet to the sandy shore of the bay... Seating herself on a mossy rock, so low down that the curling tide caught, ever and anon, at the hem of her parmania; e gave her- self up to perplexed though idle conjecture. Her half-mad brain utterly refused to advance a reasonable explanation of the s' treat- ment she had recently experienced at hands of Mrs. Falkner and her guardian. The human mind is wonderfully complex in its mening and in some unaccountable way the thought of Colonel Falkner’s dead love soon be- gan.to mingle itself with her musings, and quite unconsciously she traced the name ‘‘ Olympia” in the soft sand at her feet with her parasol- tip. : my step crashed on the shingle a few minutes later, and looking round WOO Soe of impa- tigeiae, abelian d saw Raym Challoner ap- proaching. It was the first time she had seen him alone since the interrupted wedding. In the house it had been a comparatively easy matter to shun him, and decline all ove: for a private in- terview. But here, in this secluded spot, there seemed to be no chance of. escape. She half- rose, biting her lip till the blood came, ‘‘ At last!” the young man ejaculated, press- ing. eagerly to her side. ; he-expected to hear a torrent of wild words and bitter reproaches. To her intense surprise, was deep silence for a moment. Beene her.eyes, she saw that Raymond was staring a’ the name written in the sand with a very strange expression on his face. “Olympia,” he said, suddenly. ‘It is an un- usual name.” She made no reply. “Where have you heard it, Ethelind? Have rou . friend who bears that singular appella- jon?” “T have not.” ‘* Why, then, did you write it there?” “J do not know. Because it struck my fancy, perhaps. Ican give you no better rea- son. Raymond quietly seated himself on a second rock, at a little distance. Perhaps he was keep- ing a strong restraint upon himself. At any rate he looked little like a disappointed lover. “The name is of no consequence, Ethelind. I wish to speak of quite another matter—in fact, followed you from the house for that very pur- “How dared you dog my steps?” she cried, angrily. It was an impertinent thing to do, But you left me no choice. Thisinterview might just as well have been held in the drawing-room at Glenoaks, had you so willed it.” She turned fiercely toward him. ‘* Now that you have forced your unwelcome presence upon me, pray tell me, in the fewest words possible, the nature of your wants,” she “et iathelind, my love, th ler lan elind, my love, this is singular language to hold toward your future husband.” ‘No matter; I can’t disguise my real feelings, nor do I wish to disguise them.” “T believe you hate me.” **T never said I loved you,” she cried, in a tone of violent, repressed excitement. ‘How could I, when it was never true?” “But you promised to marry me,” he an- swered, looking straight into her dilated eyes. ‘Fool that I was! I deserved to be punish- ed. And, oh, my God, have Inot been? “The marriage has been twice delayed, but through no fault of mine, Of course youintend to keep your promise?” She leaned toward him, writhing and clench- ing her slender little hands. ing her slender little hand “Do Ses wish a wife who dreads your touch —who shivers at the sound of your voice—who stifles in the air you breathe—who always feels an irresistible impulse to fly from your very presence? E **T cannot give you up,” he said. ‘My love is stronger than your aversion. It will con- sume the weaker passion.” ‘“‘ Never!” “You cannot hold out forever against me. It isn’t in the nature of things.” He attempted to clasp her hand, but she drew herself suds a away from him, a steely glit- ter leaping up in her dilated eyes. ‘*You know what I suffer,” she said, wildly. “ All the trouble I have ever known has come to me through your instrumentality. Do you mean to curse my life still further? Do you in- tend to hold me to an engagement that I abhor —one thatshould never have been entered into?” “Forgive me, Ethelind, I must. It is my — bose of happiness = oe world. More lepends upon our marriage than you are aware. Why aitrink from what is inevitable? Even if I were to release you, you would on nothing by my clemency. _Twolives would be blighted in- stead of one. Under the circumstances it seems to me that I am justified in holding you to your promise.” “Oh, mercy, mercy! I believe you intend to break my heart! It 7s broken already!” - At this outburst Raymond arose, and again vainly essayed to take her hand, while he mur- mured in low, tender tones: ‘ed in low, tender to ‘ Bthelind, for both our sakes [ entreat you to look this matter ba the face. He, upon whom you have so fooli tions, does not value them in the leas’ “«Rrue!? she cried, a scarlet flush lea) ing like flame into her cheeks, only to recede the next moment, leaving them than before. ‘He will never dream of you his wife—never! You would wear out heart and life in vain. Colonel Falkner regards you with feelings of indifference, and he cannot change.” The livid lips a low irrepressible moan breaking from them. “Hush, oh, hush!” “The truth is bitter, but. you must learn to bear it. Your weakness has only awakened sentiments of contemptuous pity in the heart of him you love not wisely but too well. Oh, Ethe shake off the mad infatuation. Bring fo co mess to bear againstit. Let it be my blessed a to help and strengthen you. This mad, hapless, deplorable passion can be conquered, and—” i ae proce eee. The half-crazed gir! a wild gesture—a sudden Seep eet that you. ate billing tid rite four ‘crual” wordat are me our wo! Oh, Jet me.go!” - . : CHAPTER XIL THE STRANGE LADY. SPRINGING past him, Ethelind rushed wild] along the beach, and climbed the steep ban lavished your affec- Th Me — beyond. With her white, working face, and eyes strained in dead affright, she looked like a poor, lost, terror-stricken soul fleeing from the voice of doom. Raymond did not attempt to follow. He stood, wholly impassive, looking after her re- treating figure until it was lost to sight; then a heavy sigh broke from him. “Poor Ethelind. I really pity the girl. But, I cannot give her My love and my neces-j sity alike forbid. e dower she will bring is sufficient to save me from financial ruin, and her sweetness, purity and goodness will be the a perhaps, of saving my-erring soul from ell. Biting his lips, and knitting his brows, he ad- ded, in a changed voice: “T can’t stave off those rascally Jews much longer. They are getting more importunate every day. Unless the marriage is hurried for- war' with all possible dispatch, I am a ruined man, His handsome brows were deeply corrugated, and he stood grinding his boot-heel into the ielding sand, as if, even in this trifling action, he found a safety-valve for the intense emotions boiling within his soul. A sudden peal of thunder aroused him. Looking up, he saw that the tempest was al- ready marshaling its forces. The jagged clouds had piled themselves together until one vast all, of inky blackness, covered the western heaven. At the same instant he observed a woman’s figure gliding along the sand, at some distance with a slow, majestic tread. The figure held his attention by a strange sort of magnetism. It was draped in black from head to foot, but its graceful poise and easy movements, even as seen through the intervening space, excited his curiosity and admiration. ‘*T wonder who she can be?” he muttered. ‘Ah, [haveit. That black-draped lady is the new proprietor of Lorn!” Of course. the gossip and marvelous stories stiJl current concerning Mrs. Faunce, had reach- ed Raymond Challoner’s ears as well as those of other people; and, had he been less deeply ab- sorbed in bis own affairs, at this particular period, he would have given them some share of attention, long ere this, Singularly enough, that mysterious figure, the instant his rested upon it, caused a strange commotion in his heart. He felt drawn forward bY. an impulse over which he had no control. ere was an unaccountable creeping sensation in his veins. “T must know more of that lady,” he mutter- { ed. ‘‘ Somehow I feel deeply reluctant to permit her to pass from my sight.” Yielding, without further resistance, to the spell that was on him, he hurried after the wo- man, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her turn into an unfrequented path that led through a grove; for by this route the grounds of Lorn could be reached. “T was right,” he thought. ‘The lady is cer- tainly Mrs. Faunce. She is closely vailed; and I am told that the new mistress of Lorn always goes abroad with her face shrouded.” Still keeping some distance behind that black, liding figure, he followed on stealthily to a icket of acacias, not more than a dozen yards from the house, and concealing himself therein, saw Mrs. Faunce climb the terrace steps to a low French window that stood open, and disappear between the curtains of creamy lace that were quivering in the breeze. Baffled and perplexed, Raymond stood per- fectly still for some moments. “YT would give my right hand for a good ex- cuse to invade that m ous abode,” he muttered, g curiously through the parted branches at the gray, frowning walls of Lorn. Three minutes later the desire of his heart was gratified. There came a blinding flash, a long, loud, deafening roar of thunder, and sud- denly the rain began to pour in torrents, as if the flood-gates of heaven had been opened. “This is fortunate,” cried the young man, ex- ultantly. ‘The way is opened Providence. If I were a dog, Mrs. Faunce could not refuse to shelter me from this storm.” Emerging from the shelter of theacacia trees, he ran across the lawn, and dashed through the identical window where he had seen the lady herself jppear. The raging tem) would, he hoped, be ac- cepted as a sufficient apology for this act of rudeness, Mrs. Faunce stood near the center of the apartment, her nae fingers busy with the fastenings of the vail that muffled her face. Startled by the noise of his abrupt entrance, | she turned ickly. For some seconds she stood motionless as a figure carved in-stone. Then, receding from him, step by step, a long, loud, blood-curdling scream broke from her li Rush?” said Raymond, eagerly. ‘There is no occasion for alarm. Oh, pray dismiss your ears. But Mrs. Faunce only shrieked the louder, and beat her hands before her as if beating him off. ‘ Listen to me, madam. Iam neither a thief > nor a cutthroat. yourself,” ‘ She continued to retreat until her limbs tot- tered under her, and, faint with excess of emo- tion, she sunk down on a chair, groaning aloud. Raymond could but feel surprised at the keenness of her terror, There was something unnatural in it; and as he fixed his eyes on the lady’s figure, that seemed to shrink and cower beneath that intent gaze, the old creeping sen- sation he had experienced once before, came back, he knew not why. ‘Permit me to offer an explanation,” he said. “Surely you can control yourself long enough for that.” Mrs, Faunce fell back in her chair, and cried, in a hoarse, husky whisper: “Go, go! Leave me!” “One moment, madam. I must, at least, make an apology for this intrusion.” He was slowly advancing, but she screamed again, and, with a shudder of repulsion, waved him away. “ Begone!” ‘“Madam is unreasonable. I have alread given my assurance that I am here with pacific purposes only. The sudden tempest induced me to seek the shelter of your roof. y name is Raymond Challoner, and I am stopping at Glenoaks, the guest of Colonel Falkner.” Another tremor ran over her, but she drew a deep breath, as of relief. “Go!” she faintly wes “Would you send me out into the pelting storm?” ‘‘ You must not remain here. Only leave me.” Her voice still sounded hoarse and strained but when she uttered these last words Raymond detected a 2 in it that caused his eyes to di- late, and glued his feet to the floor in a sort of sickening terror. ‘“Who—who—speaks?” he stammered. Before she could reply, if such had been her urpose, the room door abrapely opened, and pa Withers entered hurriedly. Seeing a stranger standing in her mistress’s resence, the faithful old woman confronted Ries with a smothered exclamation of surprise, and a cry of anger. “Who are you?” she demanded. you doing here?” Raymond drew himself up haughtily. _ ‘You glare at meas if 1 wereacriminal: But I have been guilty of nothing worse than to seek shelter from the storm.” “This is my “ ou cannot re~ I entreat you to compose “What are Go away,” said Joan, grimly. lady’s civale sitting room. ¥. main here.” A suppressed cry now attracted the servant’s attention to her mistress. Mrs. Faunce had crushed her vail over her face with both hands, and was faintly panting. “Quick, Joan, quick! Raise me up. I—I— am ening The old woman flung her arms round her, and drew the trembling form to her bosom. “This is your work,” she said, darting an angry — at Raymond. f-leading, half-dragging poor Mrs. Faunce. Joan succeeded in getting her into the next room — her secping apartment. Raymond would willingly have lent his assistance, but the asians disdainfully struck down his offered and. “Don’t you dare lay so much as a finger on =< mistress,” she hissed. he young man heard an odd sound like a gasp and a sob, and the door was slammed in his face, and fastened on the other side. For some ten or fifteen minutes afterward there was a silence as of death. Raymond stood with hushed breathing, uncertain what had hap- pened, whether Mrs. Faunce had swooned, or was dead, or had fallen in a fit. A feeling of awe stole over him. He even forgot to wonder what familiar chord had been struck by the tones that, for a moment, stirred him so deeply and so powerfully. He could only think of the possible catastrophe that had befallen. A ee a faint, rustling noise reached his ears, and, unable longer to endure the suspense, he knocked softly on the door. After some mo- ments it was opened by Joan, ‘What do you want?” she sharply demanded. “Your mistress—tell me of her—is she bet- ? ** Yes. She has come out of her swoon, and will soon be able to sit up.” ‘* Heaven be praised.” In his joy and relief, Raymond attempted to sh Joan aside, and step-into the room. But e woman sturdily resisted him. He caught an indistinct glimpse of a figure lying on the couch—saw some dark suite * a vail, drawn up quickly, as if to shield Mrs. Faunce’s features from his gaze—and that was all. Her face itself was beyond his line of vision. “ May I not speak to your mistress?” he said, — yas} : oan su. waved him away. “Tmpossible” eae. “Only a word,” he pleaded. “I wish to as- sure Mrs. Faunce how doopty. I deplore my share in this occurrence.” “She is in no condition to receive your apolo- ‘ae WIFE OR WIDOW? | “Then I will simply kiss her hand.” “You are an impudent fellow,” Joan answer- ed, looking daggers at him, and drawing the door against her back, as she stood in the thres- | hold, nearly shutting it. ‘ You have done mis- chief enough for once. Go away. The rain is over—you no longer have any excuse for re- maining.” Glancin; that she had spoken truly, breaking up in piles. of softest fleece, behind which smiling streaks of azure were already to be seen. Reluctantly, and with many a back- ward glance, he left the house. fs y did that woman impress me so strange- ly?” he muttered to himself, as he wended his way through the dripping shrubbery. ‘Ugh! | I’m all a-shiver! It was like meeting a denizen of another world. If I could see her face, per haps the mystery would be explained. hat can be her motive in concealing it from every- body, as she does?” CHAPTER XIII. TWO LETTERS. ‘He will dare all and bear all And let no drop fall; He will plot and contrive A fortune to hive.” —ScHILLER. DINGLE DELL, the pleasant and fertile estate | of the Challoners, was situated about twenty miles inland, near the suburbs of a large manu- facturing village called Grafton. The mansion itself was a modern edifice of red sandstone, with innumerable balconies and verandas, and round towers that crowned every available angle. The windows were large, and those on the lower floor opened to the ground, giving to the house a cheerful, hospitable as- pect that was pleasing in the extreme. The mansion had m built by Mr. Egbert Challoner himself, while comparatively a young man. Here he had brought his bride, and from these fearon halls had he buried her. The poor , in dying, left two children, a son and a daughter, to the care of her bereaved husband —pledges of their mutual affection. ears went on, and the boy and girl grew to maturity. Both turned out badly; for want, it may be, of a mother’s guiding and restrain- ing hand. Theson quarreled with his father, and left home. For years afterward he was lost sight of entirely. When at last he did re- turn, he came home to die. But he brought with him a lad of some five or six summers, his son, the fruit, he said, of a marriage he had contracted in the South. Of the boy’s mother he never spoke, except to say that he had lost her. There was evidently some dark secret associated with the lady that he preferred keep- ing to himself. e died, and the mystery remained unreveal- ed. But, with his latest breath he left the little —— to his father’s guardianship, a sacred charge. Meanwhile, the daughter’s fate had also been decided, so far as this world is concerned. At the age of seventeen she fell in love with her music-teacher, a handsome young English- man, named Gloyne. Mr. Challoner, as soon as he learned the state of affairs, dismissed the young man, and peremptorily forbade his daughter ever to see or speak to him again. Willfully taking her fate in her own hands, how- ever, Dolores Challoner = with her lover, and they were married in NewYork. One dark, tem; stuous night, a year later, she returned to Dingle Dell resend te widow's weeds, Her husband had been suddenly stricken down witha malignant fever, and she had bu- ried him alone. For a time Mr. Challoner refused to see her. But she had been his favorite / when he learned that she had been bere: , and had come to him destitute, his heart rel There was a scene of reconciliation, ae most bitter self-upbraidings, « i daughter were at peace with each Other, One week afterward, the little Dolores was born. The poor mother had barely strength enough to place her child in the arms of its nee a and then she closed her eyes, and so died. Though already the prime of life, Mr. Egbert Challoner thus found himself again left th two small children, a boy and a girl, as be- fore, on his hands. Would the same untoward fate that had overtaken his own children pursue these poor innocents, their emma He watched them anxi , as the years waxed and waned. At ao Raymond was permitted to make the tour of urope. Of cer- tain acts of lawlessness and indiscretion of which the young man was guilty as soon as all restraint was removed, and as he began to min- gle freely with the world, the solicitous grand- ather saw pee indications that greatly troubled him. But Dolores, until she acciden- tally formed the acquaintance of Vincent Erle, was all his heart could desive, gentle, patient, loving and tractable. Though o harsh an stern in his treatment of her, he could not help lavishing upon the girl all the wealth of love he had given to her mother. He stubbornly refused, however, to receive from the window, Raymond saw | The clouds were | Vincent Erle as his granddaughter’s future husband, giving as an excuse the idle habits and poverty of the young man. It was against his authority in this respect that Dolores betrayed the first signs of incipient rebellion. At this period there were two other members of Mr, Challoner’s household to whom atten- tion should be directed—a handsome Quadroor called Madam Zoe, who had been his housekeep.’ family, Miss Jerusha Martin, a maiden lady | for Deny ens and a distant relative of th \ | fe known as “‘ Aunt Jerry.” A month had elapsed since the events related in the preceding chapters, and for three weeks | Dolores had been back in Dingle Dell with her | pees when, one day, the mail brought | two letters that filled the old man with grief | rage and consternation. unt Jerry was sitting with him in the front | drawing-room when the unwelcome letters ar- | rived. A tall, bony, angular woman of forty- | five was Aunt Jerry, with a face that might ; have been pretty at seventeen, but was now | grim, yellow, unexpressive, and somewhat hard, withal. | The two letters lay side by side on the salver, | just as the servant had brought them in, when | Mr. Challoner took up the one that happened to | be nearest and tore it open. It proved to be an anonymous communication, | warning him that, in spite of his prohibition | Dolores and Vincent still met in secret, and | that letters were constantly passing between the | lovers. | The old man was frantic. Starting out of bis chair, he danced around the room almost speech- less with rage. | _ ‘Oh, dear! oh—oh—oh!” he ejaculated, whirl- | ing round and round in his excitement. ‘“ This | is too much!” | Aunt Jerry dropped the knitting with which she was employing herself, and ran toward him in alarm. She knew nothing of the let- ters. ‘*Rgbert, what isthe matter?” she exclaimed, **Oh, I am so overcome.” “Ts it a fainting-fit, or a dizziness, or a pain in your stomach, or—what is it?” “T am so overcome,” was all he could utter; and pausing in bis gyrations, he dropped his head on her shoulder. Aunt Jerry began to blush, and to bridle. “La, Egbert,” she stammered, “ you—you— shouldn’t give way so entirely.” “Can’t help it! Murder will out! erable—too miserable to live.” * Don’t, don’t!” ‘*T tell you it is impossible to keep my feelings to myself.” ‘Hush! oh, do hush!” said Aunt Jerry, her cheeks blooming like a yellow rose. ‘‘T shall burst if I do!” ejaculated the excited man. “Then you needn’t. Speak, if you must.” The spinster, with the air of a martyr, leaned rn upon his arm, and waited with averted face, for the revelation he had expressed his inability to keep back. It came in a form she had scarcely counted upon. A Read that!” cried Mr. Challoner, thrusting the anonymous letter into her hand. ‘The idiots! The Paling fools! They’ve driven me beside myself.” “Who? what?” gasped Aunt Jerry, lookin round in dismay. ‘ I—I—don’t understand. O: whom are you speaking?” “Of Dolores and that villain, Vincent Erle. of course. Read the letter, and you'll know all about it.” **Oh—oh!” She sunk down on a chair, her hands shaking as if with palsy. It was some seconds before she could make out a single word of the letter. The disappointment that had come to her was o bitter one. “IT wonder if it can be true?” she said, ina husky voice, after a long silence. She felt con- strained to say something. ‘True? Of course it’s true. Why else should it be written there in black and white?” “Tt’s a nasty, mean business tu be writing anonymous letters. I haven’t much faith in them. ‘*Where’s Dolores?” cried Mr. Challoner, sud- denly recommencing his mad dance round the apartment. ‘Find her! Bring her here. She shall tell me to my face whether this one means anything, or whether it does not.” ot choosing to await Aunt Jerry’s slow move- ments, however, he flung open the room door himself, and screamed down the hall for one of the maids to fetch her young lady in “ double- quick ” time. A few minutes later Dolores came tripping down-stairs, and entered. The instant Mr. Challoner’s irate glance fell upon the figure of the young girl, he stamped his foot, giving way to another burst of passion. “You vixen! on ungrateful creature!” he cried, “Is this all the reward I am to get for coddling you ever since you were born? Oh if, you were a boy, miss, [’d thrash you—thrash ' you within an inch of your life, do you hear?” Dolores had grown accustomed to his storms, Tam mis- a « i} i i i i } i | | 12 a WIFE OR WIDOW? and did not mind them much; but this one seem- ed more serious than usual. “What have I done to offend you, grand- papa?” she asked, in a trembling voice. ’ ‘Done? You’ve disobeyed me, miss—will- fully disobeyed me; that’s what you’ve done.” “Tn what way?” “T's high time you were asking that. Oh, you deceitful little vixen!” “Please tell me, grandpapa.” ‘¢ Oh, you shall hear of your misdoings fast enough. Listen—then hide your head for shame! You've tried to hoodwink a trusting old man, But your treachery has been discovered, miss. You are found out, miss—cut short in your sin- ful career, miss.” Dolores clasped her hands, and looked appeal- ingly at her grandfather. “You shock—you distress me,” she exclaimed. “Then the shocking and distressing is mutu- al,” thundered Mr. Challoner, bringing down his hand on the table near which he was _ stand- ing, ‘+ You’ve amazed, horrified me! You’ve driven me to the verge of desperation. Hang it, I don’t even know which end my head is hung on!” ‘‘Oh, Dolores, how could you?” murmured Aunt Jerry, in a very faint voice. “To think of being deceived by a chit of a girl!” gasped the old man. “ But, grandpapa—” ‘Silence, miss. You can not Pug your offense. I trusted you, and you betrayed me. You knew very well in what estimation I held that villain, Erle! And yet ton have been meeting him clandestinely, and writing letters to him, all these weeks.” ‘“Shameful!” cried Aunt Jerry. Dolores turned very pale, and sunk on her knees at the old man’s feet. “Grandpapa,” she sobbed, ‘* IT am not so = ty as you have been led to think. Iam not. I tell you truly that I have not seen Vincent Erle since that night at Glenoaks.” “But you've written to him?” “ Yes,” she admitted, seeking to hide her face with both hands. ‘¢ And he has written to you?” ty Yes.” ‘“‘ Dreadful!” ejaculated Aunt Jerry. ‘When did you receive the last letter from the scoundrel?” demanded Mr, Challoner. “Yesterday.” ‘Oh, you viper! Where is the letter? Give it to me instantly.” ‘*T cannot,” was the low reply “Cannot? Why can’t you, I’d like to know? Hand it over, miss.” “T have destroyed it.” The exasperated old man gave a snort of dis- may. “Oh, you expected to be found out, did you miss, and took that way to secure yourself? never heard of such misdoings, such duplicity.” “Never!” echoed Aunt Jerry, who always made it a point to agree with Mr. Challoner. 4 You may tell me the purport of that letter, miss. This demand caused Dolores to start oF sud- denly, and recede toward the door, her hands clasped tightly together again, her cheeks pallid with fear. The letter had: really made an ap- pointment for a meeting to take place that very evening, and was couched in such language that the 7 girl had not dared disregard it. ~~ not ask me,” she implored, ‘I cannot tell you. Indeed I cannot.” **Do you mean to say that you will not?” Dolores was silent. *T am not to be trifled with,” stormed the angry man. ‘You've tried me once too often, Follow, if you dare, the eee of your mis- guided mother! Ill cut. you off with a shilling! Vi drive. you from my door! Tl leave you eae rot in the poor-house! That’s what oO ‘And you will be serving her right,” put in Aunt Jerry. Poor Dolores answered, nothing. She con- tinued to recede toward. the door, a pale look of pleading on her face;, and suddenly with a half- suppressed shriek of anguish, as if the scene had grown insupportable, rushed out. Mr. Challoner sat down, gasp’ for breath. He felt deeply, terribly in earnest. 1t pained him unspeakably to think that his beautiful and-daughter, of whom he had been so proud, d set her affections upon one so unworthy, as he deemed Vincent Erle. “Tt shall never be,” he cried; “ Dolores shall not throw herself away. One disgrace of that sort is enough in a family.” To hide his agitation, he now took up the second letter, which had been lying neglected on the salver, and tore it open. Instead of paci- fying him, however, this missive.threw him into a gam, rage, if possible, than:the first. t was from a Jew broker of New York, who wrote to demand immediate payment of a debt im . Challoner’s.. gran mond, had contracted. " The old prnsesen, could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. He rubbed them, looked again, and at last the storm broke out. If Ray- mond had been borrowing money of those ras- cally Jews, he might get clear of their clutches as best he could. three thousand dollars! How, in the name of all that is wonderful, had the rascal managed to squander such a sum! “He shall reap as he has sown,” roared the choleric old. gentleman. ‘I'll disinherit both him an‘ Dolores. And may I be shot if I ever, so long as I live, take another ungrateful brat to bring up.” CHAPTER XIV. GROPING IN THE DARK. “Oh, treach’rous night! Thou lend’st thy ready vail to ev’ry treason, And teeming mischiefs thrive beneath thy shade.” —HI’s Zara. Tuer day had been dark and lowering, and night, as it closed in, brought no change in the weather. The rain fell in copious showers, slack- ening ever and anon, only to rally its wasted powers for a second deluge. Aunt Jerry’s room was in the same wing with the chamber occupied by Dolores. The amiable spinster retired about ten o’clock, and had fall- | en into what she termed her ‘‘ beauty sleep” when the rattling of gravel against the window of the adjoining room rudely awakened her. She started upright, giving her night-cap a vicious twitch. : “Ta, bless me! What's that?’ was her mental ejaculation. The sound came again—unmistakably the rat- tling of gravel as it struck in sharp contact wlth the glass. Immediately afterward there was a rustling in Dolores’s room, and Aunt Jerry heard the door sot open and close, and stealthy footsteps gli 0g own the corridor, anquers is quick, and the spinster’s suspicions took a definite turn instantly. —— see, I see!” she muttered, nodding her head. ‘It’s that audacious girl stealing out to meet her lover. Oh, how can she be so for- ward? But it is my duty to put a stop to this sort of thing, and I’ll do it, too.” Springing out of bed, Aunt Jerry hastily thrust her feet into the slippers that stood primly side by side, next to the wall. Then she threw ona flannel petticoat, and drew a shawl round her shoulders, It was of no use trying to make a grand toi- let, if Dolores was be caught, she decided. The girl would get completely beyond her reach. She went ing down-stairs, and was just in time to catch a eoeie of a white-ro figure as it flitted through the low window at |'the end of,the hall, and furned into a path lead- ing toa small pavilion at some distance from the house. ** Oh, that’s where Dolores meets that precious scamp, is it?” breathed the shocked spinster. “They imagine themselves perfectly safe_in the pavilion, I supper. How scandalous! My dear Egbert mus’ told of this, that he may exert his authority to prevent such audacious proceedings in future.” Aunt Jerry quite lost sight of her peculiar costume in the sudden zeal she felt to put Mr. Challoner on the track of the culprits. Proceed- to his room, which was on ground floor, she knocked long and loudly. “Who's there?” said a gruff voice, at length. ‘“Tt’s me—Je ec “What do you want!” t “Come right out, said Aunt Jerry, in an r voice. ‘Dolores is in the garden with that scamp! I saw her steal forth to meet him not five mninutes ago.” * Meet whom?” “ Vincent Erle.” Mr, Challoner was out of bed in an instant, and at the door, his ad night-cap quite no- “ticeable as he*thrust out his head; for a dim kept burning in this corridor. eminded all at once of her d, snatching it off, threw it ie same time giving her false its proper place. ‘ou say the idiots are?” Mr, Chal- hoarse with excitement. “Tn the pavilion.” “Wait aminute. We will go down and sur- prise them. Oh, the villain! the abominable villain! I’ have him arrested for tr Tu put a bullet through his heart. ’i—Vil—” Unable, for very rage, to utter another word, the choleric old man shut the door,and. pro- led to dress himself with all possible dis- h. . In three minutes’ time he was ready to oin Aunt Jerry in the corridor. _ Come,” he said, his tone not loud, ina as he dropped one hand The rain had ceased for a moment, but the night was dark—so dark that objects could not be distin dat the distance of half a dozen yards. damp wind blew in their faces, and pene. ag shrub and pee oo was drip- ping with moisture; e vi ground ees apes ctoring ri ey no} ‘ar before Aunt Jer- ry’s flannel petticoat flapping against her heels in a manner not ther pleasant, for it seemed to have gathered up ev cle of moisture from the path along w they had firmly on the spi 8 | arm. : | They crept silently through the window. = 5a AN eed come. Suddenly she uttered a half-suppressed scream, and stood stock-still. ‘“What’s the matter?” Mr, Challoner impa- tiently demanded. ‘* PVe lost one of my slippers.” ** Lost it?” “Yes. It is stuck fast in the mud.” “Never mind. You had better come on. It’s of no use searching for the slipper in this, infernal gloom.” j inet, proceeded, They were not a dozen steps further on the way, however, when a sec; ond cry issued from Aunt Jerry’s lips. “Mercy on me! There goes the other.” “Hang it all,” cried the exasperated old man, ““why can’t you wear slippers that fit your feet, or else stuff ’em with cotton? We can’t be wasting time here.” Poor Aunt late ete have told him that the slippers were all right, only she hadn’t taken time to draw on her stockings, before putting them on; but it seemed scarcely modest to enter into an explanation of that nature, and she remained silent. — So they started again, and Aunt Jerry’s feet “ Beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, peeped in and out.” as they went stumbling and plunging along the uneven ground—for somehow they had wander- ed from the path, and could not find it again. Once they plunged into a thorn-bush, and it took some minutes to extricate themselves. Mr. Challoner uttered anathemas, and the poor spinster, as she rubbed her smarting feet, heartily wished herself back in her own room, and theoffending Doloresin— Well, in Africa! Their trials were by no meansended. Aunt Jerry had stepped a few paces in advance of her Companion, and was hurrying on more ra- as than at any _— time, when sudden- y the solid ground seemed to give way under her feet, and she fell down, down, down, plung- ing up to her knees in an accumulated mass of mud and water. ‘Mercy on me!” she gasped, “I might as well knock mi Dee ee and done with it.” ss It would take precious little knocking to do t. “Oh, ugh!” shivered the wretched lady. “What have I tumbled into now?” “Tt must be the Fe lordered Sambo to dig that some of the refuse might be buried in it.” Ob dear, oh dear; wish I had never me. “Don’t be a fool!” snapped Mr. Challoner. cae give me your hand, and J’ll help you, out. i This was easier said than done; but after a deal of pulling, scrambling and splashing, Aunt Jerry eed on terra firma once more. ‘Thank fortune it is too dark for anybody to see the dreadful plight I’m in,” thought the poor lady. only too vividly conscious of her mud-incas feet and dripping garments. At this moment a few pattering drops of rain gaye warning of another shower. r. Chal- oner became rate. a Aunt Jerry’s hand he pushed his way recklessly through the shrubbery and reached the yom steps at length, quite out of breath and blowing likea porpoise. The rain was pouring in torrents when the disconsolate. couple dashed into the friendly shelter thus afforded. Shaking the water trom his garments, Mr. Challoner looked round the dusky little room, and began to swear. Nota living soul, save themselves, was in the place, or had been, so far as he could discover. “Idiot! how dared you bring me here, ona tomfool’s errand, like this?’ he yelled, turning upon Aunt J erry, ne shaking her till her false ? teeth rattled. you'll be the death of 8. “ Ah!—ugh!—oh!” ed the thoroughly disgusted ter. “I know they are some- where in the grounds. ‘‘We’ve come to the wrong places that’s all.” : ** And I should think it was enough.” Fuming, fretful, fierce and furious, Mr. Chal- loner —— the floor of the pavilion, while poor Aunt Jerry crouched in one corner, her chattering with cold and misery. It was bad enough, of itself, to be caught in such a plight, but ‘‘ dear Egbert’s ” reproaches seemed the un- kindest cut of all. The rain lasted but a short time; Mr. Chal- loner andAunt Jerry emerged from the pavil- ion as soon as it was over, and slowly and sol- emnly wended their way back to the house. Two dusky stood ‘in the shadow of the veranda; but they separated hastily at the sound of footsteps, one of them darting into the gloomy recesses of the garden, the other vanish-| iy thes ‘h the open window. r. loner swore, and Aunt Jerry groaned in spirit. But they were too wet, cl and miserable for any action more decisive, and the culprits escaped. ; CHAPTER XV. : T morning sabeequent ‘to: that night of ca- - THE lamity, Mr. Ch Kings rns snbadin meee an his Se Lasts = his bed. = and exposure undergone were for his enfeebled system. WIFE OR WIDOW? 18 A wretched night it had been! He had scarcely closed his eyes for thinking of Dolores, and the pain her willfulness and disobedience caused him. It seemed too aggravating that she should have met her lover secretly 80 soon after their conversation of the previous day, The rain was over, and the morning sunshine ured in at the windows; but no cheerful houghts were awakened in the old man’s breast by its brilliant glow. He sat propped up in an invalid-chair, a dark look of trouble on his withered, yellow face. ‘ At last be summoned Dolores to his presence. The girl entered, anxiety and dread plainly de- picted in her countenance. She knew perfectly well that the interview to which she had been called would prove a trying one, “Sit down,” said Mr. Challoner, sternly mo- tioning her to take the chair on the other side of the table. j Instead of nee she drew near, and, sink- ing at his feet, lifted her clasped hands and ‘wistful eyes. “You are angry with me, grandpapa,” she sobbed, “‘ and I prefer to remain here until par- don is accorded.” ** Rise, miss.” “But you have not forgiven me.” “forgiven you!” hissed the angry man. “Take care! If you have the presumption to pa for mercy, Iam not so besotted as to grant ““ ” But, grandpana— * Rise!” he fiercely exclaimed; ‘and. draw further away. Your touch is distasteful to me, “One moment,” said Dolores, her face grow- ing lividly white, and her heart beating furious- ly. “‘L have a confession to make. Let me make it here, at your feet,” “A confession?” “Yes; it is wicked, sinful, to keep my secret longer. Whatever the consequences, I cannot consent to do it.” “Fumph!” came the sneering response. “I suppose you are trying to invent a satisfactory excuse for your conduct of last night. Pray do not trouble yourself.” “You are mistaken,” Dolores returned, ina low, trembling voice. ‘‘The indiscretion to which I am about to confess dates further back than that.” He bent upon her a puzzled look of surprise, “Last night’s act of disobedience is crime enough for which to answer, miss, How dared | you meet that villain after all I had said to you? How dared you, miss?” ‘My promise was already given. I could not break it.” “Your promise?” echoed the exasperated man. ‘What is it worth? A pledge given to a poltroon, a sneaking villain—it was better broken than kept.” . ‘Hush, grandpapa!’ said. Dolores, with a flash of sudden energy. ‘‘ Even you must not apply such epithets to Vincent Erle in my pre- sence, “Why must I not, I beg to ask?” sneered Mr. Challoner. ‘* Because he is my husband!” Had a bombshell suddenly exploded at his feet, Mr. Egbert Challoner could not have been more startled, more confounded. He leaned - forward, with bated breath, staring at the girl half incredulously. “What?” he gasped. Dolores repeated the words. A ghastly hue overspread the man’s face as he gathered in their meaning. . . “You are trifling with me,” he said, with a _ faint, forced laugh. “No, are I am telling the simple truth, That is why I met Vincent last night. He is my husband, and therefore his authority over me exceeds even your own.” ; At this instant a suppressed groan came from the direction of the door. Aunt Jerry stood there with uplifted hands, her mouth and eyes wide open, drinking in ea word, - Shocking!” ejaculated the spinster. ‘* Auda- cious! What is this generation coming to? A stolen marriage! Oh, dear!” Mr. Challoner held her back with a sweep of his arm. . ‘Remain where you are,” he said, his white lips trembling. ‘‘I wish you to hear what this abandoned girl has to say for herself,” & “The shameless creature!” oi tale “When did this marriage, to which yon bo boldly confess, transpire?” he demanded, fixing his, e¥ 98 ‘sternly upon the face of the kneeling girl. “Oh, do not speak so coldly, grandpapa!” she pleaded. 3 “ Answer my question.” > “We were married last Christmas. I spent the day with a friend in New York, you will pavers remember. Other guests were in the ouse, and soon after dark I stole away quietly for an hour, and met Vincent at a clergyman’s house, where the ceremony was performed.” She controlled herself to speak calmly, but she felt faint and sick with suspense and misery. Mr. Challoner’s features seemed to harden into stone as he lis “What induced you to consent to a secret marriage?” he asked, after a pause, in a low, ominous monotone, “Tt was a foolish, wicked step,” sobbed the poor girl. ‘*I felt. itso even ‘then. But I could not resist Vincent’s entreaties, and my own heart pleaded for him strongly. We believed you would forgive us, eventually, and were only waiting for some signs of relenting in your feelings toward Vincent to declare our mar- riage.” “Why have you declared it now?” “Because conscience accuses me, and I can- — feel reconciled to keep the secret another our. : Mr, Challoner fell back, wiping the cold per- spiration from his forehead. “T might have known how it would result,” he muttered. ‘Like mother, like child. This one was certain to como to the same evil end as the pent i : randpapa, say that you forgive me,” en- treated Dolores, lifting her yas pleading face. “Now that it is too late, I bitterly repent of my disobedience, and wish I had waited for your sanction to bless my marriage. For my sake, conquer your preju ice, and receive Vin- cent as your friend.” ‘“‘ Never—never!” cried the old man, ao - ing to his feet, and looking down at the girl wit blazing eyes, ‘I will never forgive you or him for the base deception that has m practiced! Not a dollar of my wealth shall go to enrich you or, that scoundrel—that adventurer, Pll make a new will—T’ll cut you off witha shilling. Now leave the room. Go, before lam tempted to curse you. Ido not forbid py the house— as yet! Iprefer to take a little time in which to consider your case.” Tremblingly Dolores arose, for the. storm of wrath she had evoked frightened and appalled her. Receding to the door, she tottered past the amazed Aunt Jerry, glad to make her es- cape. Mtr. Challoner sat down again. His coun- tenance was ghastly as death itself could have made it. A man of strong prejudices, he was at least honest in all his convictions, and the ain at his heart, just then, was the keenest he ever experienced. Whether his estimate of Vincent Erle was just or otherwise, he could not nap clinging to it tenaciously. Far rather would he have con- signed his loved granddaughter to the grave, than given her to the protection of such a man. ile he sat there pale, silent, suffering, a shadow suddenly intercepted the light from the window, and a man’s tall figure stepped over the sill. It was his grandson, Raymond Chal- loner, but at the first glance the old: gentleman scarcely recognized him, haggard and miserable. For some seconds not a word was uttered, but the two looked at each other in silence, ; “ Are yee not going to welcome me?” Ray- mond said at length. The young man wasadvancing eagerly, when Mr, Challoner put up his hand. “Why do you come now?” he inquired, “Permit me to fasten the door, and I will an- swer you, I prefer to keep this visit a secret. T left es horse in a grovedown yonder, and ap- roached the house on foot. It is fortunate that found you here, and alone.” Mr. Challoner sat staring at the young man in a bewildered way while the latter slipped the bolts into their sockets, and drew down the shades over the windows, ‘‘ What has happened?” he gasped, at length. ‘ Are you a hunted criminal, that you are com- pelled to resort to such precautions?” “Tt isn’t quite so bad as that,” Raymond an- swered, with a bitter laugh. ‘But the good Lord only knows how soon it may be.” ‘‘ What have you. been doing?” “ Selli g anyeclt to the Jews, body, soul and at’s all. w himself intoa chair, a strange frown He n your creditors had the impu me. ” rascal! They are on my track at this moment, They'll stop at nothing, now, until they get ir money. I have put them off with m- ee many times | they no longer taleke _ Mr, Challoner grew cold as he listened. That agitating interview in no condition to cope with a second trouble. It seemed too bitter, that disgrace and shame should be brought upon him by both his. grand- children! His soul sickened, his heart very nearh still. : “What do you want?” he asked, in a faint vane. / elp, of course.” tt I involve yourself so deeply.” “* One must live,” was the sullenanswer. | “I have always looked forward to coming into the half of the i io et It co seem necessary, wi such expec ons, to my- self the comforts of life.” ’ at “Comforts!” echoed Mr. Challoner, in a haughty tone. “I have always given you a handsome allowance—more than enough to gra- tify every reasonable want. And now, acecord- ing to your own confession, you have exceeded it, plunging yourself deeply into debt.” “Over head and ears, sir. It will take no light sum to relieve me, some thousands at the least.” ‘* You expect me to advance the money?” “Tt is the only way in which exposure can be averted.” ‘How did you contrive to involve yourself so deeply?” Raymond dropped his head. “ Oh, it is not necessary that’ you should an- swer. Ican guess the secret, You lost your money at play, sir; at the gaming-table,” ‘*T do not deny it, sir.” “You have.promised me over and over again to give up the vice. I believed you had -done 80. Raymond trembled as he looked into his andfather’s cold, stern face. There was some- thing ominous in the old man’s calmness and self-restraint. . It seemed like the lull that often comes before a tempest. He would much sooner haveseen him angry and furious. “T intended to keep my word, sir, I did in- deed,’ he said. “‘ But one is surrounded with so many temptations in a large city.” Mr. Challoner made no reply, and after a brief silence, the young man drew near, and added earnestly : **Tam ruined unless you help me tide over this crisis. Rumors of my embarrassed affairs will certainly go abroad unless something is done immediately, That is why I came to Din- gle Dell so secretly—the truth must be kept from the public, at least until after my mar- ’ ee r. Challoner’s lip curled. “Does Miss Erle know aught of your troubles and perplexities?” he asked. F “No; I would not tell her for worlds, It — would furnish her with the very excuse she wants for breaking off the marriage.” ‘“*Humph. It scarcely seems the course of an honorable man, to conceal the fact of his em- eet nent from the lady he expects to make 2. t | ‘Circumstances compel mo to take this course. Ethelind need never be told. When we are married, Iam resolved to turn over a new leaf. 1'll throw cards and dice to the dogs. Help me out of this infernal mess, and you shall see that I can keep my word for once.’ **T have helped you once or twice before,” “True. But I have made up my mind. I | oe to reform in good earnest, this time. he looked so worn, | ry me, sir. Icame here on purpose to make this secret appeal. No one—not even Dolores— must know of this visit. She might sw t something, and think it her duty to warn Ethe- lind againstme, Oh, sir, do not betray me.” There was another silence. At length Ray- - ‘hi face, and sat glaring at his grandfa- er. : | “T know,” said the latter, y. “One of ce to write to “Did he? That’s not at all strange. The with Dolores had left him — | touche can do nothing. You had no business to | mond said, eee | _ “I've done my best to tide this danger over. | I left Glenoaks, some three weeks since, and | went up to New York, hoping to sueceed in | staving off matters a little longer. But it was | of no use. Unless you interpose, disgrace is in- ‘evitable. Had Raymond come to his grandfather at | any other time, it is probable his plea would ' not have been made in vain. But Mr, Chal- | loner’s mood was a very bitter one, First, Do- | Jores had disappointed him, and now it was | a He almost felt like cursing ‘them ‘*Let me hear no more of this matter,” he | said, in a low, stern voice, his eyes buruing with | a strange expression. “ if you have disgraced | yo , you did it in your sober senses. I have | been your dupe long enough; now, I wash my | hands of you and your affairs. You have | brought sorrow and shame enough upon m | head. Now,.I disown, discard you. From this | time forth I have no grandson.’ | Raymond slowly rose to his feet, a strange, ashy pallor overspreading his countenance, though it had'seemed as white as it well could | before. ‘You—you-—you are—in earnest?” he gasped. “You shall see. Two years ago I made a will, dividing my property equally between you and Dolores. But the girl, too, hes disappoint- ed me. Itis not right that ingrates should bene- fit by my death. You have evoked your own punishment. I have resolved to make a new a _ leave all my possessions to found a ital. “Before Raymond could interpose, the old man had. slipped back the bolts of the door, and the hand-bell on the table. “One of the servants will be here directly,” he said, in a low, impressive tone. ‘‘‘If you still desire to ar this visit a secret, you can retire to my bath-room, yonder. By_ keeping the door ajar, you will be enabled to hear the instructions I shall give to the servant.” Raymond ¢g onee or twice, and then, scarcely knowing what he «id, staggered into the bath-room, just in season to avoid being seen by the person who entered the apartment he had just left. : It was Madam Zoe, the housekeeper. The } MH i i i 14 woman’s handsome face flushed, and she sent a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the half-closed door behind which Raymond stood cursing and trembling, ere she said: ‘“‘ What is your pleasure, Mr. Challoner?” “You may send one of the men-servants for my solicitor—Lawyer Grab. I have need of his services professionally, and he is to come with- out delay.” The woman’s strange black eyes dwelt for a moment fiercely on his face. “Is that all?’ she said, turning at length to SOF It is.” “T will see that your wish is executed.” Scarcely had she disappeared and closed the door, ere Raymond emerged from his hiding- place, His very lips were white. “Thope you have fully considered the step you propose to take?” he said, in a husky voice. Mr. Challoner silently pointed to the window. Something in his face told the young man that he had nothing to hope or expect from expostu- lation. A seenge chill stole up from his feet to the crown of his head as he turned slowly away, and ste out into the bright, glaring sun- light. He felt that his doom was seal CHAPTER XVI. A DEED OF HORROR. “Murder most foul, as in the best it is, But this most foul, strange and unnatural!” —SHAKSPEARE. SzixzctTina the most densely-shaded among the garden-paths—for he still had discretion cocnee lett to try to shun observation—Ray- mond hurried on feverishly until he reached the pavilion. Here he paused, climbed the steps, and threw himself prostrate on one of the eaten groan after groan breaking from his livid lips. At Joa th he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress, and a cold, soft hand fell on his. He raised his head—it was Madam Zoe's. ‘Why have you followed me here?” he asked, sullenly. “Because I knew you were in trouble. Dear master, do not drive me away—and oh, don’t look at me like that! Perhaps I can help you.” “No one can help me, now,” came the de- spairing answer. 4 poor, poor boy.” g SS Do you know aught of my trouble, Madam oe? “T know every thing,” she replied, in a gloo- my tone. ‘I saw you comestealing toward the house like a criminal, and my heart told me something was amiss. I listened at the door.” ss You heard all that my grandfather said to e ‘* All,” said the woman. Raymond sat up and folded his hands; all was darkness and despair. “Tam a ruined man,” he apepen. “Don’t say that!” cried Madam Zoe, in a fierce, thrilling whisper. ‘‘Mr. Challoner has no might to cast you off for a mere youthful fol- ly. Itis unjust. If he does it, some fearful re- tribution will surely overtake him.” The young man did not answer; he sat with his black eyes fixed intently on the floor. m Zoe sternly continued: “You have a right to half these broad acres. They would have been your father’s, had he lived. They must not be taken from you. I shall tell Mr. Challoner so.” “ And be driven away, as I have been? No, you must not incur the risk, Madam Zoe.” “Do you think I could remain if you wero banished? No; the place would become odious tome. I could not even breathe freely under a roof that had denied shelter to you.” Raymond shuddered as he listened to the wo- man’s words, spoken as they were with astrong, wild vehemence. She had always seemed cling to him with a deep, self-sacrificing affec- tion, He could not understand it. never had, “‘ You are the only friend I have left at Din- gle Dell,” he said, softly. “T shall never fail you,” returned Madam — dropping her hand caressingly on his shoul- r. “Wh ait that you have become so strongly attach me?” She changed color, and fixed a wild, startled look on the ane aS face. “Tt is well to have somethin muttered. ‘‘ Ask me no more, ere are mag- netic influences always at work, where there are ' human hearts; and of some of these you, as yet, know pohing-| She turned slowly and left the pavilion as she spoke, and after a few moments Raymond fol- lowed her out. Hs face wore a dark, gloomy expression as he disappeared in the thick shrub- bery with which this portion of the grounds was planted. ‘ The sober hues of twilight were darkening the landscape when at last Lawyer Grab, the solicitor for whom Mr. Challoner had sent ar- rived at Dingle Dell. The meena had not found him in; and now he had hurried over, the moment he found himself at liberty, to learn what his client wanted, to love,” she PEAT OR as tae Mr. Challoner stated his wishes in a few terse words. “T want a new will drawn up, and the old one destroyed.” ““You do?’ said the lawyer. ‘‘ What’s the reason of this?” “‘My grandchildren have shamefully deceived and betrayed me. It is my intention to punish them. I shall leave my money to found a chari- table institution.” , Mr, Grab stared at him uneasily. “That would be unjust,” said he. do nothing of the sort.” “Who is to hinder me?” “Of course you can do as you please with your own. But my advice is that you think twice—half a dozen times, if necessary—before taking such a step.” “What business is it of yours?” ‘“*None, to be sure. But I don’t wish to see you drawn into a measure, in the heat of pas- sion, that you are analy. to regret.” The old man frowned. “ Will you draw up the will—or must I send for another solicitor?’ he asked, with dogged sullenness. “‘Of course I must do your bidding, whatever that may be.” “Then enough has been said.” “But it is too late to do anything to-night. In the morning I will come to you, at any hour you may name, with the proper papers.” “Very well. Let us say ten o’clock.” | And with this understanding the lawyer took | his departure. | It happened that Aunt Jerry was superintend- | ing some work in the kitchen that evening, and | sat up till a later hour than usual. The clock struck eleven as she stood before the glass in her | own room, deftly tying a starched and frilled | cap under her chin. ‘La, bless me! I had no idea it was so late,” ejaculated the spinster, whirling round so quick- ly that she knocked the candle off the table, and was left in total darkness. As her toilet for the night was nearly com- pleted, Aunt Jerry decided not to relight the | candle; but she stepped to the window anddrew | back the curtains to let in the light of the | moon, which was sailing through a cloudless | A moving figure on the lawn instantly at- | tracted her attention, and as she pressed her face against the glass and peered out eagerly, a second figure emerged from the shadow of the house, and joined the first. fF gracious! It’s Dolores and that rascal, Vincent Erle!” ejaculated Aunt Jerry, recog- nizing the two figures at a glance, for thoug' the moon was not much past its first quarter, it already afforded considerable light. impudent! How dare they begin thetr billing so im} ow ey n their billin and cooing over again, after ie tratopired this morning?” Aunt Jerry clung to the window-sill and after the young couple until a bend in the path concealed them from view. She was choking with rage, but in the present instance no temptation to ex them to Mr. Challoner | assailed her mind. She had had quite enough of that sort of thing the night before. “Let them go,” she muttered. ‘If Dolores told the truth they are husband and wife, and it is too late to interfere. They want to talk over this new crotchet of Mr. Challoner’s, I reckon. Anyhow, I’m not going to ruin any more petti- coats chasing after the ateful idiots. It’s a marvel that I’m not sick al with rheumatism, after getting the drenching I did last night.” The Sartell slipped from Aunt Jerry’s bonny fingers, and she went mbling to bed, where she found transient forgetfulness of all her troubles in sleep. Some time afterward—how long a time she could not tell—she was suddenly awakene a oarse, shrill cry sounding fr I mediately underneath—that usually occu Mr, Challoner himself. a Trembling with horror, Aunt Jerry started upin bed. Again the shriek came pealing up the stairway; this time it sounded more pro- longed, and she distingished a word that sent —. drop of blood backward to her heart. : * Mur—der!” Then came a muffled noise as if a fierce and “ You will deadly struggle was goin ert mt 7 - Got bed, sweating with | man’s pallid face. Aunt Jerry sprung out a | terror, She was not a brave woman, but she quite lost sight of self in the intense excitement of the moment, Hurriedly throwing on a loose wrapper, she opened the door and eens outside. As she did so, some one brushed past her on the land- ing with a faint, moaning sigh. It was a wo- | man’s figure—whose she could not distinguish in | the gloom. | Hasten: down-stairs, she found that the | light which was usually kept burn . Challoner’s door, had been put nd | that the door was widely ajar. She entered: | The blinds were up, and one of the windows | stood open, and a flood of moonlight poured in- And was not that gentleman Mr. Vincent rle She shuddered, but made no reply. a Answer my question if you please, wit- ness. ‘“Yes,” she said, in a low, trembling voice. “it was Mr. Erle.” . ae ; ; “T thought so. Now you may stand aside for boy, Muggins, be called.” the present. Let the uggins was a lad of twely 3 fourteen, who was rs to run errands, .an ry odd jobs about the place that migh all S way. He had a precociously old, and a precocious y wise expression not altogether pleasant to see in one of his age. ““Muggins,” said the coroner, ‘‘you may tell the jury whether Miss Gloyne did or did not send you on an errand yesterday.” “*She did,” said the boy, as from ear to car. ‘‘Sent me to the “Crown and Thistle’ with a letter. Gave mea dollar for taking it, tongue.” ‘0 whom did you deliver the letter?” ‘To Mr. Erle, sir. He was stopping. there— lying low to keep out of master’s way, I reckon. he.letter was for him.” “For Mr. Erle, you mean?” ““T do, sir.” F Nothing further was wanted of Muggins, and the coroner requested that Madam Zoe, the housekeeper, might be summoned. “Can’t be did, sir,” said Muggins, speaking up from the corner to which he had retired, near the door, ‘She isn’t here.” aoe hac gn eRe re a mond Challoner and Dolores Gloyne.” : “Do you know if the deceased had made up his mind to leave his property differently?” He had,” replied the solicitor, speaking with extreme reluctance. ‘It was_his intention to disinherit both Raymond and Dolores.” “What reason did he assign for so radical a change in his purpose?” “He declared himself disappointed in the young people, and averse to the idea of allowing them to profit by his death.” murmur ran the rounds of the uy; A motive for the crime had been disclosed by Lawyer Grab’s testimony, _Knowing nothing of the truth—except such facts as had alread come out at the inquest—they looked at eac' other and whispered that Raymond and Dolores were the persons most interested in the old man’s death. But which—if either—of the young peo- ple was guilty? The coroner, who was better posted, shook his head at them gravely, and said in a low, impressive voice: Miss Gloyne may take the stand again.” | CHAPTER XVIII. THE RESULT OF THE INQUEST. ‘* Foul deeds will rise, Though all the world o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes,” —SHAKSPEARE, TREMBLING with apprehension, Dolores again seated herself in the vacated chair at the right of the coroner. Ever since reviving from the swoon into which she had been thrown by Aunt Jerry’s fierce denunciation of her lover, she had been on the rack of suspense. Was there any foundation for the woman’s fearful accusation —and would it be repeated here, in the presence of the coroner and jury? Would the admissions she her:elf might be compelled to make be used as evidence against him? ; ° No wonder her heart beat heavy and thick with fear as she once more took the stand. Her peace of mind, happiness and good name dscen upon the turn the examination should now take, . The coroner’s first words were not of a reas- suring nature. Looking at her with steady scrutiny, be said: a “Miss Gloyne, I believe yu have already ac- | knowledged that you held an interview with | Mr. Vincent Erle in these grounds, last night. At what hour did you meet him?” “Tt was eleven o’clock, sir,” Dolores answer- ed, in an unsteady voice, without raising her eyes from the floor, “When did you separate?” “Shortly before midnight.” , a you sure, witness, that it was before twelve, and not later?” “Tam. Ll heard the clock strike soon after returning to my chamber.” y ‘““Where did Mr. Erle go when he left you?” “T think he left the grounds,” “Have you any means of knowing whether he actually did go away or not?” “ No, sir.” The coroner made a note in a little book he had held in his hand throughout the inquest, and then said briskly: ‘ “Witness, you may state to the jury, if you please, when you last saw Mr. Erle previous to ene, meting to which attention has just been called, . Dolores started, clasped her hands convul- sively, but she made no reply, “Witness, we are waiting,” said the coroner. “T saw him the night before last,” Dolores an- swered, in a scarcely audible voice. : “Did you meet him in the grounds on that occasion, also?” = “ i di held «Tt was a secret ane. of course?” The heart-sick girl could only bow her head. “Your grandfather was hostile to the young man in question, and had forbidden you to see him?” ** Yes, sir.” ‘A rumor has reached my ears that you wero secretly married to this Mr, Erle, some months ago. Is it correct?” Again the girl’s head drooped in acknowledg- ment, “When did the marriage take place?” “The twenty-fifth of last December.” “You may state to the jury whether news of this marriage ever reached the ears of the de- ceased,” “Yes,” said Dolores, speaking quite huskily ; “T confessed it to him myself.” ‘* When?” “During an interview I held with him yester- day morning.” ‘* Ah!” said the coroner, making another note in his book. ‘* And was it notin consequence of that confession that the deceased decided to drop your name from his will?” “Tt may have been,” Dolores replied, grow- ing paler and more terrified as the examination | progressed “And did you not immediately write a note and send it by the boy Muggins, to Mr. Erle, at the ‘Crown and Thistle,’ telling him what had transpired, and appointing the meeting that took place last night; and was not all this done that you might discuss with the young man the unexpected emergency that had arisen?” The coroner had drawn considerably on his imagination in putting this leading question, but the look of terror that came on the hapless girl’s face, and the shrinking shiver that ran all through her frame, evinced the shrewdness of the guess he had made. _ He would have con- tinued the inquiry, but Dolores suddenly fell back in a halt-fuinting condition, and he was compelled to forbear. All this while Aunt Jerry had been sitting in the darkest corner of the room, quieiy biding her time. When at length her name was called she came forward with a quick, firm step. The few eventful hours of that morning seemed to have aged her as many years. “Your name is Jerry Martin, I believe?” said the coroner, when she had been sworn, “Not Jerry, your honor, but Jerusha. Some- times I am called Jerry, for short,” “Yes, yes, I understand all that. How old are you, madam?” “ How old?” echoed Aunt Jerry, changing her hard, dry tone for a hysterical one, “TI don’t see that the question of my age concerns any- ay but myself.” “But the question is often asked in cases like this, and it is one you are bound to an- swer.” : “But I say I won’t!” cried Aunt Jerry, very red in the face. “And I say you must, or it will be our duty to commit you.” She gave a gasp of dismay, She had buta vague idea what the word ‘‘commit” could mean in the sense in which the coroner used it; but of course it was something dreadful. . “Must I neolly: tell all those jurymen how old T am?” she asked, . Certainly.” “Oh, dear! I never dreamed of such a thing. Well, I—I—am past thirty.” a How much past thirty?’ said the coroner, trying to repress a smile. ‘It is necessary to be explicit in these matters.” , Aunt Jerry hung her head, and replied that she might be nearer forty, after all. “Put it down fifty, and have done with it,” spoke up one of the jury. “Fifty!” shrieked the scandalized woman, turning upon him, indignantly. ‘Oh, you brute! ’m not a day over forty-five, and you know it,” ‘When Aunt Jerry had grown calmer the real business proceeded. She was asked by the jury to state what she knew of the murder, and pro- ceeded to give her evidence as follows: “Sally and I had the preserves to do over yeetcatay and the work kept us up so late that it was nigh outo eleven before the last. jar was put away, and I went up-stairs to bed. I had only a candle with me, and somehow that got overturned and went out. I was nearly un- dressed at the time, so, instead of lighting an- other, I just drew up the blind to let in the light of the moon.” Yes, yes. Go on, witness. When you drew up the shade, what did you see in the garden below?? _ *T saw Dolores descend the terrace in the di- rection of the shrubbery, where a man met her.” “Did a recognize that man?” “T did. It was Vincent Erle,” Aunt Jerry then proceeded to state that she had gone directly to bed, and had slept until she was awakened by a scream and the cry of mur- der coming from Mr, Challoner’s bedroom. Hur- rying down-stairs, she had discovered the de- ceased lying on the floor, gasping his last. “ Did you speak to him?” asked the coroner. “Yes, I entreated him to. tell me who had done the dreadful deed.” ~ “ And did he reply?” “He did,” Aunt Jerry answered, amid tho dead silence of the court, ** Allus, sir,” answered the policeman. “Tt is some absurd mistake, I do assure you. Why, I do not even know who has been mur- dered.” It was perfectly true that no rumor of the dreadful crime had, as yet, penetrated to Glen- oaks, though'nearly thirty-six hours had elapsed since its commission, The distance between the two places, some twenty miles, and the se- eluded situation of each, sufficiently accounts for this fact, : The officer, however, chose to look incredu- ous. “ If you would read the warrant, sir, it would save us a deal of trouble. It says, in so many words, that you are charged with having assas- sinated Egbert Challoner, of Dingle Dell, near Grafton.” Vincent gasped for breath, and turned a hor- ror-stricken countenance upon the two men. “Good God!” he gasped, with blanched lips. ‘“‘ Egbert Challoner dead?—murdered? It seems incredible.” “Tt is only too true, find out to your cost,’ “Oh, just Heaven! You do not mean to tell me that it is of his murder that I am accused?” “Yes, And you must come along with us to answer for the crime.” oe to this moment, old Phillis had stood near the dining-room door, her ebony face terror, her eyes almost starting from their sock- ets; hut when the officers made a movement to take their rome away, she uttered a shrill, prolonged shriek that might almost have waken- ed the dead in their graves. “You ole debbles!” she screamed, confront- ing the men, ‘You mean, mis’rable trash, to come here and bodder decent folks like Marsa Wincent. You are nuffin’ but murderers your- selves. Off wid you! CVar out,” Vincent tried to pacify her, but it was of no use. Her screams, cries, and indignant ejacu- lations soon brought the whole household to the spot, Ethelind among the rest. “Oh, Vincent, what is it?” the startled girl exclaimed, coming quickly forward. ‘What do these men want?” ; He looked frightened and bewildered. “ Tt isnothing, Ethelind—a ridiculous mistake —that’s all. Go back to your room. Colonel Falkner,” he added, turning to that gentleman, who had just entered, ‘‘ pray lead my sister away, But Ethelind refused to ta I know that somethi t sir, as you aro likely to go. 0 dreadful has happen- »” she panted, with y lips. ‘Oh, tell me he worst at once!” He turned aside his face and groaned; and it was Phillis who blurted out the fearful truth between broken ejaculations of anger and mis- ery. ; t Ethelina was quite calm. She turned fright- fully pale, and a smothered sob broke from her lips. That was all. : ‘* Must 5 se go with these men, Vincent?” she wc alow, shivering voice. “Yes. “Ts there no way of avoiding it? Will they not take bail for your security? ‘“My poor sister, this is one of the cases in which money is of no avail. And if it were, these officers are not the persons to whom ap- plication should be made,” Evhelind sat down on a chair, as if she felt sick and faint.. But her voice was steadier than before when she turned to Phillis, and said presently: “Go.u irs for my bonnet and shawl.” Colonel Falkner heard the words, and came quickly to her side, an expression of disappro- val on his pale face. ae poor child, what would you do?” he sai “T am going with my brother.” “No, you must not. I cannot permit you to take such a step. You can do Vincent no He will, I suppose, be taken before a magistrate, and an examination held. It is not befitting that you should witness such a scene. Ethelind coldly averted her face. ““My presence will give him courage,” she said, ‘ He will know that he is not utterly for- saken.” “ Mad girl!” Bpevinet Mrs. Falkner, looking at her half in pity, half in anger, “Do not seek to dissuade me,” came the sionate appeal. ‘‘I cannot forsake my brother in the hour of his greatest need. You have no right to ask it.” “Let her go,” said Mrs. Falkner, speaking in jan undertone to her son, ‘‘ Why should we iseek to detain her? Are we not hopelessly dis- graced already?” Gathering up her breakfast shawl of black iace, the proud old lady moved down the hall, with a haughty step, and disappeared. : “Perhaps it is natural that you should wish to acgommene your brother, Ethelind,” said Colo- nel Falkner, looking pained and troubled. ‘“ But have you fully considered the ordeal through which you must pass?” : ‘“ Fearful as it ro it is nothing in com- parisov with what Vincent himself must suf- fer,” 2 f ay with | SS Se WIFE OR WIDOW? 17 A sigh broke from his lips as he looked into her convulsed and ghastly face. “May Heaven support and strengthen you, poor child. I shall not make your trouble any greater by useless oj ition.” In a few minutes they were ready to set out. A close carriage stood before the door, and Ethelind was kindly permitted to occupy the back seat with her brother. The loud wails to which Phillis gave way were the last sounds that. reached her ears as the carriage rolled down the drive. 2 It was mid-afternoon when they reached Grafton. Vincent was taken directly to the rison, and locked into one of the cells, for sate- eeping. The examination would not be held until the next morning, the warden told him oe was to be treated as if fully committed already. : About half an hour later, Vincent was os som | on the side of the cot with Ethelind’s han clasped in his, recounting, in a low voice, the story of his rash marriage, when a key turned in the lock, and a lady, closely vailed, was usher- ed into the cell. “Dolores!” he cried, recognizing her at a glance. The hapless young wife tottered forward, and sunk sobbing into his arms, “Oh, Vincent!” she ted. ‘It seems too areeitth that we should meet again here—like this! ‘God bless you! You have not forsaken me | —I am content.” ‘‘Worsaken you! Oh, my poor love, I have been Sen Fr you every moment since I knew that those men had gone to arrest you. She put her arm round his neck, and Jaid her cheek close to his; butshe looked as if her heart were well-nigh broken, Vincent held her fast for a moment. ‘* How good, how generous of you to come to me 80 soon!” he said in a broken voice. “‘T did not lose a moment after I had reason to if ome you were here.” sf wer me this, Dolores,” he said, drawing quickly away, and looking at her with a keen, searching gaze. ‘Before another word passes between us, tell me if you believe me ity of the crime of which I am accused.” ‘Guilty! she shivered. ‘‘ No, no, no! Never for one moment have [ doubted you.” “The circumstances are against me.” ‘No matter. I would stake my very life upon your innocence. You murder my aoc aie. grandfather? You could never have one it. ** No,” he said, in a raised voice, as hestrained her to his heart. ‘‘I have been wild, thought- less, and a little reckless sometimes. But, God be thanked, my hands were never yet stained with crime!” Even Ethelind was impressed by his earnest- ness. If there had been a lurking doubt in her mind it was now dism forever; and she mingled her tears with those of the sorely-tried husband and wife. ‘When Dolores rose to depart, Ethelind accom- panied her, and they spent that first bitter night of Vincent’s imprisonment together. The examination began about nineo’clock, the next morning, and lasted until noon. Ethelind was surprised, when she entered the justice- room, in company with her brother and Dolo- res, to see Colonel Falkner sitting near the bench. He had scarcely left the house since his convalescence, and she had not supposed him capable of a such a journey, The girl felt her heart beat furiously as she met his gaze. A look singularly blended of pain and rapture flitted over her pallid face. ‘It was very kind of you to come, Colonel Falkner,” she said in a low voice, bending to- ward him. “T could not bear to think that you were here alone, Ethelind,” he answered. ra ‘* Alone?” she echoed. ‘‘I have my brother and Dolores.” : “True. But they cannot give you the watch- ful care you need in the present condition of your health.” ‘*You would make me out a greater invalid than I really am,” she said, —e neverthe- less her heart thrilled at the thought that it was solicitude for her welfare that had caused him to undertake the journey. “IT know you are incapable of taking proper care of yourself,” he answered, gravely. A bitter retort was on her lips, but the pro- ceedings were opened, at this moment, and she suppressed it. : he evidence given at the examination was merely a repetition of that which came out at the inquest, and need not be dwelt upon again. No new facts of any consequence had come to ight. Aunt Jerry was still the most damaging tness against the prisoner; and there was an awful look of horror, hatred and repulsion in the woman’s eyes as she sat glaring at him from the witness-box. Nothing bad been heard of Madam Zoe, and her mysterious disappearance remained as great a marvel asever. But those were not wanting who shrewdly conjectured that the strange wo- man, could she be found, might ‘‘a tale un- fold.” Quite a commotion occurred near the close of the proceedings. It was occasioned by the sud- den prusteroee of Raymond Challoner, pale and travel-stained, at the door of the justice-room. Even the magistrate himself unbent from his dignity and signed for the young man to ap- proach the bench. M re you just arrived, Mr. Challoner?” he “ Yes,” Raymond answered, with a low bow. ‘“‘T was absent, in Washington, on a little mat- ter of business, when the messenger sent to New York reached my dadgings: Of course he tele- raphed to me immediately; and I set out, post- to return.” The magistrate shook hands with him as a mark of respect and satel : ‘This is a sad affair, Mr. Challoner.” “Very. I can scarcely believe in its reality.” ‘“Have you any testimony to offer the court?” ‘“‘None whatever,” the young man answered. with a look of surprise. “ Indeed, I have heard very little about the case, as yet, save the one ocking fact that my poor grandfather has been murdered.” Some one arose, at this juncture, and offered Raymond his seat,. The young man took it in silence, but he did not once turn his eyes in tho direction of the prisoner. Ethelind had turned Ronn pale when her lover entered, and she cowered down in her chair with a shiver of repulsion. “Take care,” whispered Colonel Falkner, for his quick eye detected her agitaticn at once. “It is very wrong for you to betray your re- pugnance to that man so openly.” I hate—and fear him. I cannot help it,” she answered back, half Sorcels, At this moment the magistrate arose, and, amid the breathless silence of the court, formal- ly committed Vincent Erle to take his trial for the willful murder of Egbert Challoner. The officers were directed to remove the prisoner immediately, and the unfortunate young man was conveyed back to bis cell. That same afternoon both Colonel Falkner and Ethelind returned to Glenoaks, though in separate conveyances. The latter had an ob- ject in bi ing away so rapidly; she knew that she must meet Raymond, and meet him as a friend, if she remained longer, and that was a greater ordeal than she cared, in her present mood, to encounter. CHAPTER XX1. * INVESTIGATIONS. “Bpape him--Enoel to poeta Wes the ground With tears,” . —BAarRrRY Gommeanie. Poor DOLORES passed an anxious and sleepless — after the committal of her husban for About nine o’clock the next morning, having dressed herself in a suit of plain black, and put on her bonnet and shawl, she was about to leave the house when: Aunt Jerry stalked out of the arya room, and planted herself directly in @ way. “Where are you going?” she demanded, in a curt tone. “To visit my husband.” — Jerry drew herself up with an angry snort. “Your husband!” she sneered. “That wretch is no more your husband than I am. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dolor. Gloyne.” Dolores bit her lip, and made an effort to pass on; but again she was intercepted. _“Stay where you are, you rebellious chile. With my consent, you shall never pass out of = door bound on such a reprehensible er- rand. “Tt is my duty to go,” said Dolores, gently but firmly. ‘ Please stand aside.” “Duty!” shrieked Aunt Jerry. “It is your duty to yield obedience to those who are older and wiser than yourself. Go back to your room, miss.” “T cannot. My husband expects me; I must go to him.” ‘** 1 forbid you to go.” ‘But you have no authority to control my actions. I owe submission to none save my God and dear husband.” Aunt oe trembled with passion. “Girl, is it your deliberate purpose to defy me?” she raved. ‘No, I have no wish to do that,” said Dolores, still speaking in a calm and gentle voice, though there was a flash of fire in her brilliant dark ose “But you should not usurp authority that does not rightfully belong to you. If you do, I have no resource but to rebel.” There was a silence, Suddenly Aunt Jeiry cannes hold of the girl’s hand—her own wis cold as ice—and saying “Come with me,” in a dry, hard voice, drew her forward into the drawing-room. All that was mortal of Egbert Challoner lay there waiting for the last sid rites, which were to be performed ata Ip’. » hour of that some day. The burial had teen postponed as long as possible that Raymoud [FEES RE Aas Bs RAPER Ae is IRS BERS Se these FS SSee aes ai WIFE OR WIDOW? 18 nie present and superintend arrangements imself. Aunt Jerry drew the shrinking girl close up to the coffin, which stood in the middle of the darkened room. ‘* Look there!” she said, in a raised voice, un- covering the face of the dead. ‘‘Look at your poor, murdered grandfather, and then go to the wretch who assassinated him if you have the heart to do it!” Doleres burst into tears. “Don’t, Aunt Jerry. You shock and distress eae. My burden is heavier than I can well bear, already.” Struggling clear of those relentless hands, Dolores hurried back to the hall, and sinking on a chair, gave way to a perfect storm of sor- row. ““You do feel ashamed of yourself—that is evident,” said Aunt Jerry, grimly, for she had followed the girl out. “No, it isn’t that. Buta trouble like this is so’ horrible. Sometimes I almost give way. But Vincent is innocent of poor grandpapa’s death! Did I not believe this from the depths of my soul { should shrink from him in as great horror as you do.” “Poor fool! Did not the murdered man’s ee words fix the crime upon that vil- ain : “It was a _mistake—a dreadful mistake,” shivered poor Dolores. ‘‘ There was no light in the room, and grandpapa must have taken some one else for Vincent.” ‘ ‘* Poor, deluded fool!” “T would stake my life on his innocence, and have told him so.” ‘You intend to cling to him in spite of every- thing?” “ do,” ‘* Mad girl! It isa wonder that your murder- ed relative does not rise out of his coffiin to re- proach you.” Dolores resolutely wiped away her tears. ‘Appearances are very much against my husband,” she said, very low. ‘“ But that is no reason why I should condemn him. Some day, this mystery will be cleared up, and I shall try to be patient until that time comes.” And before Aunt Jerry could raise another ob- Hate: Dolores had quietly stepped past, and eft the house. Like all gentle, loving women, she listened not to the voice of reason, but to that of her heart. In spite of the damning evidence against him, it was simply impossible for her to be- lieve Vincent enilty of the heinous crime laid to his charge. She found him pacing the floor of his-cell, pale but calm. He had already had an inter- view with Mr. Nolan, the attorney who had been | secured to defend him, and the man had just gone away with the frank admission that the case promised to be the most difficult one he had ever handled. At the sight of his wife, however, the prison- er attempted to banish every appearance of eoacern from his manner and countenance; embracing her, said cheerfully: ‘* You come into my cell like a sunbeam, Do- lores, only you are much more welcome.” “T have rought you a little package,” said Dolores, speaking in a hurried tone, to hide | her agitation. ‘‘ Here it is,” and taking a roll of bank on the little table underneath the window. ‘“Why, where did you get so much money?” Vincent asked, in a tone of surprise. ‘Tt was intrusted to me by your sister Ethe- lind before she went away, yesterday afternoon. She said this would secure a great many com- forts that you papi otherwise be compelled to do without. And she wished me to urge upon you the necessity of employing the very best vounsel in the State for your defense,” Her purse is at your command.’ ‘Heaven bless her!” cried the poor prisoner. in a tone of deep emotion. ‘‘I know she would do anything in the world to help me.” Then, forcing a smile, he added: -notes from her pocket she spread them | tion, Mr. Erle?” he said, fixing his light gray eyes upon the young man’s face. ‘‘None, except to put in the plea of ‘not guilty,’ and assure the magistrate and jury that I had left Mr. Challoner’s grounds imme- diately after parting with Dolores, and had set out for Glenoaks without a moment’s delay.” “What proot did you offer to substantiate your statement?” “* Alas, I had none save my simple word.”> The detective appeared to ruminate for some time. At length he said: “You may tell everything you can remember that has any bearing upon the events of that fatal night.” Vincent and Dolores, together, were enabled to give Mr. Ferret a very clear idea of the events that had already come to light. The two points in which he manifested particular interest, however, were those of Madam Zoe’s mysterious disappearance, and the fact that Aunt Jerry had encountered a woman in the corridor when she was hurrying down-stairs after having been aroused by the cries of the murdered man ‘* Where do the friends of this Madam Zoe re- side?’ he inquired. ‘*T do not know,” Dolores answered; ‘but it is my belief that she resided in the South before coming to Dingle Dell.” ‘Who recommended her to Mr. Challoner?” “She brought no testimonials, I have heard Aunt Jerry say. In the first place, she was taken on trial; but her duties were performed in a manner so satisfactory that she was perma- nently engaged.” ** Did she never aJlude to her former life?” “*Never. Indeed she seemed averse to speak- ing of it even to answer such questions as might, from time to time, be asked.” ‘‘Of course she received letters occasionally from her friends!” ‘No, sir. None ever came for her.” “That is strange,” said the detective, in a musing tone. “It is believed by some,” said Dolores, look- ing up quickly, ‘‘that Madam Zoe could give important testimony in this case, and has with- drawn herself for that very reason.” 2 —— !’ muttered Mr. Ferret, shaking his ead. When he left the prison, however, he went directly to the railway station, and inquired for the night-agent. The man could throw no light upon the mystery, however. He had been at his post the night in question, but was cer- tain that no lady had urchased a ticket of him, though several gentleman had done so, ‘* How far is it to the next station?” Mr. Fer- ret inquired. ‘** Four miles.” ‘* Above or below!” ** Below.” Mr. Ferret hurried to the nearest livery- stable, and hired a boy to drive him down. | Having reached his destination, and found the station- agent, his first question was this: ‘*Do all the night-trains stop here?” “Yes, sir,” was the ready answer. takes in wood and water at this p’int.” ** How many night-trains are there?” ‘Four, all told, sir—that is, [ mean two each way,” replied the station-agent, a big, rough- looking fellow who seemed to be something of a ossip. ‘They pass each other here.” ** At what hours?” “Ten in the evening and four in the morn- | t | OR ple take tickets from thi man e 8 TICKe’ m As station, I anipenetien: | “ They “Wall, not so very many, sir,” said the man, scratching his head. ‘Sich as do, come, for the most part, from the ke one mile below, down in the holler. Some days there are half oo and very often, at night, there’s no- y. “Can ee tell me if there was anybody to | take the four o’clock train, Tuesday morning?” | Tuesday? Let me see! That was the morn- i ing | after poor old Mr. Challoner was murder- ““T feel very rich, darling. See, I can dupli- | ed? cate the sum you have brought, note by note.” So indeed he could. For, producing a second roll very similar in appearance to the first, he placed a note of like denomination upon each of those Dolores had laid down. TACuiNg sip her wondering eyes, he said: “This good-by.’ oe oa very glad.” Before she could add another word, the cell- ; Jor was opened, aud the warden ushered ina small, quiet-looking man who proved to be none (ner than our old friend, Detective Ferret. When the warden had withdrawn, and Vin- eo 5 turned #2 Breet the detective, Dolores paved herself de him and said, eagerly: ~I intended this as a surprise, my love. I sont for Mr. Ferret, and have se his ser- vices that the mysterious crime for which you suffer may. be thoroughly investigated.” ““Thank you, Dolores. It was, perhaps, the wisest thing you could have done.” Mr, Ferret: quietly helped himself to a chair. | “ What defense did you offer at the examina- Colonel Falkner’s gift, He pushed | the monsy into my hand when he came to say ; | “ Yes, I believe so.” | “Why, bless you, sir, there were two, that morning, and cur’us customers they were, too. ' Never opened their heads to speak to a body, if they could help it.” ‘ Men?” “No, sir, aman and a woman. The man was all muffled up about his face. He rushed up | jest as the train was ready to start, threw down is money and asked in a squeaky voice for a ticket to ion I gave him one, and he climbed a the rear car jest as the train was moving off, ‘‘ Did the woman go by the same train?” ‘No, sir. She went in the opposite direction; and I should have told you about her afore, for | She was the first to leave. She came in allalone, about three, and inquired abont the trains. She | sat a few moments, and then went out; and of _ course I stepped to the door and looked after | her. She was walking up and down the rail- road track, sir, as if she was on a wager.” | Did you see her face?’ asked . Ferret, eagerly. “I did not. She was dressed in black, and had her vail down. I don’t think she was a young woman, sir; but she was straight as a saplin’ for all that. She purchased no ticket, but I saw her get aboard the down train. There was somethin’ cur’us about that woman, The detective was of the same opinion; but he merely said: “Have you any grounds for thinking that the man and woman were acquaintances?’ ‘Not the slightest, sir; and what’s more, I don’t think so. The down-train leaves some three or four minutes before the other; and so far as I know the woman came and was gone before the man got here at all.” Mr. Ferret said nothing more, but be mental- ly decided that the whole circumstance was a very singular one. CHAPTER XXII. COLONEL FALKNER’S PERPLEXITY.- “Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before.” —MOonTGOoMERY. TuE night was hot and still. Scarce a breath of air ruffled the foliage of the dark old trees that drooped lovingly over the gray walls of Glenoaks. The atmosphere seemed heavy and oppressive. ntil a late hour Colonel Philip Falkner sat in the small room on the ground floor that had been fitted up fora Eo ace study, poring over legal documents .and reports of famous trials. He hoped to gather from these papers some hint that might be useful to Vincent; for though there were doubts in his own mind of the youn man’s innocence, he did not wish io see him suf- fer the full penalty of the law. Rising languidly at length, as if wearied out with his long sitting, Colonel Falkner proceeded to the open window, and after standing there a moment stepped out. The crimson curtains fell together behind him, and the lamp that still burned within was the only indication thatthe room had been inhabited at all that evening. Gray, leaden clouds covered the whole heav- ens like a pall. Even the night-birds were still; and the heavy, oppressive scent of flowers filled the air almost to faintness. 2 _ Plunging at once into the shrubbery, Colonel Falkner walked thoughtfully on in the direction of the sea. He had not proceeded far, however, when he saw some dark object flit swiftly from one group of evergreens to another, and pause there as if to rest or reconnoiter, though in all its movements there was an evident desire to shun observation. ; “Tt is Ethelind,”. he thought. ‘Rash girl! She should not be wandering abroad at this hour of the night.” i Sheltering himself behind a conveni lis, he waited for the dark figure to nearer. Several minutes elapsed before it moved at all, and then, as if in a sudden accession of courage, it started up and glided ek past within three or four yards of Colonel Falkner’s hiding- place. ) To his intense ees the figure did not prove to be Ethelind’s after all, but that of a strange lady dressed in black, whose head and face were closely muffled in a thick vail. She glided on copie in the direction of the house; and Colonel Falkner, startled, a lexed and curious, immediately turned and followed her, taking care to keep in the shadow and so far behind as not to attract her attention. The mysterious lady made her way directly toward the window of the study, where the light still burned brightly behind the closely- drawn curtains. Pausing right before it, she stood for some time motionless, her head bowed. as if either listening or praying. Colonel Falkner stole a few steps nearer, feel- ing more bewildered than ever. Suddenly the woman flung up her hands wildly, and a sub- dued wail broke from her lips. , ‘* Ob, Philip, pity me! My heart is breaking!” Something in that low, thrilling voice caused Colonel Falkner to start as though he had re- ceived an electric shock. It sounded familiar, and she had spoken his name! What did it mean? Did she know under whose window she — , and was she there simply because it was 8? His heart beat a little faster, but he sprung forward, and —e the woman by the arm. ‘Who are you?” he sternly demanded. There was no answer save a low, frightened moan, and she seemed to shrink away from him as if in deadly terror. “What are you doing here? Speak!” In another instant he would have torn away the muffling vail, but the woman eluded the movement, and wrenching her arm from his grasp, darted swiftly past, and fled, witha sbrill cry, into the darkest and densest of the shrub- “Colonel Falkner followed, but he could not overtake her. The black dress she wore blend- ed naturally with the shadows that everywhere the grounds, and at the distance of a — rods she was completely lost to observa< on. a2 WIFE OR WIDOW? vengeance with God. How my peace, leavin; young reprobate to cling to ! she must love thai him so tenacious] The spiuster’s heart gave a leap, while sigh after sigh heaved her bosom. The remembrance of her own dead love was gradually working a eons ng: influence upon her nature. It was making her more considerate for the woes of others. One morning when Dolores was leaving the house on her daily visit to the prison, Aunt Jer- ry intercepted her at the door and drew her into one of the small anterooms. “T don’t like to see you looking so broken- hearted, child,” she said. ‘‘ It makes me feel re- morseful, as though I were, somehow, the cause of your misery.” “ You must not look at it in that light,” Do- lores answered, with a rising sob. “How can 1 pete i Vincent Erle might have gone scot-free not I denounced him.” “Never mind. You did what you believed to be your duty.” unt. Jerry looked earnestly into the girl’s agitated face. ’ “Do you cherish no resentment, child?” “None. Why should I?” ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish my tongue had been plucked out by the roots before it uttered a single word against your husband! I do, in- anc f d fell olores gave a sort of gasp, and fell to crying hgmbertcalie “Aré you sure, quite sure, that my poor andfather wneke those dreadful words you ve attributed to him?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Lord! I wish I wasn’t.” ‘Is it not possible that. you, in your excite- ment, mistook some other name for his?” Aunt Jerry sullenly shook her head. ‘‘T heard it too distinctly; and my ears never play tricks with me,” “T do not understand it,” said Dolores, break- ing into a subdued wail. “ rendpape must have been deceived, then, must he not? I will believe any thing but that Vincent is guilty.” ‘Dear lamb! I'll swear to a lie, and tell judge and jury that the r murdered man didn’t say what he did, if you'll only smile again!” cried Aunt Jerry, utterly overcome. “No, no,” said Dolores fentl . “It is over and done with. You could not have helped tak- ee course you did.” n reaching the prison, that day, Dolores found her husband ae pale and languid, on the side of the cot. For her sake he had borne his hard Jot uncomplainingly up to this moment. Even now his haggard face lighted up with a smile at her coming, but the anxious wife could not be deceived. “ Vincent, dear,” she said, ‘‘you have been borrowing trouble.” “Pll do so nomore. I will look onthe bright side to the latest moment.” “Is there a bright side?” she uttered, in the thrilling accents of despair. ‘‘To me it seems all black and terrible. The poor fellow drew a deep’ breath, as if struggling with some strong emotion. ‘For shame, Dolores,” he said, with a pitiful attempt at playfulness. ‘‘To whom can I look for encouragement, if you turn croaker?” ‘* Forgive me.” “I’ve had a fit of despondency this morning— I don’t deny it,” he added taking her two hands and erawing her toward him, “ But now that you are with me again, I shall banish it. We will be brave, my darling.” “Yes, very brave,” she answered, steadily; but the dew was in her eyes. Just at this moment a key grated in the lock, and Mr. Ferret was ushered into the cell. The detective seemed disconcerted at finding Dolores there, but he bowed to her profoundly before turning to greet the prisoner. The expression of the man’s face on entering had not been lost on Dolores. After an awk- ward pause she said, in the lowest audible tone: “T think you have some business with my husband, sir. Do not let my presence be a re- straint upon you.” ‘* My business can wait, madam.” “It is not necessary that it should,” she an- swered, quickly. Then she lifted a beseeching glance to Vincent’s face, and added: “ Tell him to ak freely, my love, that you have no secrets from your wife. If he bri good news, I shall be rejoiced to hear it. If it is bad, I wish to help you bear it.” Vincent turned a shade paler, “My wife has a right to know the worst,” he cule -prnensing the etective. ‘Keep nothing “Very well,” said Mr. Ferret, bowing. ‘‘Af- ter all there is little or nothing to communicate. I came merely to ask for my dismissal from your employ.’ ‘On what ground?” “IT can do nothing. The case is ond my scope, You but waste money by re ng me and it is but just to tell you so.” A shudder passed through the prisoner, but he ee ‘*'You have done what you could to clear up the m stery that my case?’ ‘es. ‘What is your opinion of my chances?” “Shall I tell you?” said the detective, and he looked askance and troubled at Dolores. ‘*T hope you will.” “ Well, it is a nasty case. Just look at the leading facts for amoment. The deceased was your avowed enemy; he violently opposed your ying your addresses to his granddaughter. Then came the secret marriage; old Mr. Chal- loner discovered it, was very angry, and threat- ened to cut off his grandchild with a shilling; the lawyer was summoned, everything made ready for a new will to be drawn up. It is known that you were at Dingle Dell the night of the murder, and that Mr. Challoner’s sudden determination to disinherit your wife was made known to you. Last of all comes Mrs. Jerry Martin’s damning evidence—the last words of the dying man. But I need not dwell upon all this—it is too painful.” There was silence. Dolores had seated herself and turned away her face. Now she looked up quickly, choking back the sob that had risen in her throat. ““ You have forgotten the strange woman Aunt Jerry met on the landing,” she said, in a faint voice. ‘*No, I have not forgotten her. If that wo- man was Madam Zoe, as I strongly suspect, her testimony might be of the first importance. But she cannot be found.” ‘*Let the search be thorough,” said Dolores, clasping her hands. ‘‘Oh, leave no stone un- turned.” ‘“‘T have done what I could. - The whole coun- try round has been scoured, and descriptions of Madam Zoe’s person sent to New York, Phila- delphia and Baltimore. But it is of no use. i a clew to her hiding-place can be discov- ered. Vincent looked uneasy. ‘Unless the woman can be found, mine isa lost cause—is that what you mean?” he said. “It is. And I fear that she has left the coun- ti 2) olores laid her hand timidly on his arm. “Don’t give up the search,” she said, implor- ingly. ‘‘Don’t permit any thing to discourage you. Think, think, what there is at stake—an immortal life! What do we care for the ex- pense incurred? Let us go out from here beg- gars, if need be. Oh, promise me, do promise, that you will work to the last!” The detective drew hastily away, brushing his hand over his eyes. ‘‘There, there,” he uttered. ‘‘ Don’t say an- other word, madam. I will work; something may come of it yet. Iwas a fool to think of giving up the search because of a few discour- agements. Henceforth it shall be prosecuted with new vigor.” **God bless you.” Misfortunes never come singly. It was this same day, while the cloud of despondency was still upon them, that Vincent and Dolores re- ceived their first intimation of the marriage %, seen and the subsequent flight of the ride. ‘Poor Ethelind,” said Vincent. Dolores burst into tears. “She never loved Raymond—why was she driven at last into a marriage she abhorred?” “It does seem very singular that she should have wedded him and then fled from him as soon as the ceremony was performed.” ‘*Poor wayward child. I am sosorr Raymond was never worthy of her. do ho} that he will never find her.” “Dolores!” uttered Vincent, reprovingly. “T do,” she repeated, still sobbing. ‘‘ He is cold, cruel, selfish. I can feel no love or respect for him though he is my cousin. He will crush her heart just to show his power over her.” She was silent a moment or two, and then drew closer to her husband’s side. ff ond has never orce been to see you since this trouble began—had you thought of that?” she whispered. : “He believes me guilty, no doubt; and in that case of course he would not come.” ‘* But he does not even come to Dingle Dell!” “T am surprised to hear that.” “ He has not passed a mee pielt there since peer oa was buried. I believe he has ken a sudden antipathy to the place.” “How strange!” exclaimed Vincent, in a musing tone. And then the conversation was dropped. After that the days seemed to glide by more rapidly than ever, for each one was bringing nearer the time appointed for the trial. Dolores tried to be brave, but her soul sickened with de- spair, for no new evidence came to light as time wore on. Detective Ferret, though indefatiga- ble in his efforts, could accomplish little, coping single-handed as he was with the startling array of facts he had to confront. The prisoner himself did not even attempt to shut h ware to the hopelessness of his cause. But trouble had strengthened and disciplined his nature; instead of murmuring, he endea- for her. hope—I vored to put self and selfish interests out of his | thoughts altogether, and set himself to the task of cheering and enco' poor Dolores. The day previous to that appointed for the trial the wretched wife remained later than usual in her husband’s cell, She hac been very calm throughout the Jong interview, but it was the calmness of despair. When she arose to sc, Vincent took her into his arms to say good-by. “Ask God to sustain you, darling,” he whis- pered. ‘‘ He is your only refuge.” “*T will,” she answered, ‘To-morrow will be a dreadful. day for us both, I think you realize this?” Yes,” she said, faintly gasping. ‘“Try to prepare yourself for the worst. I4 is impossible to tell beforehand how trials: oi this sort will terminate. You will be brave?” She did not reply, but fixing on him a look as if her heart were broken, hurried from the cell. An hour later she stumbled ae the steps at Dingle Dell as if stricken with sudden blindness. Aunt Jerry was on the watch, and let her in. The instant the door opened, Dolores fell for- ward senseless into the startled woman’s arms. CHAPTER XXVII. THE VERDICT. ‘*How stands the great account ’twixt me and ven- geance?” —Youna. ALL that night Dolores lay on the couch in her chamber, still and silent as if life itself had — out with the last faint ebbing of hope. unt Jerry hovered round the bed, grim, anx- ious andfmiserable, but the suffering girl had not resolutions enough to, send her away; so they shared the vi together—one that neither would soon forget. When morning dawned, Dolores roused her- self from the state of petrifaction in which she had remained so many hours. In spite of the woman’s remonstrances, she dressed herself carefully in an entire suit of black, and sat down to wait for the carriage that was to convey her to the court-room. “You are not fit to stir from the house,” said Aunt Jerry, emphatically, ‘and you mustn’t think of going to the trial.” “My ecatimony: may be wanted,” said the r soul, “I don’t care if it is. All the ju sand ju- ries in the land shan’t drag you into the witness- box when you are too ill to stand!” “ But I wish to go—I must!” “Now don’t be a fool. The court-room is no place fora lady. Take my advice and ronal, at home.” “My husband will be there. It may strength- en him to know that I am near,” said Dolores, turning so very pale that Aunt J erry feared she was about to faint = “There, there,” she said, hastily, with a sud- den touch of tenderness. ‘ Poor child, I. ee you no longer. Go, if you must. I might oO the same thing, were I circumstanced as you are. She regretted the decision of Dolores, how- ever, for well she knew what a fiery ordeal awaited her. The pity she felt for the poor girl was even greater than her desire to. be avenged on Egbert Challoner’s murderer. A thought had been buzzing about in her brain all through the night, and now it recurred in. “ + y testimony is the most damaging of an that will be offered against Vincent. Erle. this day,” she said to herself, striding up and down the room very much as a man would have done. “Tf I help to hang bim there will be two deaths for which to answer, for Dolores would not long survive him. He deserves to swing as high as Haman; but then howcan I entail such suffer- ing on that innocent child? I’m tempted to take myself off and stop in hiding until the trial is over. She wheeled round and glanced at the clock on the chimney-piece. It was half-past eight, and at nine an express train passed through bers village. She could reach it by being expe- itious. “Tll do it,” she cried aloud, with sudden energy. ‘‘It’s nobody’s business but soy are ‘When the State attorney calls my name to-day, nobody will be there to answer to it.” ‘Laughing grimly at the mental picture her words called up, Aunt Jerry hurried to her own room, and in five minutes’ time had put on her cloak and bonnet, made up a small bundle which wes easily stowed away in the ample ket of her skirt, taken suc er as she ad in the house, and had stolen forth with a soft, catlike tread. ‘What will they say when they find me miss- ing, as well as Madam Zoe?” she chuckled, tak- | ing the shortest route to the station, and hurry- ing on breathlessly. ‘‘ There will be some star- ingagmnds more swearing, when the fact. comes out. She had turned the last corner and was with- in twenty yards of the station when a police- man she w by sight crossed the street, and | rapidly drew near. ‘Good-morning, Miss Martin,” said the man, thrusti ing for out his big, red hand. ‘‘ Fine morn- e trial.” ® WIFE OR WIDOW? 23 “The morning is well enough,” pperpe? Aunt Jerry, angry at being stopped, and that he should have presumed to address her in this fate manner. ‘Stand out of my way, fel- low. ‘You seem to be in a hurry, Miss Martin.” Well, if I am, that’s my ‘business and not ours.” : ‘Of course,” said_the policeman, with a de- reyes smile, ‘‘I do not wish to be imperti- nent. “ But you are,” retorted Aunt Jerry. * Excuse me. I would be glad to ask a few questions relating to the trial, if you do not mind.” ‘IT do mind, very much,” cried Aunt Jerry, who at this instant heard the shriek of the in- coming train. ‘Stand aside; I can’t stay to be bothered with your impertinence.” “Then we will walk on together.” “T don’t want your company.” “That’s bad, for I want yours.” Aunt Jerry stared at the man in blank aston- ment, " “You are drunk,” she gasped. ‘‘ If you don’t get out of my way this instant I’l1 call one of the station guards and have you given in charge.” “No you won't.” “Why won’t I—I’d like to know?” ** Because I have you in charge already,” said the officer, dropping his hand on her arm. Aunt Jerry’s color faded. Her blood turned cold as ice, and she began to tremble. “What do you mean by this insult?’ she de- manded. ‘‘ You shall smart for this!” “T have my orders, Miss Martin, and daren’t disobey them. You are the most important witness in the case that’s on to-day, and I can- not lose sight of you.” “T shall lose the train!” shrieked Aunt Jerry. “Of course. You can’t leave the village to- day. Come along. Your evidence will be want- “T won't testify!” “You can’t help yourself.” me Eu Isay I soe t. Bib c to Fase who can compel me to speak ag my will?’ The officer smiled. r “That’s a matter to be settled between you and the judge. L hope you will come with me quietly.’ Aunt Jerry uttered a groan of despair, but she offered no further resistance, It would have been usel: as she well knew; so, turning about, she followed the policeman to the court- room, which had just been opened. The prisoner was brought in after a little de- lay. Aunt Jerry leaned forward and gasped for breath, for Dolores, closely vailed, was clinging to hisarm. The poor soul crossed the room with tottering steps, and seemed to sink hal(-algens into the chair that was placed for er “Poor lamb! She'll go off into another swoon; I know she will!” muttered Aunt Jerry. The proceedings commenced. The testimony has been given, for the most ak already, and need not be recapitulated. The witnesses were locked into one of the smaller rooms, and sum- moned’ as they were wanted. When Aunt Jerry’s name was called, nobody answered to it for some minutes. The judge waxed impa- tient. : “Sheriff,” he said, ‘‘is not Miss Martin in the court?” _ She is, your honor; but she refuses to take the stand,” replied the sheriff, i asiained” compulsion. The court can’t be A short struggle ensued, and Aunt Je pe 6 with and excitement, was Griggs e stand. But she refused to be sworn until the threats of the judge brought her to reason. Afterward she gave her evidence cheerfully enough until the events of that fatal night were eer upon, and then she became obstinately “You must answer such questions as the coun- sé] address to you,” said the Jud , sternly. “The hard-héarted brute! ed the excited woman, fairly shrieking with passion. ‘‘They ought to be ashamed of themselves, making me swear a fellow-creature’s life away! That’s queer sort of justice, it seems to me. Your laws are a humbug, and I despise them!” She was told that her injudicious course only injured the prisoner’s cause, and after a deal of trouble such evidence as she had to give was coaxed and wheedled out of her. _ The counsel for the defense made an able and ingenious speech, the judge summed up, and about five o’clock the jury retired.. They were absent a very short time. The judge arose, amidst the dead silence of the court, and put Om Boweinn yon th f the jury? Is iow say you, lemen 01 Vincent Erle vailty of the crime fall to his charge, or not guilty?” ; The answer came in clear, distinct tones that caused more than one heart to throb with vio- lence. “ Guilty!” ane wailing cry rung through the room, and Dolores fell forward on the t of ber doomed husband, | CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MIDNIGHT SUMMONS. “God help thee, then! I'll see thy face no more; Like water spilled upow the plain, Not to be gathered up again, Is the old love I bore.’ ~ LATE one night a little more than a week sub- sequent to Ethelind’s flight, Colonel Philip Falk- ner was sitting alone in bis study, not readin and not reflecting, but in a dreamy blending o the two, when there came a sharp peal at the door-bell Jobn, the only servant up at that late hour. answered the summons. . After a brief interva ho ete the study, and bowing respectfully, said; “Tf you please, sir, there’s a woman at the door.” “A woman?” echoed Colonel Falkner, in a tone of surprise. ‘‘ For whom did she ask!” ‘For you, sir. I think it’s one of the servants from Lorn.” He rose quickly at the mention of that magic name, and descending the hall, approached the large entrance-door, Joan Withers stood there, clinging to the railing, her yellow, unprepos- seen face convulsed with some deep emo- on. “Come,” she said, tottering forward a few steps and dropping ber hand on Colonel Falk- ner’sarm. ‘ She has sent for you!” “Do you mean your mistress?” “Yes. She wishes to see you immediately. It will be enough, she said, to tell you that.” Colonel Falkner felt his heart throb with be- wildering joy and excitement. The supreme moment had come! She had sent for him, ac- cording to her promise. In his delight he failed to remark Joan’s repressed excitement; or to give a second thought to the fact that the sum- mons had come at so unseemly an hour. **Come in,” he said, “‘and my servant shal] bring out the carriage at once.” “*T cannot wait—we are losing precious time,” said Joun, huskily. ‘‘ We must walk.” She turned to go, as she spoke, and Colonel Falkner caught up his hat, with a chill forebod- ing of evil, and hurried after her down the steps. erent me what has bappened,” he said, a lit- tle sternly, “Is ill?” Mrs, Faunce ill? “She would not have sent for you otherwise. But I cannot talk. My heart is too full. Come, let us make haste quickly.” A low moan broke from her lips, and turning into one of the nearest paths, she walked on with an accelerated step. Colonel Falkner fol- lowed her in’ silence, that sick sensation of dread becoming more intensely vivid every moment, The night was hot and still. No silvery moon was treading its lightsome way through the sky, but the heaveus were thickly gemmed with stars that bathed the landscape in a subdued holy light. Faint flashes of lightnin layed about the horizon, ever and anon, and the sea ed with a dirge-like music on the gloomy shore. Not a word was uttered until that night-walk ended, and they were climbing the steps at Lorn. Then Joan’s compressed lips parted, a few muttered words falling from them. ‘Here we are at last, thank God!” Lights were flashing here and there in the house, but. instead of ringing for admittance, Joan produced a key from some capacious pocket, and in another moment they were trua- versing a large, dimly-lighted hall from which branched several narrower passages. Turning into one of these latter, Joan paused before a door that stood slightly ajar. “Remain here a few moments,” she said, an and pausing opened the door, entered by herself the room beyond. ; Colonel Falkner’s sense of hearing seemed to be ae ce iia acute, or else the profound stillness of midnight it was that brought. out the slightest sound. At any rate his quick ear caught a rustling movement, a suppressed cry, aud then a low voice said eagerly: “Oh, Joan, tell me quickly, did he come?” “Yes, my lady.” “Thank God! thank God! Where did you leave him?” y “Hush!” came the warning whisper. There was a brief silence, and then the woman, who seemed to possess considerable influence with her mistress, said in.a tone of vehement remon- strance: “Surely, madam, you will permit me to pre- pare Wolbdal Warkhay for Wha be isto eee" be- ‘ore admitting him to your presence?” . ‘ Prepare him?” “Yes. It will be a t shock, a terrible rise, You know what I mean. For his sake, as well as your own, I ask your permission to offer a brief explanation before you meet face to face.” — ’ “Tt cannot be. You are a meddlesome idiot, Joan. Go, this instant, and admit him.” Joan breathed a heavy sigh, but with a slow, lagging ste she returned to the passage where Colone’ Falkner waited, pale and trembling, “You can enter,” she said. ‘ But be careful how you agitate my mistress. It is very hazardous for her to see you at all in her pre- sent condition: but she would not be dissuaded from her purpose.” She stood aside, and beckoned for him to go in. Strange indeed were the conflicting emo- tions with which he crossed the threshold. ‘J he tones of that voice relieved of all we at dis- ri as heard in expostulation with Joan, Lad alf revealed the truth to him—a truth ¢o strange, startling and horrible that his shocked mind refused to grasp it. ’ The spacious room. was lighted: with wax candles placed in silver sconces on marble stands and on elaborately-carved brackets that adorned the walls, If it had seemed chaste and elegant in the garish light of day, this pearly, subdued brilliancy made it infinitely morye s0. On a silken divan near the open_ window, re- clined the mistress of all this splendor, She wore a flowing white wrapper that contrasted strongly with the funereal garments in which she usually arrayed herself. The muffling black vail was gone, but as Colonel Falkner stole forward she uttered a strange sound, half- sob, half-scream, and covered her face with her hands, “ At last! at last!” she cried. He stood beside her a moment without speak- ing, but he saw that she trembled like one un- der the spell of some deadly fear. ‘““You sent for me, Mrs. Faunce,” he said at length, controlling himself with an effort, “ and I am here.” “Oh, God, be merciful to me a sinner!” The words seemed to break from her lips in- voluntarily. Were they a plaint to Heaven, or meant to win human compassion as well as di- vine mercy? A dreadful, sickening suspicion caused Colo- nel Falkner’s brain to wlirl as he bent over her and said, in the suppressed accents of deep emotion: **Look up! Tell me, Mrs. Faunce, what I can do to help you?” “J dare not! I dare not!” she shivered, still keeping her face hidden in her bands. ‘ ‘Do you mean that you are afraid to meet my ‘aze?” * Yes, ves,” “T thought the time had come when it your pleasure to trust me fully.” ‘T had so resolved. Oh, with what. depth of longing have I looked forward to this hour! And now that it is come my courage fails me. I can only tremble! I can only fear! I can only hide my face in shame! Oh, merciful God, why have you forsaken me?” She groaned, and her whole figure seemed to writbe with agony. While Colonel Falkner still stood looking down at her, with strange intent- ness, he’ saw blood spurt suddenly from be- tween her half-closed fingers. She turned her face to the wall. “Call Joan,” she said, in a faint voice, be- fore he had recovered sufficiently to ak at all, ‘My servant will know what to do for me.” It was unnecessary. Joan stood at that mo- ment at his elbow, her yellow face ghastly with you've killed her! I knew ‘you would!” she fiercely exclaimed, pushing him away from the couch, and bending apprehensively above ber mistress. ’ There was a silence. While it lasted Joan seemed to be engaged in wiping away the flow of blood; but she stood with her to Colo- nel Falkner, between him and the couch. At length she lcoked round and said, ean : “Send the physician here—he is waiting in the room just across the passage. Go, and do not return agai’ you felt mn.” She spoke in a tone of authority to which he yielded instinctive obedience. Hurrying to the apartment in question he found a man past the middle age—not Dr. Lance, but a stranger—sit- ting there, reading a newspaper and at the same time sipping a cup of fragrant Mocha, while a tray of refreshments on a small table at his elbow. ; Half a dozen words sufficed to acquaint this man (he was evidently a physician who had been hastily summoned from the city) with the emer- gency. He rose at once and proceeded to the apartment where Mrs. Faunce was lying. . Left alone, Colonel Falkner paced the floor in an anguish of mind that cannot be described. He felt that at last he had a clew to the mystery that had so perplexed himself and baffled the curiosity of others. But now that he guesse! somewhat of the truth, he shrunk with a sic} feeling of horror from learning more; and yet, strange contradiction, all the riches of Goleo)- da would not have tempted him to forego the opportunity of knowing all. Until he did, res‘ | and peace must remain strangers to his torture: soul A long, endless hour wore on, and at lengt!: Joan looked in at the door. The of deadly fear was fore from her countenance, but it had left a cloud behind it, and her brows | were sternly contracted. “How is your patient?” Colonel Falkner ask- ed. Sree forward, © Be r,” was the brief reply. “Can I see her?” : : “Not to night. She lacks strength to sustain WIFE OR WIDOW? There is not even tho excuse of sudden passion; the deed appears to have been the cool, deliber- ate act of an assassin.” Dolores felt, the blood slowly congeal round her heart... She threw herself at his feet, clasp- ing and wringing her pale little hands. ‘Be merciful, be. compassionate!” she whis- pered, hoarsely,. ‘‘ Oh, think of the day when you yourself. will be SF AH EIOU for pardon! A oyrecious human life can blotted out of ex- istence at your nod. Oh, spare my husband as Tous hope to be spared. yourself! . He is inno- cent, t ‘“Ah, if L only believed that, it would be easy indeed to pardon him!” “T, his wife, tell..you he is innocent., You must believe me.” The Goyernor turned away his, face, which was twitching convulsively, “Poor child! poor, deluded child!” he mur- mure. “You will hear me?’ Dolores cried, wildly. “You cannot suffer this appeal to be made in vain? Remember, it_is a wife pleading for the life of her husband, You cannot send me away broken-hearted, It is notin your nature. You do pity me—you. will relent—you will pardon Vincent—you will restore happiness and peace to our, sorrowing lives—you will give us years of.contentment in which to repay one great act of leniency—oh, say that you will do all this, and—” Her voice died away in a cry of bitter an- guish... The Governor seemed well-nigh over- come, but he resolutely put forth his band to lift her up. “Rise,” he said, half-sternly. “If I could help, you, you would not need to put in such a passionate plea, But I mu-t not transcend the privileges of my office, no matter how crepe my sympathies as aman may. be enlisted. Vin- cent Erle has forfeited his life to the laws of his country. . It is not for me to step between him and the rightful retribution he has brought upon his own head, There was that in his tone which told Dolores how. useless, it, would be to prolong the inter- view. . The room seemed to ree) around her as she rose,.tottered a few steps toward Aunt Jerry, and fell forward half-fainting in the arms of the woman, down whose cheeks un- wonted tears were falling like rain. The prison was closed for the night when they returned from their unsuccessful mission; bub the next morning Dolores, with languid, linger- ‘ ing steps, made her way to the cell of her hus- band, He was not alone. Twoor three men were in the dreary place, and in one of them she re- cognized the sheriff. Ho held an open paper in his haad. - Vincent sent one swift, startled glance into the face of his wife, and though he read his doom.there, nota single’ groan ‘burst from his lips. Coming forward he said, hastily: ‘Pray retire for a few moments, my dear love. These gentlemen have business matters to transact with me, You can come in again when. they are gone.” But a terrible conviction as to the nature of that “business” had already struck home to Dolores’s heart. She sunk down, pale and faint, onthe nearest chair, “Let. me remain,” she whispered, taking her husband’s hand and clinging to it convulsively. “Tknow what is coming. If you can bear the ordeal, I shall not shriok from it.” ; He could not say another word. While the husband and wife sat with their arms locked round each other and looking into each other’: eyes for comfort and encouragement, the sheriff proceeded, in clear, distinct tones, to read the. wairant for Vincent’s execution, CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE BACK STREET. “‘Oft in life’s stillest shade reclining, In desolation unrepiniag, Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an angel’s theme; Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in heaven a martyr’s palm.” It was pegs ten o’clock one dark, stormy night, and Matthew Puffy and his daughter Emily, supernumeraries in one of the New York theaters, were returning home, and had near reached the dilapidated tenement-house in whic! their wretched stipend of a few shillings per night insured to them two cramped,. stuffy back rooms as the best substitute for a home within their means, when they stumbled and - almost fell across some object lying directly in the way. “Good Lord! Em’ly, it’s a woman!” cried Matthew, as he bent down to learn the nature of the obstruction. ‘Qh, no, father,” “Yes, it is, child. Drunk, I reckon. Poor critter! - I see lots of sich cases. They takes to drink yat’ral like, when they once get into trouble. -It’s their only solace. PD ae ‘shall. we oe ae an were ni mily, compassionately c’ one of the co) little hands in both her aoe . , . “*We can’t leave her here.. She might. be trampled to death afore morning. T'll jest take her inside our own door, and go for a police- man. ” It was an easy matter for big, burly Matthew Puffy to lift that slight figure in his brawny arms and bear it to the dingy, smoke-begrimed hall, a few yards further on, that gave ingress to his own humble quarters. Emily followed, tears of pity in her modest blue eyes, and when her father had deposited his burden on one of the dilapidated steps that led to the upper stories, it was she who bent over her with a wo- manly longing to be of service to the poor night wanderer. ‘““Why, father, this is a fainting-fit,” she sud- denly exclaimed. _‘‘ The poor soul must have fallen down from exhaustion. Do look at her! I never saw such a sweet face; it is like an angel’s.” atthew himself was quite amazed now that he had a better view of the person he had suc- cored. The street-lamp nearest his door was out, and when he lifted the woman up he did not know whether she was young or old, hand- some or uely But now that the flickering light from an old lantern that hung aloft fell upon her face, he was as greatly startled at its beauty as Emily seemed to be. ‘ a Lewy me, Em’ly, I do believe she’s a lady,” e said. “Of course she is, father. Look at her dress, It’s plain and neat, but I never owned one half so fine. And there are real gold rings on her fingers.” , “She's certainly a lady or—” Emily’s plump little hand suddenly stopped his mouth, and she frowned—very severely for her. “Hush, father. You shall not say it. That face is good and pure, and I am going todo for the poor lady what 1 should wish ber to do for mein a similar trouble. Please, father, help me take her up-stairs to my own little room. She shall not lodge in the station house to-night, whatever betide.” . Matthew’s heart was as soft as his daughter’s; and five minutes later the stranger was lying on a poor but clean bed, in a seven-by-nine room, and Emily was employing all the simple reme- | dies at her command to recall the wandering | spirit. exe length the woman slowly unclosed her eyes, and an expression of agony crossed her waxen face. ‘‘Save me!” she cried, wildly. “T can’t go back. I would rather die.” “We are your friends. There’s nothing to be | afraid of here,” said Emily, trying to soothe her. “Thank God!” There was a moment’s silence, _Then the wo- man began to move and moan as if in pain; and after a little, to babble to herself. | ‘Poor thing,” said Emily, stepping into the next room, where her father sat. ‘She's de- lirious with fever. You'll have to fetch a doc- tor.” Matthew rose, without a word, and went out. Though poor as the proverbial church mouse himself, he did not for one moment dream of sending the strange woman to a hospital, or thrusting her into the street. A long acquain- tance with privation had left his heart tender and pitiful for all who suffered. For several days the beautiful stranger re- mained wholly unconscious of the kind and friendly faces that hovered above her couch, But at last there came a morning when she awoke from a refreshing sleep and looked at the atient Emily with a gleam of intelligence in er eyes. ‘Have I been ill?’ she asked. — “Yes,” said Emily, trembling with delight that her protegee was at last rational. “ But you are better, thank God.” ‘* Where am I?” ‘With friends, dear lady. Never mind, now. My father and I will take care of you.” © large, luminous eyes filled with tears, ‘You are very good,” she said, in a low voice. “Heaven will repay you for your kindness to me. . The next morning she was able to converse more freely, When Emily appear’ at her bed- side, she looked up with a sad, sweet smile and said: “JT must be a great burden to you, dear friend.” “os ‘“No, not a burden,” said Emily, earnestly. ike never had a sister, I’m glad to have you ere. “You seem to be very poor.” “ Father and I Sears hungry. And we are able to pay the rent for the two rooms we live in. Don’t be afraid, dear lady.” : You find a small package in the dress IT ms on when you found me. Bring it to me, lease. a ‘Emily did as she was requested, and the wo- man slowly unrolled several new bank-notes and thrust them into the girl’s hand. “Ym not quite penniless,” she said, with a athetic smile. ‘‘Take the money and use it eely.” ~ Haye you no friends for whom you wish us to send?” asked Emily, laying the notes down on the window-ledge as if she did not like to touch or even look at them. “None,” was the mournful answer. “What is your name?” “T will tell you because you are so good and kind tome. But you must never repeat it--I wish to remain unknown. from my friends and home. lind Erle.” “Tt is a pretty name.” _ ‘Did you ever hear it before?” asked Ethe- lind, anxiously. “Never.” “Tam glad of that. You may tell your fa- ther—he is too good to betray me. But nobody else is to know,” As Ethelind’s health and strength returned she gradually confided to Emily fragments of her history until the whole mournful story had been told. ; The night of her flight from Glenoaks, Ethe- lind had a directly to the cottage of a. fisher- man on the beach—a poor man she had once be- friended. eaene rom him a solemn prom- ise never to betray her, she had persuaded him to take her several miles down the bay, in his sail-boat, and put her on board a small trading- vessel bound for New York. ; Afterward, she had wandered aimlessly up and down the streets, ill, friendless, and de- spairing, until she had fallen down ina deadly swoon where Matthew and Emily found ber. The building in which father and daughter found. a home was a rambling old tenement- house that had once been a tavern. Naw, fully a score of families, besides some single lodgers, found a shelter beneath its roof. The poor, having little liberty of choice in their sur- roundings, and often compelled to huddle to- gether—God help them!—-where crime and pov- ih guilt and innocence, jostle each other rudely. One a when Ethelind was so far recovered as to bé able to sit up and move around again, she was alone in the poor little sitting-room— which was also Matthew’s bedchamber, where he slept on a rude settle before the fire—when a cautious step descending the attic stairs, sud- denly aroused her. Emily and her father had gone out to the morning rehearsal of the new extravaganza. The rcom-door stood slightly ajar, and impelled by an impulse she could not control, Ethelind hurried to it and looked out. : A woman’s figure was creeping stealthily along the landing. pearing thelind’s light step, she paused, flung her shawl quickly over her head, and retreated, uttering 4 long, sup- pressed cry that was almost a shriek. Ethelind sat down, pale and trembling. A strange, sudden suspicion made her brain whirl and her heart bound. She felt a premonition that she had not seen the last of the strange woman; 50 she drew her chair close to the door, and sat there watching and waiting. Sure enough, an hour later she heard the same stealthy step descending irom the attic. ‘This time the woman was closely vailed. Ethelind waited until she was nearly opposite the door, then, darting out, caught hold of her dress. “Madam Zoe, what are you doing here?” she sternly demanded, The woman attempted to beat off her clinging hands; but failing in this, she leaned helplessly aapinss the wall, a bitter groan breaking from er lips. : ns Ih, God! something told me I-should be found out at last!” “You are Madam Zoe?” : As there was no reply vouchsafed to the ques- tion, Ethelind gently put back the woman’s vail. The face upon which she gazed seemed like a marble face, but it was im ible to mis- take those handsome features,. She had_ visited Dingle Dell more than once, and knew Madam Zoe perfectly well. : “Tell me what this means,” she said, in a stern tone. ‘What induced you to leave Dingle Dell secretly, the night of the murder, and conceal yourself here?” A blaze of passion kindled in the woman’s eyes, “Pll tell you nothing,” she said, fiercely. ““-You must,” said Ethelind, trembling with excitement. She knew, through the medium of the come § Petey that Vincent had been tried for Egbert Challoner’s murder, and. convicted, Now, a sudden hope sprung to life in her bosom that the woman could throw some light on this terrible affair that would mitigate his sentence, and perchance open the prison doors to him. ‘‘You shall speak!” she passionately exclaim- ed, ‘My brother’s life hangs in the balance and I am fully persuaded that you concealed yourself here to avoid giving evidence that you wished, for some reason to suppress,” Madam Zoe wrung her hands convulsively, peo face, if possible, turning Bier than be- ore. rg “Let me alone,” she said. “I havé done you no harm. Let me go away in peace.” ' “ Not until you have cleared my brother!” ‘‘Fool!? hissed Madam Zoe,’ between her teeth, ‘‘ You know not what j‘ou ask!” - ” “T do know—an innocent mai’s life. If you let him die you area murderess,” —_. @ words, though spoken almost at random, produced a strange impression on the woman, I have run away My name is Ethe- 6. She dropped her head upon her breast, heavily groaning, “My God!” she said, ‘‘my God! I wishI had died that fatal night! Existence has been a burden to me ever since, If God is merciful why don’t he strike me dead and put me out of my misery?” ** Confess the truth!” T won’t! T never will! not force it from my lips.” ‘My brother? Is he not innocent? Tell me that!” said Hthelind, in the wild accents of ag- onized entreaty. ‘“Yes, ho is innocent,” said the woman, with a sudden touch of tenderness, as she looked into that working face. ‘I know he is innocent,” “¢ Thank God!” Ethelind tried to say more, but only gasped hoarsely while a. dimness came before her eyes. Retreating to the little sitting-room she sunk down on a chair; and when she came to herself again, Madam Zoo was gone. : That -night, after Emily returned from the theater and they were alone together, Ethelind said to her: “Do you know that singular-looking woman who occupies one of the attic-rooms?” ; “T have met her once or twice on the stairs,” Emily replied. ‘But I never learned her name—” ‘“How long has she been here?” “Several weeks.” ‘Has she any friends in the house?” “Not one,” said Emily... “She shuns all so- ciety, remaining secluded in her own room. Do you know,” she added in a whisper, ‘‘ that I cannot resist the conviction that she is hiding away from something or somebody?” Ethelind did not reply to the question; but after a short silence, she said: “ Will you po with me, in the morning, to see the woman of whom we have been speaking?” “Oh, dear! Are you really serious?” cried Emily, in accents of surprise. “Yes; I have reasons that I will disclose at some future time for preferring the request.” “T don’t like the woman. But I will go if you wish.” The next morning early the two young -irls picked their aE the steep. staircase leading tc the attic. mily knew which room was Madain Zoe’s, and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still no response. inally she opsned the door and entered. Tho room was empty, and a few wing artitlos lying about, as if left’ in a hurried flight, told their own story. Madam Zoe had, disappeared in the night. F Even the rack could ee CHAPTER XXXII. MRS. FAUNCE. “ Her face was pale, but very beautiful; her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper. But her countenance was like the Majesty of angels,” For’ a season that. strange, erratic woman, the mistress of Lorn, tasted of happiness in fe- verish draughts that were like nectar to her palate’ at one moment, and bitter as gall the next, Colonel Falkner was at her feet again, the blind, infatuated lover. He had once more fallen completely under the spell of her grace and beauty. The sinful ne miserable past, which had been so'darkly hinted at in the first interviews they held together, was never refer- red to now. He preferred to believe ‘blindly and implicitly in her truth, perhaps; for he made no effort ‘to sweep aside the curtain that hid so much that was dark and mysterious, But Mrs. Faunce could not ag be The sword of Damocles hung suspended above her head, and whether she waked or slept, whether sho rejoiced or sorrowed, she never for one moment lost mee of the fact that it was there, as real as reality, though she saw it not. And the con- sciousness murdered her ‘peace, imbittered her happiest moments, as was most natural, under the circumstances. One day, when she sat musing in her own room, her graceful hands lying in her lap, her eyes bent upon the carpet, she was su denly roused from her reverie by the loud ringing of me Teisho-it is Philip,” sh t e—it is ip,” she murmu: a soft roge-flush stealing into her cheeks. ae A few minutes later the room door opened and Joan Withers entered—alone, Mrs. Faunce could not repress a cry of disappointment. “Where is he, Joan? Did he only send a Give it to me instantly.” a looked white and scared, Mshe said, in a muffled voice, mel Falkner, but—the other tlloner.” : of anger and terror broke Mrs. Faunce, and she started r full hight, and stood there mly clinched, gasped, her tone just audible. mow rest or peace?” refused to admit him,” said WIRE “OR “WIDOW? Joan. “But he bade me say to you that even a dozen rebuffs would not discourage him—that he should come again.” “Do you thiuks he suspects?—or is it mere idle curiosity that brings him here?” “The latter, I fully believe,” Joan answered, itying her mistress’s evident terror so much hat she half unconsciously belied her real con- victions, “T wish I knew—I wish I knew,” moaned Mrs. Faunce, falling back i.to her chair again, with a dreadful shiver, The next day, at about the same hour, the bell again sent its imperative summons echoing through the house, ut a longer interval elaps- ed before Joan appeared at the door of the apartment in which Mrs. Faunce sat, pallid with suspense and fear. “Tt was he—Mr. Challoner! I know, I feel it!” exclaimed the wretched woman, without waiting for her servant to speak. “Yes, my ers “He intends driving me to madness and des- peration. But I will never see him—never!” Joan hastily advanced. “He scribbled a few lines on this card, ma- dam, and told me to deliver it immediately. Of course [ could not refuse to take it.” ane message was written in pencil, and ran us; “Thave been dismissed from your’ door for the last time. When I come oo to-morrow at this hour, you must admitme. Jknow you! Iamnota man to be trifled with.” An hour later, when Colonel Falkner himself made his appearance at Lorn, he found Mrs. Faunce nervous and hysterical. She screamed at sight of him, and throwing herself helpless on his breast, clung to him in what seemed an agony of terror. “What has happened?” he asked, in alarm. “ Are you ill?” “Take me away,” she shivered. ‘‘ You have said that you love me. Prove it by helping me to fly from this hated spot.” $ patient, Olympia,” he said, trying to soothe her. ‘One of these days, as soon as ev- erything is arranged, we will go.” ‘It must be now or—never |” “It would necessitate a great pecuniary sac- rifice were we to leave at once.” ““What do I care for that?’ she broke out, flercely, with her hands clinched. ‘‘ You shall not forsake me. And it would be wicked and sinful for you to weigh dollars and cents in the balance with my peace of mind.” He looked down at her with a strange glance in which there seemed to be a blending of love and shrinking distrust. , “Tt is not the Joss in money matters that troubles me, and I might as well confess the truth,” he said, a little coldly. ‘ You know that my ward Ethelind is missing. I cannot bear to go away until I have heard some tidings | of her.” Mrs. Faunce slipped quickly out of his arms and sat down. er bands were now helplessly relaxed and trembled in her lap. ‘You love that girl,” she said, in a deep, shaken voice. ‘‘She has usurped my place in our heart. I have feared it sometimes—I ow it now.” ‘* Hush! rc are talking wildly,” he said, but his eyes fell bencath the searching gaze she sent quivering into them. “Tf you do not love her, why are you so ready to sacrifice my happiness the moment she comes between us?” ‘You misunderstand me, Olympia.” o ee I fear that I understand you only too wel “Ethelind was intrusted to my care by her dying father. She has gone away friendless and alone. She may be penniless for aught I know—she certainly: is suffering. Is it not natural that I should wish to be assured of ber es before leaving this part of the coun- ry His tone was_ still cold and _ reproachful. Mrs. Faunce felt her powerlessness to hold out against him. She’ suddenly leaned her head against his shoulder and burst into a wild storm of sobs. ‘Forgive me, Philip. I did not wish to botra: anything akin to jealousy. But I am miserable —too wretched to live. I feel myself sinking into a horrible abyss where I shall be beyond the reach of hope or mercy or pardon; and no- body, not even you, is willing to stretch forth a saving hand.” : “What do you mean, Olympia?” he said, bending toward her with a touch of returning tenderness. ‘‘Why do you talk so strangely? Are you threatened by any new or immediate danger?” She dared not tell him. ‘No one here has penetrated your secret,” he went on, in his ignorance. “You might re- main at Lorn half a lifetime and not a whisper arise to betray the story of the ad Remem- ber how secluded is this place—how few in all the country have ever heard of you.” “The danger may be more imminent than you are aware,” she shivered. “It is im- ble to tell. And the world would not judge me with your leniency. It has no faith Pe As 27 inme.. It would sooner adjudge me guilty than innocent.” “No one would dare breathe a word against you in my presence,” » “Ob, Philip, Philip! Promise me. that_,you will never forsake me.” : “I do promise—but it is unnecessary, Our lives are too closely woven together ever to be divided again.” She was silent a moment or two, as if strug- gling with the emotions that had so en overcome her. At length she said, in a thrill- ing whisper: “Tam like one beset. A nameless horror is hovering over me, I feel as if evil spirits had hold of my soul, and were trying to wrench it from my body. Philip, unless you save me I am lost—lost to all eternity. Oh, be merciful! Let us fly this very night!” “So soon?” he said, startled by her. wildness and vehemence, ‘‘ Impossible. Try to be calm, Olympia. There is nothing to fear,” But she went on urging more vchemently than ever that such a course was ber only salvation. They would seek some far-off sunny clime, she said, some lsvely, romantic isle in a southern sea, where they could live and die together re- mote from man and the irksome trammels of a false civilization, Colonel Falkner listened in a vague wonder to her beseeching words. But insteed of drawing his heart-closer to her they seemed to widen the distance between them, ‘The glowing pictures she painted possessed little charm for him in the mood that had suddenly come over him,. He experienced a sickening sensation of misery and disappointment, as if all the brighest hopes of his life had crumbled toashes in his grasp, like Dead Sea fruit. Were the scales falling frum his eyes? Or was this reaction only the natural ef- ae his better nature trying to reassert it- se ‘ Mrs. Faunce, with a woman’s subtle intu- itions, divined at once the change in bis mood. She became silent all at once, a spasm of agony went over her face, and she sunk back in her chair trembling and pallid, as if she had resign- ed herself to a fate she was powerless to avert. “You are not yourtelf to-day,” said Colonel Falkner, looking at her curiously, ‘‘ Something has Happen to distress you, and you are keep- ing it from me.” “No, Iam not myself,” she said, wearily, ut- terly ignoring the words with which he had con- cluded. ‘I believe 1 realize how a poor, doom- ed prisoner must feel the hour before the execu- tioner comes,” She smiled very faintly, adding, before he could recover hiniself to reply; aot we had better say adieu for the present. You can come again to-morrow—it you wish.” { “TY shall come very early, then; as early as ou will admit me!” he exclaimed, struck by the misery expressed in every tone of her sob- bing voice, “No,” she. said, firmly, ‘‘ your visit tq-mor- row must be paid at a later hour than ever be- fore. Do not come until the sun is down. I shall be busy until-then.” She offered no further explanation of the re- aie but rose quickly and held out her hand, olonel Falkner took it, held it rather longer than usual, and as if yielding to an irresistible impulse, bent down suddenly and touched his lips to the soft, cool palm. : “T hope to find a more. cheerful when I come again,” he said. : She bowed her head’ passively, making no other reply. But when he had gone out and shut the door, she sunk down on her nae, clasped both hands over her eyes, and burst ou in subdued but hysterical crying, Ny, ——— CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DECREE OF FATE. “ The strait I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear! it frights my reason, warps my sense of virtue, Religion !|—changes me into a t T look at with abhorring!” —Tur Hononpack. THE next day, at the hour he had himself a pointed, Senna Challoner slowly approach- ed Lorn, threading one of those grass-grown paths that led, with many a detour, through the neglected grounds, ; ‘e was very pale, but his face wore a grim, resolute expression, and it was with a firm step that he ascended the terrace and made his wa to the gloomy, forbidding-looking portal. He looked like aman with a fixed, inflexible purpose in his mind. . His foot had scarcely touched the topmost step when the door opened, noiselessly, and Joan appeared, her usually imperturbable face strangely agitated. She spoke’ no word of greeting, but in utter silence beckoned him to enter. 7 > ‘And so I am to be given the open sesame to this enchanted ‘ee at last?” he said, with a mocking curl 0} the lip, as he crossed the thresh- old, ‘‘It is well. “You would never enter with my consent,” “fe . . Raymond wondered at her calmness. She sat may, Port life.” said Joan, fiercely. ‘‘ Butof courso my mistress acts her own pleasure. I am powerless to keep you out.” Sein Raymond smiled derisively. ‘*One would imagino you had played the part of uite long enough. Beauty and tho east an Una ani tho Lion aro worn out tales. 4 7 tiresomo in process of time. No matter—I havo gained my point. Pray con- duct mo at once to the presence of Mrs. Faunce.” The sneering emphasis with which he spoke that namo sent a shudder through the woman’s frame. Sho suddenly grasped his arm. “*T can seo that you aro in no conciliatory mood,” sho said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘‘ Bo warned in time. My mistress is desperate already—do not drivo her to mad- ness. I make this plea for yoursake as well as hers,” ef ey what do you warn me?” “ , I know not,” replied Joan, in deep agi- tation, dropping her hand and shrinking from him. ‘‘My heart misgives me—that’s all. The shameful past bas been rising before my mind with strange vividness all the morn- ing. He made an impatient gesture. “How is your mistress?’ he asked, after a short pause. “ Calm—unnaturally calm. I would rather soe her in any other mood. Oh, it was not well to admit Pa to this interview. I beg- ged and pleaded with her, but she would not listen, No good will come of it—no good.” A low moan broke from her lips, but she seemed to recover herself after a moment, and pointing out to him a door lower down the pas- sage, turned abruptly away, leaving him to go on by himself. : Raymond found Mrs. Faunce seated near an open window iu a partially darkened room, @ was dressed in black, some soft, filmy goods that emphasized the livid pallor of her face. There were bluish shadows round her mouth, and a purple line under her eyes that spoke of past conflict and suffering. She sat with her cheek resting on her hand but at the sound of the unclosing door sho raise: her head with a proud air that had something of defiance in it. “You have come,” she said, in a low mono- tonous voice. ‘I knew I could not evade you forever.” there like a marble woman, her glorious dark i meeting his unflinchingly. One fair round- arm was now thrown carelessly across a small table at her elbow, on which stood a sil- ver salver and a slender Venetian glass filled with some dark red liquid. She looked every inch a queen—a fallen one, perhaps—but wear- ing all her honors regally to the last. ‘ Olympia,” he gasped, ‘‘is it really you, or a delusion of my own excited brain?” “You knew, before coming here, whom you were to meet. Why, then, do you question me?” she said, wearily. _ “Tt seems so strange, so impossible. I can almost believe that necromancy has been at work. I doubt my own convictions. I almost doubt the evidence of my senses.” Mrs. Faunce waved him to a seat. “The long concealment and mystery are all over,” she said. ‘It is too late even to speak of them, In one word, now that you have found me out, what do you intend to do?” “My eh ‘ “Duty! That word does not sound very gra- cious, fa'ling from your lips.” “Perhaps not; but I repeat it, all the same.” Her eyes fell, and for the first time she be- trayed that, in spite of her forced composure, -” ps inwardly quivering with suspense and drea : “ What do you consider your duty?—if I may be so impertinent as to inquire.” “First of all to inform Colonel Falkner as to the true character of the siren to whose allur- ing wiles ho has fallen the latest victim.” ‘It is unnecessary. Already Colonel Falk- ner n made acquainted wi e story 0 has been mad inted with the st f Vith your version of it, perhaps,” came the sneering rejoinder.” It now remains for him to hear mine,” Mrs. Faunce looked as if she were ae the muscles about her mouth twitched convul- sively. " Oiice you pretended to love me,” she said, in a muffled voico; ‘‘and now you are laying your plans to rain me.” “My lovo was as short-lived as your own,” Raymond answered. ‘It died in the birth- pangs of a great horror. _ A stiil fiercer passion seems to have sprung up, Pheenix-like, from the ashes of yours. Wo can neither of us approach the other.” 3 Her proud head drooped a littls, and she said abruptly: ‘“How long is it since you guessed my se- cret?” ‘Strange suspicions have been working inmy mind for somo time. But the false name you bear, the fate I Lelieved to have overtaken you, Pou singular whim of muffling your face, all elped to keep me in doubt.” ‘*Yes—yes.” “Two days ago I found a volume of poems on Colonel Falkner’s desk. Your name, ‘Olympia,’ was written on the fly-leaf. The volume was one I gave you, long ago. I knew Colonel Falk- ner had brought it from here. Of course con- viction struck home to my mind in a moment. I kmew for a certainty that there had been some trick about your reported death and burial.” Mrs. Faunce rose to her feet with a spasmodic effort, and moved several times up and down the length of the room. At length she paused before him, with her head cast down, as the guilty stand before their accusers. “‘T do not deny your power and my helpless- ness,” she said, ‘‘for you can, with a word, de- echt: me of the love of the only man I care to eep faithful to me. But I do ask you to spare me. It will cost you nothing to let me go my way in peace. My broken life is beautified with buds of promise that must soon burst into full flower unless crushed by your ruthless hand. Which will you choose to play—the part of my redeemer or that of my destroyer?” Words and tone thrilled him strangely, but he said, wlth stern emphasis: “You have an odd way of putting things, Olympia. I pity you from the depths of my soul. But of course, I cannot see a gentleman of Colonel! Falkner’s birth and position sacrifice himself to an adventuress without trying to turn him from his folly.” The biting accent in which he spoke told the woman that, little as he valued her love at the resent time, he could not forgive her for hay- ing transferred it so readily to another. An unconfessed desire for revenge, quite as much asa sense of duty, was guiding him to the de- cision he had made. “Can I say nothing to influence you differ- ently?” “ Nothing.” ‘Ts there not a single thought of mercy blend- ed with the feeling of pity you profess to feel for me?” ‘“'You must demand that at the hands of the man you love,” said Raymond, slightly frown- ing. “T can but proclaim the truth.” ‘True. Forgive my PENS, ? The ghost of as mile flickered over her blood- less lips; whether called there by the absurdity of the hope that he might be induced to spare her, or by some other thought, it is impossible to yi “T understand my fate, and accept it,” she added, presently, in a changed voice. ‘ Let us say no more, Stay! before we part you shall pledge me in a glass of wine. poured it ex- pressly for this occasion. Will you?” There was an insane glitter in her eyes that frightenedhim. Half-involuntarily, he stretch- ed out his hand and lifted one of the glasses from the salver. She prempes the other, raised it to her lips, and drank off its contents, With his eyes fixed steadily on her face, he followed bt : ample, draining to its dregs the ruby uid, WT is the decree of fate,” said the strange woman, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to her- self. ‘*Why should I renine or struggle?” He saw her face turn dead]; le. Suddenly the frail glass slipped through her fingers and shivered in fragments at her feet. “Tt is like my life,” she muttered, looking down. “ Broken—shattered—destroyed a Raymond replaced his own glass on the sal- ver, and, moved by a compassionate impulse, advanced to lead her to a seat. Waving him away with a shiver of disgust, she fell back sud- denly, uttering a low cry, and put her handker- chief to her mouth. In an instant it wascover- ed with blood, and the sluggish crimson was dripping, on her black dress. “Good God!” he exclaimed. are bleeding.” She shrunk from his proffered assistance even in this hour of extremity. Go,” she hoarsely whispered. nothing. Leave the house!” He dared not excite her further by remaining. Hurrying into the hall, where Joan still wai he sent the faithful servant to the assistance of her m: and departed. CHAPTER XXXV. ACCOUNTS RENDERED. “To die, is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never beat nor tempests roar.” —GARTH. An hour or two subsequent to that momen- tous interview between Raymond and Mrs. Faunce, Colonel Falkner was pacing the yellow sands of the shore about midway between Glen- oaks and Lorn, when suddenly he heard his name screamed in shrill, discordant accents from one of the hights above. A thin, a ne woman, whom he re- cognized as Bloom, the wife of one of the day-laborers employed on the estate, stood on the brow of the cliff, violently gesticulating. and muttering incoherent words. A thrill o dread surprise ran through him, for there was ‘Your lungs You can do WIFE OR WIDOW? ee eee something very unusual in the action, and he hastily climbed the steep ascent. “What is the matter, my good woman?” he inguired, as he drew near. Lord bless you, sir!” she gasped, dropping her hand on bis arm in great excitement, “ it’s a mercy you were led to walk this way. Come right g, sir! Heis there, lying on my own bed, racked with pain, and screaming at the e of his voice for you to come.” _So saying, she drew him forward with irre- sistible force, toward a small cottage that stood in a thicket a few rods further on. As they ap. roached |the door, the groans and cries of one n mo anguish were borne distinctly to their ears. ** My good man has gone for Dr. Lance,” whis- = the woman, ‘‘ ais he will soon be here. I eft my sister to watch with the poor fellow, and was cn the way to Glenoaks when I saw you walking on the beach.” Who is ill?” “That fine gentleman guest of yours.” “You don’t mean Mr. Challoner?” cried Colo- nel Falkner, in a startled voice. ‘* Yes, sir, that’s the man. Tilda and I were sitting at our sewing, a wee bit ago, while my ge man smoked his pipe in the corner, when e poor fellow stumbled i in at the door, white as any sheet, and bent nearly double with pain. Oh, he did groan and take on awful, just at sip {t took us all three to get him to the Waiting to hear no more, Colonel Falkner hurried into the cottage. Sure enough, there lay Raymond Challoner on a bed in one corner of the room, evidently very ill “My poor friend, what could have occasioned this sudden attack?” he said, bending over him, Raymond lay with his eyes half-shut, and his hands clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes. But, at the sound of that familiar voice, he look- ed up with a gasp of relief and pleasure. “You are in time,” he said. ‘Thank God.” ‘What can I dofor you?” “Nothing,” replied the sick man, with a groan of a . “TI am past all help—I feel that I shall die. But I have something to say to you before it is too late,” He turned away his face, and two or three a=) tears rolled down his cheeks. “Tell me how your illness came on, and Imay be able to think of something to relieve you.” ‘*No, I am doomed,” said Raymond, in a sad whisper. “The death-pang has been rending my, soul for some minutes. I have been poison- ‘¢ Poisoned !” echoed Colonel Falkner, in sharp, shrill accents, startled out of all self-control. “Yes. That woman did it—that fiend in hu- man shape. God raised her up to be my Neme- sis, perhaps; if so she has fully accomplished her dreadful mission. I die, and she has been instrumental in causing ay death.” “*To whom do you refer?” ‘*1s it possible that you have not divined the truth? She is known here as Mrs. Faunce. When I first met her she bore the name of Olym- pia Verne. She may have owned half a dozen. other aliases—” A cry of bitter ey arrested all further words. Colonel Falkner fell back suddenly in the chair Mrs, Bloom had placed for him, a cold dew breaking over his forehead and gemming his livid face. ‘‘Let.me go on briefly, for my time is short,” resumed the dying man, after a pause. “ Mrs, Faunce dreaded the effect of certain revelations I might make to you, and so determined to put me out of the way. Alas, alas! why did I ven- ture into her presence again? I, who knew so well of old, was a blind fool not to distrust every look, word and act of that infamous wo- man, “You knew her—you knew Mrs. Faunce long ago?” said Colonel Falkner, in the lowest audible tone. SS Ole She was a married woman then. Captain Verne he called himself, was a profes- sional gambler—Olympia hated him. erhaps that is one reason why she turned to me 80 rea- dily. Iwon her confidence and then her love, She was forever hemoaning her hapless fate. Perhaps I am not altogether blameless for what happened afterward. Her husband was the only barrier between us, and—he died suddenly, under very suspicious urmstances!” Raymond was silent a moment or two, as if even the memory of that dreadful time over- came him. The pangs of physical suffering had also to be wrestled against. When he spoke again, his voice had already le sty “‘T knew more than the re the circumstances attendingy death. They were such as not in my mind of ee jia’s guilt. was changed suddenly into hor We said farewell forever, and; again until after she came to cently I fully believed that sh a year later, in Southern F to save herself from arrest an on, for Verne’s friends had tardily them- selves, anda rigid investigatior ogress By what fraud that daring won d even I met her abroad—in Baden-Baden. Her husband, rld of erne’s doubt uation thing. w her til re- about n time a ei mamiag, ES ae WEBSTER, CHOATE, EVERETT, sPous, SEXCHER, DEWEY, T+ LYAGE, | CHAPIN, -AJNGFELLOW, WHITTIER, READE, PRENTICE, TORY, : DICKINSON, — KENT, SEWARD, 8RET HARTE, CARL PRETZEL, JOHN HAY, BILLINGS, 6RYANT, STREET, WALLACE, HOLMES, HAMILTON, RANDOLPH, MADISON, WINTHROP, REV. JOS. COOK, CUYLER, DURYEA, WAYLAND, MAX ADELER, MARK TWAIN, OOFTY GOOFT, DOESTICKS, CARLYLE, MACAULAY, ‘WILBERFORCE, PITT, SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, BYRON, ' BURNS, B, E. REXFORD, BF. 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