4

 

 

—aey

c% oad ae cecal ater Dieatenpreeceaea

 

 

 

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1870 BY STREE

 

.

T & SMITH, IN THE CLERK’S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT FOR THLE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK.

 

 

 

 

 

Vol. XXV.

FRANCIS S. SIREET,
VRANEIS 8S. SULTH,

 

} Proprietors.

  
   
  

‘ {Zhree Doliars Per Year.
TERMS, iZwo Copies Five Dollars.

 

No, 26.

 

ANDREAS HOFER,

Translated from the German of Julius Mosen.
embilibininn
BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

 

 

Andreas (Andrew) Hofer, the ‘Tell of the Tyrol,” defended the
mountain passes of bis native land against the French, in 1809,
with heroic bravery. He was betrayed into the hands ot a
French general, fried, and sentenced by court-martial, at
Muniua, and shot Feb. 20, 1810, His son was ennobled by the
Emperor of Austria; and his body lies in the splendid cathe-
dral of Invspruack.

At Mantua, in fetters,

Hervie Hofer lay;

The foe, to death, in Mantua,

Had carried him away.

Each brother's heart with anguish dled—
In Germany what tears were shed,

And Tyrol’s mountain land!

With hands behind him folded,
Unshaken, hand or limb,

He marched with steady footsteps
For what was death to him?

Death, which his hand, in leaden hail
Had oft hurled downward on the vale
In Tyrol’s holy iand.

When from the prison-grating

The mountaineer’s keen eye

Had seen his brother riflemen

Hold up their hands on high,

He prayed that God would give them aid,
And bless poor Germany betrayed,
And Tyrol, land adored.

No stirring martial drum-beat

Was there to time the march,

As forth Andreas Hofer

Moved from the dungeon’s arch.

Th-re, on the frowning bastion, he,

In spite of chains, stood spirit-free,

Tyrol’s heroic son;

And said, when told that he must kneel:
“My knee I qill not bend,

But stand as I have stood and fought,

Nor crouch to meet my end;

Unvailed, behold the lightning glance

Of Death. Long live my emperor, Franz,

And Tyrol's mountain land |”

The bandage to a grenadier

He gave, and, undismayed,

The hero, fcr a moment’s space,

In silent fervor prayed.

Then shouted, “‘Fire!’’ Forth leaped the dame.
“ahi” he exclaimed; ‘How ill yowaim

Dear Tyrol, fare thee well!”

SQUIRREL CAP;
OR, THE
Ranger of Raccoon Ridge.

By Burke. Brentford.

;

 

 

was commenced in No, 22. . Back. numbers can
from any News Agent throughout the United

CHAPTER XII.
THE FOE IN FRONT, A FRIEND BEHIND.

His habits as a campaigner enabled the young officer
to awake at about the time he had said he would.

He did not move at once, bat looked steadily upon the
bound keeper, who had not altered Ais position for an ob-
vious reason.

Tne glimmerivg firelight fell.full upon the captive’s
rough, bearded tace. The eyes were closed, but not in
sleep; for Danvers saw tears rolling, one after another,
from beneath the lids.

AS soon as he saw that, he sprang up lightly, and
opeved his bowie-knife.

“What are you about to do, sir?’ asked the captive,
opening his eyes, and paling at the glitter of the steel.

“Free you, Luke, my good fellow!’

And the Keen blade swept from strand to strand, from
strap to Strap, and the station-Keeper was iree.

“Get up and shake yourseif—for you must be stiff
enough, poor fellow!’ said the young officer, cheeringly.

The whilom captive did so, his countenance beaming
his gratitude.

“You are going to trust me, then, sir ?’?

“With all iny neart!"?

‘Wait a minute, sir; I want to: take an oath tobe true
to you,”? said the other, drawing a small, dingy locket
from his bosom, and kissing it, while the tears rolled
@own his cheeks. ‘This is my motier’s picture, sir; and
Iswear to you, by my love for her, to serve you at the
risk of my life!”

“T hardly needed such a vow, my honest fellow!’ ex-
claimed the lieutenant, grasping his hand with feeling.
“Now go, and bring my horse in a jiffy.”

Luke darted out of the cabin with cheerful alacrity,
and quickly returned, leading the lieutenant’s fine
horse, rejreshed by food and rest.

Danvers got his new friend’s promise to obtain for him
ali the information in his power respecting his friend,
Morton; also received more regarding the portion of the
road usually patrolied by ‘Bower Trump;’’ and then sped
away, with much more confidence in the reflection that
he left behind him a faithiul friend in the camp of the
enemy.

Fully two hours remained before dawn, and, resolving
to make the most of the darkness, he rode swiftly upon
regaining the post-road, though here and there it was
stony and much broken.

Nothing happened to our adventurer until just before
daylight, When, crossing a difficult torrent, he saw a
dark, shadowy form fade away toward the side of the
road.

The clicking of a gunlock caused him to rear his horse.
it probably saved his life, for the next instant there was
the report of a rifle, and he felt the wind-beat of the bul-
let as it sped before his face.

The flash of the shot had revealed to him the dusky
form of the Indian who had fired it.

He instantly plunged is horse toward him, firing two
shots of his revolver as he sped along. The savage groan-
ed, but reared before him With uplifted tomahawk. An-
other shot, however, went crashing through his skull,
and he sank to theearth.

“Strange |’? muttered the lieutenant, bringing his steed
toa hait, and pondering deeply. All the Indians in this
section are said tobe friendly to the Captain. Why should
this redskin attempt my life, unlessmy mission has been
ee cues and this fellow placed in my path to intercept
me?

This reflection caused him so much anxiety that he con-
cluded to halt in the forest, and wait till unequivocal day-
light should enable him to examine the dead body of the
savage, to finu, if possible, some unmistakable evidences
that might serve to dissipate his uncertainty.

This plan he pursued, consuming the brief interval
‘het partaking of a luncheon drawn from his saddle-

ags.

When it had got quite light, Danvers drew the body in-
to the open air, and examined it closely.

“By Jove! that last shot of mine did go home though!”
he muttered, as he perceived the round, dark bullet-hole
inthe centre of the redskin’s forehead, while tne buck-
skin garments were saturated with stiffening gore from
the other wounds.

A careful search of the body produced two scraps of
paper—one of them still clean and white, bearing the fol-
lowing in a rough peneil scrawl:

“TO THE CAPTAIN: I have information from a fugitive
Indian, that a scout—an officer of the garrison at Laramie
—is at present on a mission to explore our routes, and
gain information of our plans,

“This messenger is the shrewdest of Fanfire’s tribe, and
will not fail to either intercept the rascal on the North
Road, or give you this note. 30WER TRUMP.

“Squirrel Cap’
be obtaine
States.

 

a miles below the Yellow Station, Friday, February
—, 18—,

 

 

 

 

 

}

 

 

“So, so!’ exclaimed our adventurer; “in escaping this
redskin’s rifle, I nave, in all probability, preserved the
secret of my mission; for this noble ‘truamp” is now’ most
likely its only possessor beside myself and Squirrel Cap.
And now for Mr. Bower Trump!’

He urew the dead body into the, thicket, after conceal-
ing the weapons and ammunition. ne had found upon it,
and was about to return to his steed, when he rememover-
ed the other paper which he held‘ia his hand witn*the
one he had perused,

The former was partially stained ‘with biood,~ but he
read, without much difficulty, the following, written in
ink, and ofa fine, beautiful chirography, clear‘and dis-
tinct as copper-plate: ;

“Given at Robber’s-Ranche, - Yellow Stone-River, -June
—, is—. ,

**A captive white girlis believed to’ be wandering with
some one Of the tribes of these northern territories. By
tis time she should be about fifteen years otd.

“Beit known to‘all that may réad; or have read to
them, this notice: That whoever—red -or- white, old-or
young—shall convey to the undersigned any infurmation
by which the aforesaid captuve_may be recovered,’ alive,
shali receive twenty thousand dollars in gold.

“Among the Texan Indians the child went-by the name
of Alleétah. THE CAPTAIN.*’

On the opposite page of this missive, was scrawied-in
pencil, in the same handwriting which marked the first
epistle:

“FAZBRUARY, 18—.

“Up to this date, none of the Indians have been’aple to
find out anything about the girl.

_“That story about a ‘girl béing lest. in. the snow last
November, and afterward. dug out alive, must have been
one of Mormon Mike’s lies, and you can tell-him so, from

“BOWER TRUMP.”?

The contents of this missive, although it did not affect
him so nearly, excited considerably more mystery and
guite as much reflection in the reader’s mind as its pre-
decessor, but he was too much absorbed with ‘the risky
business in hand to think of it-intelligently.

“What with the lost children,.and station-keepers, and
red assassins, and’ Bower Tramps, I think I’ve got as
much as my weak head can well stagger under at pres-
ent,’’ he muttered; and thrusting the strangely obtained
documents in his bosom, he regained his saddle, and was
once more upon the road.

“It was broad day-light now, and he had to proceed
much more cautiously. His object was to gaina desert-
ed wigwam, which Luke had told him of, and rest within
its shelSer until another night should enable him to pur-
sue his quest under its cover. But nearly twenty miles
had to be traversed to reach it, and to make matters
worse, &@ Wet snow-storm set in.

Two or three times he had to seek cover to’ avoid the
observation of parties of horsemen, goipge south. Some
of these might have been honest hunters for all he knew,
but he did not desire the risk of reconnoitering them, to
determine.

Once u band of about twenty mounted Indians passed,
sipging a war-song and waving their weapons as they
went. And once again he had to endure a most trying
ordeal, when a number of robbers went down the road,
escorting several wagons—the debris of some plundered
emigrant train, for one of them was full of captives.
Most of them were young women, whose deatli-white
faces and terrified looks showed too well that they had
premonitions of the terrible fate in store for them.

Lieutenant Danvers ground his teeth in speechless rage
at this moving spectacle, and only the most bitter strug-
gle restrained him from flinging prudence to the winds,
and rushing out, to grapple single-handed with the mon-
sters.

The snow continued to fall as he pushed on, and when
he reached the turning-off place indicated by the Station-
keeper, he was quite as chilled and jaded as his horse.

A toilsome journey of nearly a mile through the dense
pines, at last brought him to the expected shelter. It had
evidently long veen deserted, and was luckily one of
those large double lodges, often to be found among the
mountain savages of northern regions, and therefore ca-
pable of furnishing shelter for both his tired animal
and himself.

Though very tired, he lighted a fire, and roasted some
frozen bear’s meat, which Squirrel Cap had provided
him with. This, with some hard bread and snow-water
revived him considerably; and then, underneath some of
the dry leaves that littered the ground, he discovered
some excellent hay.

 

 

 

CLOSELY PURSUED BY ONE OF Vitk PAUK, WHICH WAS KiLikp BY A HUGH

“What, a supper for: you, too, Prince!’ he exclaimed,
asthe jaded horse muuched it with equine gratitude.
“Who says enough is not as good asa palace.”

Then blocking up the narrow entrance, to exclude any
stray bear or wolf that might come nosing about during
the day, he spread his: bianket, threw himself upen it,
and. instantly fell into the: long, undisturbed: sieep, of
which ne stood in such great need.

Both steed and river rested well, and were much re-
freshed when they arose.

The snow had eeased, and- two’ good’ hours-or. daylight
remained, and Danvers: resolved to take advantage of: it
to extricate himself from -the dense forest. He managed
to do so, wit no other adventire than that of meeting
a grizzly, who quietly trotted away, and Danvers mauni-
Tested’ no desire to pursue.

But .a: more annoying foe; in the shape of numerous
wolves, followed him, howling, as he gained the road at
about dusk. He had not, strange to say, met any of tllem
before, and these were of the small black species, which
never venture an attack save when they muster in enor-
mous droves, and generally are mereiy annoying, inas-
much as they frighten a horse. Had it been the large,
gauat, gray wolf, foond among the defiles aud plateaux
ofthe great Rocky Ranges, the case would have been
different. in the extreme.

The moon came ont as the darkness fell, and Danvers
pushed on till midnight, without meeting aliving soul.
‘Phe coid mncreased:to an-intensity that was.painfal to en-
dure, and the wind howled through the pines with a
steady .roar.

“J must have passed the line of the Yellow Station, and
be on the beat of the man I seek, by this time,’? muttered
Danvers. .‘*Wnhat’s the matter with you, Prince?’ One
would’ think that the foul fiend was in your wake!’ he
continued, as his horse continually started and gave other
signs of fear.

But the animal continued -to rear, plunge and shy at
intervals in the most trying manner.

Tne rider looked back, but could see nothing, and hear
nothing but the roaring of tire gale.

But presently a long, reverberating howl, not at all like
the roaring.of the wind, struck his ear like a knell; and
when he looked back again the road was Diack with the
pursuing wolves.

They were coming in droves and hosts, and their long,
loud, ever-deepening howl, arouse to the heavens like a
chorus of Pandemonium.

Danvers was not the man to blanch at any human peril,
but for a moment he was appalled.

Nevertheless, he started Prince into a frantic pace, and
sped on like the. wind.

The forest on either side of theroad grew thinner as
they flew, until finally the road swept through a broad
pare plateau. Just at this point, he saw another horse-
man approaching him at a slower speed.

A rapid glance showed the stranger to be tall, and
dressed in.a. semi-military uniform, and Danvers’ heart
thrilled with intuitive joy, as he bowed his head, to con-
ceal his own face.

“Is that: you, Jack?) called’ out the stranger, as they
both slackened speed,

“Ves,??

“Great Heaven ! . Are those wolves in your track ?”’

‘““Yes; are you Bower Trump?’

“Of course I am; but we’d better get outof this as soon
as we can.”?

“You will never get away from this alive, Tom Bower,
that used to be |’ cried Danvers, and drawing his revol-
ver, he fired.

The other uttered a cry of pain, but returned the shot,
almost like an echo, but without effect.

The two horsemen were not ten feet apart, and both
advancing, with the deadly howl increasing to demoniac
intensity. There were but two ejaculations.

“Bower, renegadel’’

“Harry Danvers!’

And then they closed, breast to breast, and horse to
horse, the animals rearing and plunging so fearfully, as
to make it seem almost miraculous that the contestants
retained their saddles.

Bower’s grip was upon Danvers’ throat, and he was
striving to use his knife.

“Ah, you know that grip of old!’? shrieked Bower, with
a horrible string of oaths.

The lieutenant did not reply, because he was speech-
less, but he grasped his heavy pistol with a convulsive
grip, and dashed it into his enemy’s face with tremend-
ous force,

The vanguard of the wolfish host was around them,

 

 

 

MAN WITH AN AX,

leaping up, and snapping at the legs of the terrified
steeds.

As Bower reeled in his saddle, Danvers snatched at,
and. gained, the cap and short cloak he wore, at the same
time giviog him a final and down-dashing blow with his
pistoi-batt,

He then plunged his spurs -into his almost paralyzed
steed, and sped away.

The wolves did not follow him at once, and as he paused
an instant.and@ turned his head, two shrieks—two human
death-shrieks were mingied with the demopiac - howls.
The members of the black bost were no longer: moving
steidily along, but were tumbling, and tearing, and roar-
ing over each cther, like the waves of the sea.

Bower, the renegade, had played his Trump, and lost
the game.

CHAPTER XIV.
IN’ THE’ ROBBERS’ RANCHE.

3reathiess and almost speechless from the combat and
terriilc excitement through which he had passed, and
also. horrified aé the frightful fate of his antagonist, the
iientenant dared not delay an instant. He knew thatthe
earcasses of horse and rider would not serve to glut the
appetites of the wolves for many moments, and again
pulting spurs to his steed, he continued his flignt.

The animal was so jaded that, under ordinary circum-
stances, he would have fallen from sheer exhaustion; but
the excitement of terror remained, and under its in-
fluence, he fairly seemed to fly.

, But the pursuing horde appeared to fly faster, and the
yells whicn they had momentarily left behind, seemed to
grow louder with Jrightful regularity.

Danvers threw the cloak of his enemy over his sboul-
ders, and dropping his own capin the road, replaced it
with the other.

“The fellow must have come from some near lodge, I
judge,’ he muttered, ‘‘and if Ifind it, 1 am _ going in,
though it be peopled by fiends. Better any death than
that which Bower met. Wonderif he could have come
from Yellow Station? If so, 1 might find it empty, since
all tnese villains seem to have been drifting south of late.
Courage, Prince, courage, dear boy,’’ he continued, strok-
ing the nobleanimal caressingly; apd he answered lis
master with a neigh—weak and thin, but grateful.

3ut the ominous howlings behind grew momentarily
louder, and the poor horse gave evidences of being pres-
ently cvercome by this second trial of his iron nerves.

Just at this moment, Danvers gave a cry of joy, for a
light twinkled upon him from a small hillock to his right.
it grew larger and brighter as he pressed on, and soon he
distinguished the shape of a large cabin, surrounded by
a picket fence.

lie yelled, and his cry was answered. He yelled again,
thinking, perhaps, that the answer was but an echo. But
no, he was replied to again, and this time the light began
to move.

The pack were aimost upon his heels, but a huge hu-
man form appeared atthe picket; a gate swung open,
and he dashed in, so closely pursued that one ofthe pack,
before the gate was clesed, sprang in behind him, ana
was killed by the huge man with an ax.

“Wall, Bower Tromp,” said the gate-keeper, ‘‘you’ve
had a narrer escape from the varments this time.”’

Lieutenant Danvers dismounted hastily, and looked at
the bearer of the torch. He was a man of herculean
build, and of such a villainously repulsive countenance
that but to gaze at it caused an instinctive shuduer in the
soul.

“Who else is in the house ?”? gasped Danvers.

“No one else. Don’t yer remember as how yer left me
here alone an hour ago? But hullo! what’s this,’ he al-
most howled, as he looked at the trembling steed, “this
ain't Bower Trump’s horse! And by Heaven, you’re not
3Zower Trump !’’

His face lighted up like that of a fiend, and he swung
his aX aloft.

A momentary repugnance struck the young lieutenant
to the heart. Could he slay one who had, even under e,
mistake, rescued him from the deadly peril he had just
escaped ?

But there was no mercy in that colossal arm and up-
lifted ax.

He drew his revolver and fired.

The giant fell without a groan, and, just at that mo-
ment, Prince, the noble steed, tottered in his tracks, and
expired with alow, wild cry.

The young officer could bear no more. He felt a dark-
ness coverlug him far blacker than night. He staggered
toward the house, but, failing to reach it, swooned away,

and fell with his head resting upon the neck of the good
steed who had served him tothe death.

The dawn glimmered in the east, and the radiant win-
ter sun arose and shed its beams upon the strange and
tragic scene. The dead giant, with his huge ax still
clutched in his stiffening hand; the stark figure of the
faithful steed; and the, to all appearances, equally life-
less form of the heroic rider, who had hewed and toiled
through so much, to swoon at lastin this wild spot of the
mountains. thousands of miles away from the haunts of
civilized men. :

Lieutenant Danvers would probably have frozen to
death auring that long swoen, had it not been for the
fierce fever produced by the excitement he had under-
gone—which raged in bis veins. Slowly he awoke. His
limbs were so stiff and benumbed that ne could scarcely
budge a finger’s breadth. A terrible agony, as of a red-
hot iron band pressing round his brows, raged through
his temples,

By a great exertion, he managed to gain and keep his
feet. It was some moments before he could comprehend
the ghastly scene around him. His nerves were weaken-
ed, almost to the sensibility of a child’s, and when he
viewed the dead body otf his faithful Prince, he used no ef-
forts to restrain his sobs and tears.

He recovered himself, and managed to stagger into the
cabin. From itscolorand size, he kad no doubt that it
was the robber rendezvous, Known as the Yellow Station.

The large room, into which he entered, or rather stag-
gered, was provided with many rude conveniences—
Shelves containing ammunition, cooking utensils, hooks
holding jerked meats, a bar with bottles of spirits and
tumblers ranged behind it, and various benches and
chairs, and two tables, with a couple of large cupboards.
But, best of all in the present emergency, there were
plenty of materials for a fire.

Although almost every movement was accompanied
with pain, Danvers managed to strike a light, and soon
had a huge fire roaring up the chimney.

The effect which the sodden great heat had upon his
benumb-d limbs, was, at first, that of extreme pain. The
joints seemed loosened and the verves relaxed, so that
he could move about witn alacrity, but tne pain was
changed from a tipgling to a steady ache. He found,
however, that the more briskly he moved about, so much
the more was the pain mitigated.

Taking advantage of this discovery, he went out of
doors, and leaped about in the snow in the most violent
manner, until he was almost exhausted. Then, return-
ing to tne influence of the fire, he found that this, com-
bined with the heat of exercise he had just undergone,
occasioned almost instantaneous relief, if not the com-
plete banishment of pain.

The fever in bis ead, however, still continued. He
wisely abstained trom the use of any of the liquors
around him, using the ice-cold water, of which he found
@ goodly supply.

Hunger was the next sensation, and, under the circum-
stances, he was enabied io relieve it in less than an hour.

All these operations consumed time, ind it was past
higit noch When he had accomplisheu them.

His limbs began to ache again—a dull rheumatic ache,
which did not seriously retard his mo¥ements, but oc-
easioned him no little pain; but ail this was overbalanced
by. the jeyful consciousness that the fever, from the ire-
quent culd applications he had made to his head, wus ra-
pidly ebuting,

He examined, the interior ef the Station thoroughly,
not So much irom curiosity as from a desire to occupy nis
thoughts, and prevent his mind from sinking into utter
despondency, by dwelling upon the extraordinary and
dangerous position in which he found himself placed.

But at last he could bafie his mournful reflections no
longer. He sank upon a chair before the fire, and gave
himself up a prey to his bitter thoughts.

Of what avail the terrors he had endured, the terrors
he had encountered, the blood he so prodigally shed! He
thought of Morton, bis friend, lingerivg in cruel captivity;
of Helen Larrimer, desolate in lier despair. He thought
of Allie, the little Indian princess, and then his own cun-
dition pressed upon his heart withrenewed agony. He
thought of Squirrel Cap. ,Oh, that that brave, honest
rough-diamond of the wilds were with him! how the dif-
ficulties that surrounded him would be dissipated, as by
magic.

Then the actual dangers around him counted them-
selves in his miud in dread detail.

He Was in a thieves’ den, whose bloody-minded tenants
might return at any moment, and lift up against him the
bloody witness of the dead giant in the yard. But worse
—far worse than all, he was on foot, and helpless; bis
horse; his noble, faithful Prince, was no more.

Naturally buoyant as he was, his. head fell. upon his
knees, and be gruaned aloud.

But there came a sound which made his heart leap,
and he sprang to his feet. It was the neigh of a horse.

He ran to the docr, and looked far down the road, but
nothing Was in sight.

The neigh was repeated—blithe and strong, and close
at hand. He sprang into the yard. Ajlog stable was
siuated just to the right.

in -atiother moment he was in it, and fairly shouted
with ecstasy as ne beheld the splendid animai that turned
ber fine, gentle head over the stall to him, and who ap-
peared to recognize himasa friend. It was a noble
mare, of almost gigantic proportions, and coal-black,
save for the inscripuon burued upen her breast, “THE
CAPTAIN,”

He led her forth, and clapped his hands as she stretched
her proud proportions, and almost Kissed him in her
grand gentleness and sublime sweetness,

He would have saddled her st once, and flown from
the scene of misery and terror—away, away!

3ut, his sober senses returning, he began to think and
plan. No, he would wait till morning; he would slumber
i this snug stable, alongside this matchless steed, and,
in the morning, he would be up aud away; for he re-
membered, with a shudder, those howling minions of the
night, whose vengeance he had so narrowly escaped.

or Danvers to think, Was to systematiz-. His first
discovery was that it was pessible for him to dispose of
the dead bodies. Just outside the gate near which they
had fallen, and a littie to the left of it, was a deep and
narrow ravine, into which they might be cast, covld ne
succeed in moving them. But twenty minutes’ tugging
at the lighter weighit—the human corpse—showed him
that it would bein vain, unaided. He, hewever, unpro-
vised a crowbar from a loose picket, and disposed of the
giant with cumparative ease.

But the tears flowed from his eyes again when he re-
moved the saddle and brivie from the dead body of bis
own horse, Prince. He could only budge the body inch
by inch, and that only with the greatest labor, so that it
required bim more then an hour before he succeeded in
tumbling that also down the chasm. But he felt greatly
relieved when he was once more within the stockade,
with the heavy gate barred behind him.

The sun was nearly below the mountains, and he had
little time to lose. He carried his harness and weapons
into the stable. He then, returning to the station, provid-
ed himself with whatever he might need, closed and
locked the door behind him, and returned once more to
the stable,

Here, itis true, he would miss the warm fire, but he
would nave plenty of blankets and good sweet mountain-
grass hay to sleep on, and the noble mare for company.
Beside, should any one come to the station during the
hight, he would Have the advantage ot firing from an
unobserved position.

The wolves began to howl as the night descended, but
the black mare champed her hay undisturbed, and
the worn-out adventurer sank into a deep, sweet sleep,
from which he did not awaken until the early morning
light came stealing through the cracks of his novel rest-
Ing-place.

He was up betimes, and now with hope reviving in his
breast. The plan he had formed, by consultation of his
little map on the preceding afternoon, was to leave the
road, and cut across the country toward Dan. Davis's,
where he hoped to fallin with Squirrel Cap. His pocket-
compass would- enable him to do this with success, he
thought; and tlen as (according to Luke’s statement) the
Arrapahoe camp lay in his route, he might learn some-
thing of Morton—who knows? perhaps accomplish his
rescue !

Such is the wuoyancy of youth and hope.

He saddled and mounted his precious mare, and felt
like & prince when her graceful undulations swayed
gently.

Before going out of the stockade, however, a sudden
thought struck him. He dismounted, burst opin the door
of the large building, and scattered the still glowing
brands over the floor.

3efore he could remount and pass the stockade gate,
smoke and jets of flame were issuing from the log-inter-

 

 

 

stices of Yellow Station, the mail-robber rendezvous.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XY.
CHARLEY MORTON’S RESCUE—A FRIEND IN NEED.

Harry Danvers’ route lay away from the road, and
southward over rolling, thinly-wooded hills,

Before he reached f¢1e summit of the first of these, when
he looked back, Yellow Station, with its out-buildings,
was nothing but a great blazing beacon against the sky.

“T have done the murderous hounds some damage at

 
  
  
    
   
   
     
   
   
  

   
  

    

i's Knowledge of horse-flesh |?
mire had proved everything that
mised. She was a swift mo
i¢n tried upon a level a }

in approving thee

Indeed, the tall BL
her appearance ha
tain-clamberer, an
her new master ha

e occasion Lo, he Was compelled t
confess to his own

cart (though he would hardly have

e speed and wind, she
Prince, — id ee

The road—or rashé
rapidly became s difficult and embarrassing.

The first great obstacle he encountered was the cross-
ing ofthe headwaters of the Sweetwater. The dashing
stream actually flowed through perpendicular descents
hundreds of feet in depth, and he had to go miles out of
his way to effect a crossing, which even then was one
where an ordinary horse 4nd a less experienced rider
would have broken their necks.

Then there were precipices to be belted at their base,
steep hills to cross, and forests of fir and pine, apparently
interminable, to be traversed. These required so many
deviations from the line he wished to pursue, that the
young officer had to have almost constant r<course to his
compass, and even the iron nerves of his mare gave
tokens of submitting to the strain entailed upon them.

At length, though, there appeared to be a change for
the better, and, upon reaching the surnamit of a small
wooded hill, Danvers was delignted to see stretch below
him a broad, level plateau, several miles in extent,

He was about to break cover, and descend at once, in
order to give his mare a chance to stretch her aching
limbs upon the easy plain; when lie was quickly deterred
by the apparition of half-a-dozen mounted savages burst
from one of the forests at the sides, and ride across with
great speed, and giving utterance, at the same time, to
their shrill whoops,

He thought it more prudent to keep in the woods, and
skirt the plain to the direction from which they had just
broken cover, than to do so in the direction they were
faking. ;

He did so, but very slowly, on account of the density of
the thick-twined bongls, As it was, they Jacerated his
hands and face dreadfally, and caused the black mare to
breathe laboriously.

After proceeding about one mile, Danvers heard deep
groaning, and approached the spot whence they proceed-
ed. Herehe fonud a mangled savage, with horse lying
deud @ little ‘distance off,

The nature of the accident was almost obvious. The
horse had stumbledin a gully, breaking his neck, and
casling his master against a neighboring tree-trunk with
such force as to completely cave in his skull.

The dying redskin could not move hana or foot, but he
Saw Danvers With his staring eyes, and essayed to speak.
: The leutenant liastily dismounted, and leaned over
him.

“You be Captain, no’ muttered the Indian, in the Ar-
rappahoe guiteral, With which our adventurer was quite
familiar.

Knowing that the Arrappaho@s were the allies of the

comaaeed
Z 5S OG

h }

any rate!’ exelaimed intless Danvers With ji
satisfaction, “AN now, yr By |
Jove ! rascal, Dio cal as hes o no te

pute—that Danyers was pursting,

Fe

Ilis friend did not fail to perceive this, and begged to
know the reasen of the sudden change.

“Whi, to tell the truth, Charley,’’ said Danvers, scratch-
ing his head ruefally, *‘we’re in an awful mean mess.”’

“How so???

“Night in the forest.”’ -

“Well, we’ve often camped out togethe’
Harry,’ returned the forlorn Morton, witha
smile, as he recalled the past. :

“Yes; but we can’t now very well,»

Ores, Gcar
yanieh ly

      
  
 
     
  
 
 
    

 

 

ly, for at that instant there é
and, of i caused the two fr)

x ed Li mt Danve
heerfulness w Was far f
nd, “wwe do he t we can

better, we'll die together! There is

  

Ins that, any way! Come! wrap es }
bla out your form, and get on top of thi
‘of mares that eve rned the DetatOOr as fast a3)
can. Vil lead her through the forest, and we'll tr t
luck !”?

Morton feebly protested against this self-sac
proposal, but it was of no use. They were soon 0}
way through the deep forest. It grew gloomie
gloomier, but Danvers, fora long time, would no all
his spirits to sik, He endeavored to clieer his cont
drooping spirits by telling him how they all wer
fort, how wild with delight Helen Larrimer would
learn of her lover’s deliverance. He described
adventures, modestly skipping the more dangero’)
sages, or treating them as if they were jolly spo
pecially the burning of Yellow Station, which
clared was the merriest period of his life.

But those ominous liowls grew nearer and louder every
moment, even the starand moonlight only feebly pene-
trated the heavy foliage of the snow-covered pines, until
at length even Danvers could stand it no longer, and he
fairly broke down.

“Ah, friend—old friend! ever self-sacrificing, ever
true!’? said Morton, with sad earnestness; ‘I’m afraid it
is too late. Iam so wasted that I scarcely think I should
survive more than a day or two, even should I reach shel-

ter, Mount the steed, yourself, 1 beseech you, and leave
me here, You may be able to save your own life in this
way!’

“Desert my old comrade!
or-die together.”

They pressed their way through the forest as fast as
they could, with the now thoroughly-jaded steed, but in
silence. There are hours of peril in which even the clos-
est friends cannot find relief in mutual converse. Each
was alone with his thoughts, while the night grew deep-
er, the dread howlings nearer and. nearer.

Suddenly Danvers gave a great shout of joy.

“Did you hear that?’ he exclaimed. ‘

“That voice of yours? I should think 1 did.”

“No, Listen—listen!’’ :

They both did so, and now it sounded distinctly enough,
and not so far off, either.

lt was a rough, cheery voice, but it only said:

“Cheer up, Nineveh, ole gal! we'll soon be at the
ranche, Cheer up, ole gal!’?

(To be Continued.)
_ Ot ---- ——

THE MESSAGE BIRD.

No, no, Charlie—we'll live

 

 

robbers, he partially answered in the affirmative, saying:

“Yes, 1 little Captain,’’? that being the name by which
Bower 'Truamp had been known among the redmen.

The dying savage muttered and mumbled a good deal,
from which Danvers managed to understand that this
brave had met his fate while pursuing two white cap-
tives, who had made their escape, and that the chase was
being pursued by the others.

The information filed Danvers with tremendous hope.

 

Ife was not’a very pious man, but at that moment he
prayed that God would render him His Divine assistance
in aiding the escape of those flying prisoners; for he felt
& prémonition that one of them must be Morton.

° By the aid of his partial disguise, he thought he stood
@fair'chance of hoodwinking any of the savages he
Should happen to encounter; if not, then he could trust,
as he had heretofore done, to his dauntless spirit and his
skill with pistol and knife.

Before mounting his steed, the mutilated Indian died,
witha heavy grean, and the young’ officer had the satis-
faction of feeling that he would not have it upon his con-
science of leaving a fellow-creature, however brutat and
debased, to perish miserably and alone.

'Fuil of the ardor of his undertaking, and forgetting the
keen rheumatic pains which still lingered in his limbs, he
looked well to his weapons, sprang into the saddle, and,
breaking cover very nearly at the point the pursuers had
chosen, he scoured across the broad plateau. Wearied
with arduous mountain work, the black mare appeared
each moment to gain new energy as she stretched her
limbs along the Jevel ground.

The five miles of open Country was covered, and Dan-
vers entered the opposite forest ‘at the point, as near as
he could judge, where the savages had pierced it. The
trees were not yery dense here, but tangled underbrush
rendered traveling very difficalt.

At last, far away, he heard the whoops of the pursuing
party, and he followed them as rapidly as possible. Af-
ter a mile or two of the most vexatious tyavel, the hallos
ceased, and presently he met four of the, Indians return-
ing from the chase. ; ee c 4

His disgulse, much ed no doubt by the brand upon
the breast of his mare, took with them at once.

He related how he had been led to follow the pursuit,
and asked them what they meant by giving it up so
soon.

They told him it was no use following further. The
captives, the only ones.that had been left to the tribe,
had stolen two of the best horses in the camp, and had
got too farinadvance. Danvers pretended to fly into the
most violent passion, cursed them as chicken-hearted
squaws, and, swearing that he would capture the fugi-
tives single-handed, dashed onward, leaving them filled
with surprise at the terrible daring of the white bravo,
Bower Trump, »,

As he rode on, he thought @pon what they had said—
the two captives escaping were the only ones that had
been leftto the tribe ! Was Morton oneof these? It was
a fearful question, which he dared not guess, aud on he
went, striving to banish the thought from his mind.

‘He met the remaining two pursuers on the return, but
was not so fortunate with these as he had been with the
others. One of them—a half-breed who had been fre-
quently at Fort Laramie—recognized him at once, and
instantly discharged his pistol at him, with a wild whoop
—the ball passing through the crown of his cap and graz-
ing his scalp.

The young officer’s aim with a revolver seldom failed,
nnd his return shot caused the half-breed to bite the aust
inhis death agony.

His companion, who appeared to have disabled his
weapons in some way, instantly took to flight, and the
victor was too intently absorbed in the object of-lis quest
to pursue.

He pressed on, for but twe or three hours of daylight
remained, he was in the deep unknown forest, the mem-
ory of its wolfish inhabitants was too deeply impressed
im his mind to be soon forgotten, and he was uncertain
which direction to pursue. He had a compass, which en-
abled him to take a tolerably direct course, while the poor
fagitives, doubtless without anything whatever to guide
them, would be apt to wander aimlessly among the trees.

He was proceeding i this uncertainty, when he met an
object which revived his hopes. It was a dead horse.
his, doubtless, had been backed by one of the fugitives
until he had dropped dead from fatigue and over-exer-
tion. This argued that either one of the fugitives must
be afvot, or both mounted upon ecne animal, which, in
either case woulu retard their movements considerably.

His own steed was terribly jaded, but he could not at-
ford to pause. Only an hour or so of daylight now re-
mained, and was growing more and more anxious, when
a sound, something like a far, faint hallo, caused him to
pause, and listen intently. :

It was repeated. Filled with renewed energy, as hope
revived in his breast, he pushed on. The woods became
so thick that he was compelled to dismount, and jead his
steed,

Still he did not despair, fer once more the hallo was re-
/ peated, and much nearer than before. He dare not an-
i swer it, lest the one who uttered it might be frightened

| away.

At last, deep groans were heard, and issuing into a jit-
tle open glade, he beheld a form prostrate, and apparently
lifeless, upon the ground, and the forlorn, haggard figure
of aman Sitting beside, the picture of desolation and de-
spau. Beside them was the body of a horse, which had
apparently just dropped in his tracks.

“Man, who are you?” asked the living man, in a hollow
voice, as Danvers issued from the trees,

 

 

“Alas, suppose he is dead whom I seek !’? exclaimed
1 the lieutenant, aghast at the deathly appearance of the
emaciated object before him. ‘My name is Harry Dan-
vers.”? :

The other. uttered alow, wild cry, and, getting upon
his feet with difficulty, fottered forward.

‘sHarry | Harry! Do Idream ?"’ he eried,

“Oh, Morton, my friend, my friend ! was all Danvers
could utter, as he recognized in the pitiable object his
gallant comrade of old; and then the two long-parted,
reunited friends were locked iike lovers, in each other's
arms.

“There, there! do not speak—do not weep, old fellow!”
said Danvers, tenderly, though down his own cheeks the
tears were pouring like Water. “Dojustas I tell you—
sit right down here on this blanket a minute. There,’

Ue drew his spirit-flask from his bosom, and applied it
to the sufferer’s lips.

“There, old boy! Don’t that touch the spot? Now,
try this cold meat. Hard work to chew it, eh? Never
mind, grind away at it! A drop of water will wear away
a stone, you know. By Jove!.there’s a color in your
cheeks already, and your eyes are lighting up like the
morning! Hoorah! Go in, Charley! Here’s stacks of
meat and water.”’

He forgot all his own sufferings, and fairly danced, like
a school-boy, arcund his reviving friend.

“Oh, Harry! Dve been through "7

“T can imagine it all, old fellow! Don't exhaust your-
self with talking at present! I sce it all; the companion
of your escape, peor fellow, has gone under, and all of
the rest of them were, like enough, killed by the red
fiends. But ve got you safe and sound, thank Heaven!
There, are you through already? Why, youcan stand on
your feet, like a man-of-war’s-man |’’

The shadows ef twilight were deepening in the forest.
Danvers now for the first time perceived it, and his brow
clouded as the reality ef their position once more returned
in its full force.

 

 

 

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE, -

 

‘Tis 4 beautiful superstition, —
By an Indian people held;
In the myths of their religion,
Handed from the clouds of Ela,
That a bird, whene’er unfettered
By a fond, believing hand,
On the graye of a belov /
Fliesic the far spirit-land,
And will never fold its pinions
Tili it has its precious bu
_ Of affection from the e
_ Given unto the departed,
Paradised in a starry Ld

Though we do not use the s;
Yet is our belief as gra
We, too, feel that correspo

Reaches to ine Spirit
our own warm, le

 
 
  

 
      
  

l are by them felt and
e happy-peopled s
oi ing 1 ,

 

Ss ed away inan |

a untouched for several days. He hac
been too mt ited of late to begin a new picture, and had
oceupied hii chiefly with thoughts of Geraldme, of Lady
Rosenbury, and of his ayer ines, late guest. He had receiveu
the second letter sent him by the latter, but, as it afforded no
clue to the whe ts of the ee it did not greatiy relieve
his anxieties in regard to him. He knew, however, that he had
not yet been Cen by peace, rom the fact that Doctor
Mure’s spy continued to linger about the street, watching all
who entered or left the house occupied by W: :
At the moment we look in upon him, the ;
his hands a court paper, in which he had ae read the annou
ment of the forthcoming ball at the Countess of

the paper stated that the attendance would be unusually large,
in honor of the lovely bride of the earl, who, as was generally
known, was the last member of a noble and once powerful Ita-
han family. There was some allusion to the earl’s beautiful
piece, the bell of the season, and Walter smiled as he read it,
thinking: :

“Ail these social honors are of little account to Geraldine now |
She cares more for being the guiding star, the genial sun, of one
happy home, than for all the plaudits of the gay world! She
does not feel it hard to give up her titled admirers for an ob-
scure and low-born man, asI am. My noble darling!”

A happy smile curved his lips, and he gave himself up to 2
pleasant reverie, of which the Lady Geraldine’s noble qualities
tormed the subject.

His thoughts were at length broken in upon by his valet, who
entered, saying: _

“Tf you please, sir, there's a box come, sir, for you.’

‘Very well, Parkin,” responded Walter. ‘‘Lexpected it. Let
the man who brought it assist you in bringing it in here.”

Parkin bowed and withdrew, soon returning with the man
who brought the box, and that article, a good-sized wooden
affair, was deposited near the center of the studio, and the two
men then’ withdrew.

After a few minutes’ absence, the valet returned to open the
box, which operation was speedily performed, and Walter was
again left alone. ’

The artist then arose, and glanced over the contents with an
air of melancholy interest, it being filled with books and pic-
tures that had once adorned Mrs. Loraine’s cottage.

Knowing the natare of Loraine, Walter had foreseen
bihty of his claiming the effects of his late wife, tosacrifice them
for monty te gratity his ruling passion, and he had resolved to
save his supposed mother’s books and pictures, mostof which
had been presents to her from himself. Soon after his involun-
tary voyage in the Remorseful Petrel, Walter h#4 written to
Mrs. Williams, informing her that Colte Loraine was alive, and
in London; that be might soon claim the possessions of the late
Mrs. Loraine, which must all be given up to him, with the ex-
ception of the few articles given to Martha Williams, and the
books and pictures. These latter he requested to have neatly
packed, and seut him, and they had just arrived, in pursuance
of his orders. ,

The pictures were placed ina compartment of the box by
themselves, and these Walter took out, looking upon them wit
much interest, many of them having been his earher efforts,

He was still regarding them, not having yet touched the
books, when Lady Rosenbury entered the studio, and he ad-
vanced to meet her with a joyful exclamation.

“Dear Lady Rosenbury,” he said, placing a chair for her ac-
commodation, “what an unexpected pleasure to see you here!”

“You don’t deserve it at all, my dear boy,” replied her lady-
ship, with a smile. ‘It seems an age since you came to see me.
You and Geraldine have neglected me strangely of late.”

Walter raised her ladyship’s hand to his lips, repiying:

“T intended visiting Rosenbury House this evening. But your
ladyship is not looking well. In truth, dear Lady Rosenbury,
you are very pale.” x

“Iam only sick at heart, my dear Walter,” replied her lady-
ship, sadly. “You know that Iam_ not free from troubles, aid
sometimes they seem greater than I can bear.”

Walter expressed his sympathy in delicate terms, adding:

“Can I not assist your ladyship in bearing your ¢rief, or con-
quering it? If you would confide in me, the trouble might look
less.

‘Tt is about Raymond. I know of his late designs upon your
life, Walter, and the knowledge weighs me to the earth.”

Walter started, his fears that her ladyship had overheard his
conversation with Raymond in the boudoir being veritied, and
he pressed her ladyship’s hand in silent sympathy, not knowing
what to say to comfort her in her disappointment in her son.

“It is not because I love Raymond,” said her ladyship, after a
pause. ‘It if impossible to love a nature like his. I think na-
ture made a mistake in giving me a mother’s instincts, for in-
stead of going ovtto Raymond, they settle upon you, Walter.
Oh, Walter, if you were only my son, instead of Raymond! I
said it was not because I love Raymond thatIam‘so deeply
grieved at his conduct. It is because my dear husband’s son
should be so unworthy of him—because the last of the Rosen-
burys should be a_biot and disgrace upon_ his line and name—
because of the evil he will do in the world with his unchecked
passions, cowardly heart, and unscrupulous will. Oh, would
that I had been childless, rather than the mother of Raymond!”

“Would that I had been your son!” said Walter, moved to
tears by her ladyship’s wild burst of grief.

Lady Rosenbury reiterated the wish, adding:

“T talked to Raymond yesterday, begging him to follow in his
father’s steps, but I discovered that he hasinherited nothing of
the nature of my dear husband. Tt may seem harsh and un-
motherly to say it, but he is utterly worthless. There is very
little good in him. I have disowned him, Walter. He is no
longer my son.”’

Walter felt that whatever course might be taken by her lady-
ship could not fail to be merciful as well as just, and he, there-
fore, made no reply,

Lady nbury seon continued:

“You are aware, Walter, that I possess in my own right, and
at my absolute disposal, alarge fortune. For many years I
have had the intention of bequeathing it to a person outside of
my own family, and yesterday I made a will to thateffect. I
informed Raymond of the step 1 proposed taking, before the
arrival of my attorney, and he was very violent in his anger.”

“But he is wealthy enough without your fortune, dear Lady
Rosenbury,”’ said Walter.

“Certainly. But I think he is quite as oer at my chosen
heir as at the loss of my fortune,” said her ladyship; adding,
with a smile, ‘but you express no curiosity to know to whom I
intend bequeathing my property! Guess who is to be my heir?”

“I hope, whoever it is, he or she will be obliged 10 wait many
years,’’ responded the artist, affectionately. ‘Your ladyship has

 

& posst-

 

probably very kindly bequeathed your fortune ta some charity
able institution——"

 
 
  
  
 
 
 

  
 
   
 
 
   
 
 
 

 

   
     
  

from her pocket the deed she had had
| a handsome income, ous laced it in
gon

} she added, as
after m

&
1

artist was holding in |

PUA pein Cemmnaw 4

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

“By noineans. Thave willed it to my adopted son, Walter
Lorarae.”

The artist was most unaffectedly astonished at this revela-
tion, and her ladyship enjoyed his emotion.

“To me’ he said, with tears, and a trembling voice.
to be your ladyship’s heir?”
“Yes, my dear Waiter,’? answered Lady Rosenbury.
“T appreciate your great and generous kindness, dear Lady
i Walter, earnestiy; ‘but, paraou me for say-
ht to decline it.

    
   
      
   
 
  
 
 

“T am

  
 

1 beg you to leave it tu Lord Ro-

 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
   
   
 
    
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
  

ye king |
finger with playfalear ess on Walter's

her hand in silent gr e tor the prof she
love, although it was repugnant to his feelings

 
 
    

subject, the artist pleaded in behalf of Ray-
re generosity that touched her ladyship, and
intentions, but he ceased when she said, reso-

o notsay another word in favor of Raymond,
thing else, I could hardiy refuse you, but in
emy own judge. It wouid be very different
dent upon me, but you only ask me to’swell
lcoffers. It could not make him better or really
ng settled, therefore, that in the course of time
rate y heir, and use wisely the fortune that will be
yours, we will talk of something else. Loraine called upon
Raymond yesterday, and had a long interview with him.”

Walter expressed his surprise, remarking that he had advised
Loraine not to see Raymond again, and had received a promise
to that effect. __

“Raymond said that Loraine made a demand to be admitted
as a member into my family,’ said her ladyship, ‘“‘but such a de-
mand seems preposterous. If he were in earnest, he presumed
upon the hold he has acquired over Raymond.”

“T will seep inswered Walter, blushing at the re-
lationship hé thus acknowledged, ‘‘and see that he ceases to
annoy your ladyship, and breaks off all connection with Lord
Rosenbury.”

“Tam inclined to think, Walter, that Raymond tried to per-
suade Loraine to repeat his attempt upon your life. Ispoke to
him, stating my suspicions, and his confusion convinced: me of
their truth. You must be on your guard against Loraine, who
may repeat his late treachery to youinsome other form, Do
not forget my injunction.”

“I will not, Lady Rosenbury.. Howstrange it seems,’ he said,
bitterty, ‘‘that my father should have conspired against the lite
of his own son! not understand it.”

“It is on strai tome, Walter. I suppose il can only be
explained on the ground that Loraine has no natural affections
—no heart. Iam surprised that Raymond should have dared
broach such a subject to your father.”

Walter sighed, and, after a brief silence, asked:

“Is your ladyship going to the earl’s ball to- morrow evening?”

“Yes, on the Lady Geraldine’s account. I have not seen her
lateiy, and I am alittle anxious about her. Sne meets with ht-
tle love or sympathy, 1 think, from her relatives. Shall you

“I am not invited. The earl, you may remember, ended my
acquaintance with himself at Rock Land, a few weeks since,”

“Lremember that yeu told me what he said on finding you
Geraldine together on the shore. I will tell Geraldine that

yo

are well. ‘
“Thank you, dear Lady Rosenbu

ry. I will write a note t
her to-morrow, under cover to you, 1f your ladyship will kindly |
i fear writing too ee

 

     
   

 

     
    
    

  
 

‘ward it. I the earl should susp

ur correspondence and break . 1 wish to relate

ngular events that have happen ently, and gain

1 on from Lady Geraldine.” _ ee ,
hat si © sb ,

 
 

 

Dr. Mure could have
me as a Mr, Bowen by the Lady Geraldine.
upon b

sp
ks singular, Walter, and, as P to
¢ ine has been imposed upon. She is Vv
r, and in some benevolent visit may hay
Dr. Mure. I will ask her to-morrow eveni
come next day to Rosenbury House t

e p > foe
Walter accepted the invitation, and he ip then drew

| be

   
    

_| do not fall off in damp cellars..... Sa
| .....-Green Fellow.—To remove the iron-rust from your gun-bar-

 
 
 
 

   

uy Am As sti = in Bed
ying on my back in wilh
fixed, tightly together. This

 
  
  
 

 

Walter expressed the joy he felt on Geraldine’s account, and
then a shadow flitted across the brightness of his face as he said:
“Dear mother, this will be a hard blow for Raymond——”
“But no more than’ he deserves,” replied Lady Rosenbury.
“He was with his mother, Mrs. Loraine, when she died, and
heard the truth from her lips. He has known himself as an
usurper ever since. And, my son, the secret of Loraine’s connec-
tion with Ray snk ne Loraine’s attempt to kill
you 1s also ex] sr that I never suspect-
ed the truth :
“Aud I,
“There wa

  
   
  
 
   

rer did,’ remarked Walter.
as

of Mrs, Loraine at ti
i n iu
ver th fi su
F it is 1 that Dade
r Re

ome at once and

   
   

     
  

rerness to take her €
continued.) :

Knowledge Box.
A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING.

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Rosa.—To ReMOvE Mitpew.—On half a pound of chloride of lime
pour a pailful of boiling water. When settled, pour the clear
liquid through a cloth into another pailfui of water, taking care
that none of the turbid water passes through, Then put in the
mildewed goods, and let them stand in the solution over night;
rinse thoroughly, and boil with soap........ Guernsey.—W ASHING
Fiurp.—Take five pounds of salsoda, one of borax, and one of
unslacked lime. Dissolve the soda and borax in one gallon of
boiling water; slack the lime in the same quantity of boiling
water; then pour them both into eight gallons of cold water;
stir it a little and let it stand ali night. Intbe morning, pour off
the clear fluid for use. For two pails of water use a half pint of
the compound, soak your clothes ever night, rubbing soap on

 

PIMPLES ON THE FACE.
Comedones, Black-Heads, Flesh Worms or G

i edo rubs, Pimply
Eruptions and Blotehed disfigurations cn the Face. originate

from a Suppressed Secretion, and are positively cured by
PERRY’S COM ONE. AND P > LE REMEDY,
_ pores, )

   
  
 
 
 

It tones the Skin, o "
and contains no Leac is

A CP ERR

Sold by all Druggists.

orbid Secretions

by
street, New York.
4 wil5-18t

 

 
 
  

 

, 3
Maintains its pre
all other cleansers
Gioves, Silk

   
 

B, AL 18 and 25 cents,

w 25-4

  
  
  

 

D WATCHES.—JONN FOGGAN,
, N.Y. Send tor circular.

 

 

the soiled parts. Wring them out and put them over to boil in
water containing soap and flaid. After boiling fifteen minutes,
take them out into cold water, and suds and rinse them. Don’t
be afraid to boil the clothes betore they are washed; it won’t
hurt them......Martin.—See No. 22 .- Arthur Macdonald and
U. G. C.—Staiss FROM Linen, SILK, OR WooLen.—Four table-
spoonfuls of spiritsot ammonia, the same quantity of alcohol,
and a tablespoonful of salt. Shake the whole weil together in a
bottle, and apply with a sponge or toothbrush. This removes
ink, paint, fruit or acid stains from silk, linen or woolen arti-
GlES...3,.7 John Caldicell.—l. In No. 14 we gave a simple cure for
rheumatism. 2. If you have been importing, write to the Col-
'ector of Customs at the port where your goods arrived; or you
may procure a pamphiet containing the tariff rates at most
book.stores...... Geordie Murray.—Steer’s opodeldoc, or the tinc-
ture of arnica, will cure sprains and bruises....Francis.—l. An-
swered a few weeks since. 2. Cannot answer...... Mattearcan.—
Inquire at a painters’ supply store......1 Mrs. McNeal.—WeEAK AND
INFLAMED Eyes.—Tannic acid, one grain; chloride of zinc, two
grains; soft water, twoounces. With a soft rag wetted with this
preparation, wash the eyes twice or thrice a day, and let a few
drops faliinto eacheye. If used but once a day, just before
retiring isthe proper time.:..: P. Lally and H. Henry.—Use the
éye-water recommended above...... Big Greek.—MUCILAGE FOR
Lasers, EtTc.—Macerate five parts of good gine in eighteen to
pb ae parts of water for a day, and to the liquid add nine parts

rock candy and three parts of gum arabic. The mixture can
brushed upon paper while lukewarm; it keeps well, does not
stick together, and when moistened, adheres firmly to bottles.
For the labels of soda or seltzer water bottles, it is well to pre-
are a eat rye flour and glue, to which linseed oil var-
ish and turpentine has been added, in the proportion of half an
ounce of each tothe pound. Labels prepared in Oe latter way
mmie.—See No.

 
 

De escevess

     
 
  
 
  
  
 
 

rel, fill it with kerosene oil, and let stand for forty-eight hours,
which loosens the rust; then wash out with hot water and soap,
using a swab at the end of your wash-rod. O;—Yes......
¢. R.—Knock-Kynexs.—Try the following remedy as practiced
by a correspondent, who writes: “I commenced the practice
or pla g asmall book between my knees, and tying a hand-
kerch) und my ankles. This = did two or three times

h tance at every fresh trial, untii I could

with ease, brendt ys. When I first commenced
iak badly koe k

 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

KY
ractice, need as possible; but now
kewise made ita practice of
i legs crossed and my knees
e, dig me a great deal or

 

; —To Remove FrReEcKLES.—You will find
..-.-0, P. G, sends the following recipe for
or ‘four ounces; stramed honey, four
on, three ounces, licorice, two ounces Put
yf water and boil down toa sirup. . ...4 Reader.
‘ing i e,Cannor state... Z U D.—To

, STAINS FRO. .KS, LINENS, AND WOOLEN Sturrs,—Mix
ssful of rectified spirits of turrentine with half a tea-
lof essential oii of Jemons, and keep it in a well-stopped
Apply a little upon the stain with a bit of woolen or
of the fabric will sustain no injnry from the

good.”’..... J

      

   
 
  
   
   

  

 

e giving Walter
.” she said, with a
- boy. That is righ

her. “You cant

“You must not open it:

smile, “Put it in your

 

one How have you emplo r time since lsaw you
ast z 4

“In thinking a reading, pting toread. As your
ladyship entered, I was about looking over a_box of books and
pictures sent me by Mrs, Williams, to whom I had written for
tnem, fearing that my father might sell them. The pictures are
among the first I p: aged, even before going to Italy.” -
_*Indeed, I shou ke to look at them, Walter,’ said Lady
ectionate interest in her protege. “I have
ver painted, you know, and I ought to

  
 

  
 
 
 
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 

She arose and 1
to exhibit the p' to 3 2 ;

“It is singular that such pictures should be the production of
a mere boy, as you Were when you painted them—a self-taught

y,’? remarked her_ladyship, contemplating them earnestly.
“Not that they are finished im style, my dear Walter, for they
are not; but the conception of each is original, the treatment
of the subjeet bold and striking, and the generaletfect excellent.
They are well calculated to impress one with the genius of their
author, and his future capabilities. You have made vast im-
provement since painting those crude pictures.” _

Walter thanked her ladyship warmly for her unstinted praise,
ana, as she turned away, Lady Rosenbury’s gaze fell upona
large, square Bible that lay at the top of the box.

“Ah? she exclaimed, ‘‘that is one of the gitts I made your
mother on her wedding-day, Walter. It looks quice fresh, does
it not?’ é
She sat down b the box, and lifted the heavy book to her
knee, noticing how tnstainea was the rich brown morocco bind-
ing, and how bright the gill clasps.

“My mother was always very careful of that Bible,” said
Walter. ‘She always keptit covered, and generally locked in
her box besides, that itmight not be injured. I paracularly
want to keep it, as Mrs. Williams told me that an hour or two
before her. death, my mother called for me, begged te see you,
and then asked for this Bible, requesting to be left alone. When
Mrs. Williams returned, she seemed to have acquwred some
comfort from its pages, atthough she persisted in calling trantic-
ally for yourself, Lord Rosenbury. and me. She afterward en-
joined Mrs. Williams to give itto me.”

“I wish I could have been with her in her last moments,” re-
sponded her ladyship. ‘“‘I have always felt anxious and dissat-
isfied when remembering how earnestly she called tor me.”

She opened the book, and showed Walter the inscription, in
her own handwriting, upon the fly-leaf.

She then turned over the leaves, coming to those left between
the Testaments for family records.

“Here is the notice of the marriage of your parents,” she
said, indicating it’to Walter. ‘‘We will look at the record ef
your birth.” ’

She turned another leaf or two, and exclaimed:

“What a singular way of mentioning your birth, my dear
Walter! It is in your mother’s handwriting, and simply says
that a son was born to herself and husbana at suchadate. It
does not give yourname.” ; ;

“Thave noticed the sipeneey: berore,” replied the artist,
“and I spoke of it once to my mother, but she seemed annoyed
and frightened because 1 had observed it, and immediately put
the book away.” je age .

“How strange! But there is writing in pencil on the other
side of the leaf, Perhaps that will explain it.”

Reversing the leaf, Lady Rosenbury glanced at the hand writ-
ing, remarking thatit was that of Mrs. Loraine, and the next
moment she said:

“Yt is something she wrote to youand me when she was dy-
ing. Look over the book with me, Walter, and we will read it
together.”

Walter obeyed.

The writing was ahastily written, but characteristic scrawl,
in pencil, and showed signs of physical weakness and great cx-
citement.

It was fo the following effect:

“To Lady Rosenbury, Walter, Raymond. Itamdying. I fear
death will come before any of youcan reach me. {cannot die
with my terrible life-secret on my soul. Forgive me. I have
been so wicked. It was not my fault. Colte made me do it. Wal-
ter isnot my son, and Raymond is not Lord Rosenbury. I
changed the cbildren when they were babies. Oh, forgive—for-
give me! Justice must be done. Raymond, pardon your poor,
weak mother. Oh, I have suffered so all my life, for my wick-
ed deed. I swear, with my dying breath, that I changed the
children. Walteristhe son of Lord and Lady Rosenbury. Ray-
mond, my son, forgive ——” i

The name succeeded in a firmer handwriting, asif the dying
woman had summoned all her strength in that last effort to un-
do the wrong she had done.

The book dropped from Lady Rosenbury’s fap, and Walter
started from the amazed trance into which the perusal of that
last confession of his dead nurse had placed him, in time to
catch her fainting form in his arms.

He bore her to the lounge, sprinkled her white face with wa-
ter, chafed her hands, and, as he knelt beside her, cried, ina
voice thrilling with a mighty, resistless joy and love.

“Mother! Oh, mother speak tome! Iam your son—your
own son Walter.

Lady Rosenbury recovered her consciousness before that
thrilling ery, and she opened her eyes to find herself clasped to
Walter’s breast, and to find Walter’s tear-wet face pressed
against her own, while he lavished caresses upon her.

“It is true, then !? she exclaimed, half arising. ‘Oh, my son!
my son !’? ‘ é

It would be vain to attempt a description of their great joy.

They received the dying Mrs. Loraine’s incoherefit confession
as a statement of the truth, and neither could have doubted it,
had they tried.

All was now explained—their insiinctive love for each other,
Lady Rosenbury’s aversion to Raymond, his_ resemblance to
Mrs. Loraine, and Walter’s likeness to the late Lord Rosenbury.

A thousand incidents and circumstances were remembered to
confirm the dying woman's words. ‘

“Oh, Walter!” said her ladyship, as soon as she had_ partially
regained her calmness, ‘the only thing that mars my joy is that
your dear father has not lived to see this day. He loved you so,
while believing you the son of Loraine, and he mourned so over
the strange nature of Kaymond.”

“But he lovedme,”’ Walter urged as a consolation.

“Yes, my son. How sweetly that title sounds! I never called
Raymond ‘my son’—I couldn’ti Have you thought of dear Ger-
aldine’s joy? She will be my daughter after all, and her hus-
band will pot bethe obscurely born painter she now expects,
You Know you are now Lord Rosenbury,'!

aa
Hed the open box, and Waiter hastened
er. :

   

 

    
     
     
  
    
   
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
 
   
 
 
   

BoM

| they can distribute to advantage all extra sheets, books
containing first parts of stories, etc, There is but little
risk attending the sale of liter: apers, and we think

Post 8 Should at once take steps to add papers to

. ..4 #,.—It may or it may not be the catarrh with
a advise you to consulta
‘A person sub-
Pp speak until the
the act of breathing out con-
reases the affliction, and
uch more difficulty than
Ho We have heard of
, or by accompany-
e hand or foot. When
1alformation of the organs of
yageeent of the tonsils, or some
the voca! organs, a physician

of w to seek advice.

 
 

, every Postmaster should be
are no others in iittle towns

lave such excellent facilities for bring-
miagazines, etc., to the notice of the inhabit-
ants; and, knowing every body ‘in their neighborhood,

   

      
    

 

‘the other articles im which they deal. Let all Postmas-

ters take this hint into consideration.

Have Pity

onthe Stomach. Forbear to nauseate it with toathsome pills.
Don't drench it with sickening potions. All the purgative, cor
rective, and anti-bilious elements necessary for the cure of con
stipation, dyspepsia, liver complaint, and nervous debility, are

eomibined in that exhilerating and delicious draught—Tarranr’s
EFFERYESCENT SELTZER APERIENT. It is anti-febrile, purifying,
invigorating, alterative. In fact, it 1s half-a-dozen sanitary
blessings mingled in one cooling foaming febrifuge. SOLD BY
ALL DRUGGISTS, w26-1t

TAR SPANGLED BANNER.—A large 40-column
paper, Ledger size, illustrated. Devoted to Sketches, Poetry,

Wit, Humor, genuine fun, Nonsense (of a sensible kind), and to
the exposure of Swindling. Humbugs, &c. Ouly 75 cts. a year,

and a superb engraving “Evangeline,” 1 1-2x2 feet, gratis, 30,000
circulation. Money refunded to all who ask it. It 18 wide-awake,
fearless, truthfvl. Try it Now. 75 cTs. A YEAR. Specimens
FREE. Address

w26- “BANNER,” Hinsdale, N. H.

CURLS!? CURLS?

One application of my Hair Curler will curl the hair into

beautiful cxris, and last six months, in every case, or money re-

funded. Sent by maii, for 50 cents a package, or 3 for $1, post-
paid. Address J. F. JAGGERS, Box 2743, St. Louis, Mo.

1840. 1870.
PERRY DAVIS’

Vegetable “Pain Killer,’
The Great Family Medicine of the Age.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY YEARS

Have elapsed since the introduction of the Pain Killer to the
public, and yet at the present time it is more popular and com-
mands a larger sale than ever before. Its popularity is not con-
fined to this couniry alone; all over the world its beneficial
effects in curing the “‘ills that flesh is heir to,’’ are acknowledged
and appreciated, and asa PAIN KILLER its fame is limited to no
country, sect, nor race.

Tuirty Years is certainly along enough time to prove the effi-
cacy of any medicine, and that the PAIN KILLER is deserving of
allits proprietors claim for it, is ampiy proved by the unparal-
leled popularity it has attained. -It is a suRE and EFFECTIVE
remedy. Sold by all Druggists. W26-2t-eow

HOW TO GET PATENTS

IS FULLY EXPLAINED ina Pamphlet of 108 pages just
issued by MUNN & CO., 37 Park Row, New York.
SENT FREE.
MUNN & CO., 37 Park Row, New York,
(25 YEARS’ EXPERIENCE), have taken
PATENTS.—Wiore Patents 2nd examined More
Enventions, tllan any other agency.
Send sketch: and description for opin-
ion. NO CHARGE. w22-4t

MPLOYMENT.—$200 a month with Stencil Dies. Samples
free. S. M. SPENCER & CO., Brattleboro, Vt. w13-13t.

A GREAT OFFER!

Horace Waters, 481 Broadway,
will dispose ef ONE HUNDRED PIANOS, MELODEONS, and
Orcans of six first-class makers, AT EXTREMELY LOW PRICES,
FOR CASH, DURING THIS MONTH, or will take from $5 to $20
monthly until paid; the same to let, and rent money applied if
purchased, - w7-l7
RUNKENNESS !—The Most HOPELESS Cases Cured. Send
eee for evidence C. C. BEERS, M. ‘oston, Mass.
w22-4t

 

 

 

 

36
D.,

 

box A DAY!—40 new articles for Agents. Samples sent free.
aaast H. B. SHAW, Alfred, Me.
wdéa-.

GUFFROY’S
COD-LIVER DRAGEES.

(SUGAR-COATED PILLS OF COD-LIVER EXTRACT.)

A perfect substitute for Cod-Liver Oil, more efficacious, more
economical, and free from all its disagreeable qualities. Used
in English, French, and American Hospitals, and highly re-
commended by the Medical Faculty here and in Europe. Send
for a pamphlet, which contains many very emphatic testimoni-
als fromeminent physicians who have tried them.

- WARD, SOUTHERLAND & CO.,

130 William street, New York.
A box of 240 Dragees, equal to six pints Cod-Liver Oil, $2.

 

 

 

Sent by mail on receipt of price, w261t

 

 

 

'S SONS
x Will Clean Windows without water.
SAPOLIO The best and cheapest thing in use.
SAPOLIO Will Clean Paint, Glass and Earthen-
ware, Marble, Oil Cloths, Wood-
; work, &c., &c., &e.
SAPOLIO Will Polish Tia Pails, Pans, Kettles,
J Tron, Steel and all Metal, Surfaces,
SAPOLIO Will Polish Knives, Stair Rods, giving
a luster equal to new articles.
1 ; Will remove Stains from Marble, and
SAPOLIO for house cleaning and general uses
is indispensable, “ry itand you'll
like it.
Depot, 211 Washington St., New York.
Everybody uses it. Sold Everywhere.
w22-eow-tf
IVORCES LEGALLY OBTAINED FROM THE
Courts of different States. No publicity. Adviee free.
w10-15t = FRED’K I. KING, Counsclor-at-Law, 363 Broadway

“rnnIME IS MONEY."—Watches superseded—The Dollar Time
Keeper—A PERFECT Gem.—Elegantly cased in Orojde of
Gold, Superior Compass Attachment, Enameled Diua!, Silver and
Brass Works, Glass Crystal, size of ladies’ watch. Will denote
correct time, warranted, superb and showy case, entirely of
metal) Thisisno WOOD Coinpass. Is entirely new—patented
10,000 sold in three weeks. Only $1 each, three for , in neab
case, mailed free. Send forcirculars, Address the sole mana-
facturers, MAGNETIC WATCH CO., ;
w25-13t Hinsdale, N. Hi.

WM. KNABE & COWS
(BALTIMCGRE)
WoORLD-RENOWNED

Grand, Square, and Upright

PLANOS

Used at the Academies of Music of New York and Brooklys hy
the Italian Opera, Richings’ Opera, Ole Bull's Concerts, «nd all
the leading Entertainments in the United States. - ;

These Pianos are before the Public 36 years, and upon HEIR
EXCELLENCE ALONE have attained an UNPURCHASED pre-em‘*nenée
that pronounces them unrivaled. Every Piano is fully war-
ranted for Five Years. zs:

ar NEW PIANOS RENTED AND SOLD ON INSTALL

MENTS,
J. BAUER & CO., General Agents, __
69 Washington St., Oa
650 Broadway, New York. w-1l0t

$20 A DAY toMALE & FEMALE

Agents to introduce the BUCKEYE $20 SHUTTLE SEWING
MACHINES. Stitch alike on both sides, and is the only LI-
CENSED SHUTTLE MACHINE sold in the United States for less
than $40. All others are infringements, and the seller and the
user are liable to prosecution and imprisonment. Outrir FREF.
w8-lyr Address W. A. HENDERSON & CO., Cleveland, O.

 

 

HINKLEY KNITTING MACHINE,
The wonder of the Age—with single, eye-poinied Needle. Sim-
ple, Cheap, Reliable—for Family Use. Agents wanted évery-

where to introduce them. idress
INKLEY KNITTING MACHINE C0., Bath, Me,,
_ Or 176 Broadway, New York.

 

wl2-13t

THE NEW ARTICLE OF FOOD.

For twenty-five cents you
can buy of your Druggist or
Grocer a package of Sea Moss
Farine, manufactured from
pure Irish Moss or Carrageen,
which willmake 16quartsof |
Blanc Mange, and a like quan-
tity of Puddings, Custards, |
Creams, Charlotte Russe, &c.
&ec. Et is by far the cheapest,
healthiest and mest delicious
food in the world.

Rand Sea Moss Farine Co.,
53 ‘Park Place, NN. ¥.

eS eee

PLANTATION BITTERS.
S. T.—1860,—X.

This wonderful vegetable restorative
is the sheet-anchor of the feeble and de-
bilitated. Asa tonic and cordial for the
aged and languid it has no equal among
stomachics. As a remedy for the nervous
weakness to which women are especially
subject, it is superseding every other
stimulant. In all climates, tropical, tem-
perate or frigid, it acts as a specific in
every species of disorder which under-
inines the bodily strength and breaks
down the animal spirits. Sold by all
Druggists.

FREE! FREE! FREER!

No charge will be made 1f DR. TORIAS' CELEBRATED VE
NETIAN LINIMENT does not cure Chronic Rheumatism, Sore
Throats, Mumps, and pale in the chest, limbs or back, when
applied externaliy, and Croup, Diarrhea, Dysenterv, Colic, Sea-
sickness, &c., internally. Warranted to be perfectly sate to
give or apply tothe youngest child. It has been 23 ‘years be-
fore the public, and has never failed. Sold by all the Druggists,
at 50 cents and one dollar. W22-25-28-31

 

_—_____ ne —

 

 

 

catia teiaeinensinisaiii nil ae

 

DO YOUR OWN PRINTING, WITH A
NOVELTY JOB PRINTING PRESS.
The only low-priced press ever made
that will do good work. No greater
convenience can be added to any
business office, and no more valuable
means of advertising can be em-
plowed than one of these presses and
a few dollars’ worth of type. No
>> nore useful, enteriaining or mstrue-
fgg (VE present can be made to any boy

 

‘

 

 

“9 -*~ than one of these presses and a small
quantity of printing material. He would find it a never-faiting
source of instruction, pleasure and profit. PRICE OF PRESs-
ES, $15, $30, $32. ). Send for full descriptive illustrated cir-
culars, with testimonials and specimens of printing, types, -or-
ders, cuts, rules, &c., to BENJ. O. WOODS, Proprietor, 351 Fd-
eral St., Boston, Mass. w22-4t

 

HE COLLINS WATCH FAC-

tory. The celebrated IMI-
TATION GOLD HUNTING
Are, “ Collins Metal?
(Improved Oroide). These justly
celebrated Watches have bee
so thoroughly tested during the
last four years, and their repu-
tation for time and as imitations
of Gold Watches is so well es-
tablished as to require no rec-
> ommendations. They retain
their color, and each one is
fully guaranteed by special cer-
; = tificate. Prices: Full jeweled
Patent Levers, $15. Equalin appearance and tor tine to gold
ones costing $150. Those of extra fine finish, $20. Eqtualing a
$200 gold watch. Also, an extra heavy, superbly finished and
splendid watch at $25. This ao in apearance a $252 gold

20

      

one. Allour watches are in nting cases, gents’ and ladrss’
sizes. Chains $2 to $8. Also, Jewelry of every kind, equal fo

gold, at one-tenth the price.

“The Collins’ metal is the best imitation of gold we have
seen."—W, ¥. ibune.

“One of the $20 Watches is worn in our office, and we have no
hesitatien in recommending them. *—Pomeroy's Democrat. i

TO CLUBS.—W here Six Watches are ordered at one time, we
send a Seventh Watch free. Goods sent by express to all parts
of the United States, to be paid for on delivery. ©. E. COLLINS
& CO., No. 335 Broadway, New York. wl7-tf.

 

AGENTS, READ THIS!

 

We will pay agents a Salary of $30 per week and expenses, or
allow a large commission, to sell our new wonderful inventions.

Address WAGNER & C€0.,

wil2-13t Marshall, Michigan,

ROYAL HAVANA LOTTERY.

$390,000 in Gold drawn every 17 days. Prizes cashed and 1nfor-
mation furnished. Highest rates paid for donbloons and all kinds
of gold andsilver. TAYLOR & CO,, Bankers, 16 Wall ee
wi-th
For Moth Patches, Freckles & Tan.
SE “PERRY’S MOTH AND FRECKLE LOTION.” The

only Reliable aud Harmless Remedy known to Science for
removing brown discolorations from the Face. Prepared only

 

 

 

 

everywhere.

by Dr. B. C. PERRY, 49 Bond St., N. ¥. Sold by ues
w22-13t

 

 

 

 

 

i oa sail
fy
7

 

   

 

 

 
 

Same boon

&

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fae PUR TET EON ETE Oo a

 

 

 

 

A OLE.
SMOOTH SKIN

AND

BEAUTIFUL COMPLEXION
FOLLOWS THE USE OF
HELMBOLD’S
CONCENTRATED

EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA.

It removes black spots, pimples, moth patches, and all
eruptions of the skin.

 

IN THE SPRING & SUMMER MONTHS

The system naturally undergoes a change, and

HELMBOLD’S
Highly Concentrated

EXTRACT OF SARSAPARILLA

IS AN ASSISTANT OF THE GREATEST VALUE.

 

YOUNG LADIES, BEWARE!

OF THE INJURIOUS EFFECTS of Face Powders and
Washes. All such remedies close up the pores of the skin,
and in a short time destroy the complexion. If you would
have a fresh, healthy, and youthful appearance, use

HELMBOLD’S |
EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA.

 

NOT A FEW

Of the worst disorders that afflict mankind arise from
corruption of the blood.

HELMBOLD’S |
EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA

IS A REMEDY OF THE UTMOST VALUE,

 

| HELMBOLD’S
EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA

Cleanses and renovates the blood, instils the vigor of
health into the system, and purges out the humors that
make disease. , .

QUANTITY ‘vs. QUALITY.
‘ HELMBOLD’S
EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA.

The dose is smali. Those who desire a large quantity
and large doses of medicine ERR.

 

THOSE Wif0 DESIRE BRILLIANCY OF
Complexion.
Must purify and enrich the blood, which —
HELMBOLD’S
CONCENTRATED.

EXTRACT OF SARSAPARILLA

HELMBOLD’S
CONCENTRATED

EXTRACT SARSAPARILLA

IS THE GREAT BLOOD PURIFIER,

HELMBOLD’S
HIGHLY CONCENTRATED

FLUID EXTRACT
SARSAPARILLA
ERADICATES ERUPTIVE AND ULCERATIVE

: Diseases
OF THE THROAT, NOSE, EYES, EYELIDS, SCALP, AND
Skin,

Which so disfigures the appearance, PURGING the evil
effects of mercury, and removing all taints, the remnants
of DISEASES, hereditary or otherwise, and is taken by
ADULTS and CHILDREN with perfect SAFErY.

TWO TABLE-SPOONFULS of the Extract of Sarsaparil-
la, added to a pint of water, is equal to Lisbon Diet Drink,
and one bottle is equal to a gallon of the Syrup of Sarsa-
parilla, dr the decections as usually made.

AN INTERESTING LETTER is published in the Medico-
Chirurgi¢al Review, on the subject of the Extract of Sar-
saparilla, in certain affections, by Benjamin Travers, F.
R.S. Speaking of those diseases, and diseases arising
from the excess of mercury, he states that no remedy is
equal to the Extract of Savsaparilla; its power is extra-
ordinary, more so than any other drug I am acquainted
with. It ts, in the strictest sense, a tonic, with this in-
valuable Miribute, that itis applicadle to a state of the
system 80 sunken, yet 30 irritable, as renders other sub-
staices ofthe tonic class unavailadle or injurious,

HELMBOLD’S
Concentrated Extract

SARSAPARILLA,

Established upwards of 19 years. PREPARED aT

H. T. Helmbold’s

DRUG AND CHEMICAL WAREHOUSE,
594 BROADWAY, N. Y.,
And 104 SOUTH TENTH STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

Sold by druggists everywhere, Price $6 50 for six bot-
Ues, or $1 25 per bottle, delivered to any address,

None are genuine unless done up ina steel engraved
Wrapper, with fac simile of my chemical warehouse, aad

RE

one
ab

 

 

 

TO ALICE CAREY.

 

BY M. E.-NOSIRROM.

 

Your lines of ‘The Mowers,” long ago,
Bring memories of the past—

Of a day we watched together,
In those times too bright to last,

On the stile in the graveyard, Alice,
*Way down in the vista green.

Can you remember, dariing,
The scyithes with their silver sheen ?

We used to sit and watch them,
And talk of the time to come;

We were both to be rich and famous,
And live in a beautiful home;

Only I was to excel you, Alice—
You know you said so then,

For I could surpass you at rythm,
And our hopes all lay in our pen.

The time we talked of has come;
Silver threads show-in my hair;
I never yet owned a home, :
But my children, my darlings, are fair!

I dropped my pen to nurse babics;
You kept straight in your path;
You have grown rich and famous,

As time is making his swath.

I have known want and sorrow;
But all’s for the best, they say,

To some comes a bright to-morrow,
To others a stormy day.

Now down life’s hill we are passing—
Down into the valley below;

Time with his scythe is ready,
And soon our swath will mow.

One word for a good-by, Alice;
I never shall see you again;

My first writing was with you, Alice;
My last to you, from my pen,

A DOUBLE JOY.

BY MRS, DENISON.

 

 

 

“Mrs. Hart, may I come in?”

A bright litile face peep-d in the pleasant room.
nurse sprang up.

“If it’s Minnie Hart,” said a feeble voice, ‘she nist
come in.’? ; rt

“It is Miss Hart,?? was the rejoinder. And the sedate
old nurse moved soitly to the door.

“I’m so glad to see h, so glad,*’ cried the young
girl, delightedly, kissing the sweet pale face. ‘ :

“Well, dear,” after the pretty girl was cosily seated by
the bedside, “how has the world fared without me? ‘ell
me all the news, everything. ' The smallest items possess
a charm for one in my condition.” > i

“Let me see”’—and Minnie pursed up her pretty mouth—
“Ceral has got two teeth—mamma has just hada new
black suit made up, and Aunt Prue is coming to spend
winter with us. ‘hen, as brother Dick said, we shall
have a Thanksgiving as is a Thanksgiving, for she knows
how to make all the old-fashioned g es appertaining
to that day.?? :

The

“J shall be happy to meet with Aunt Prue,” said the
invalid. “Iremember her, But what olner news have
you, dear? There is something on your mind,’”

Minnie laughed and glanced swiftly toward the nurse.

“You knew Alice Morse was married???

“The minister’s daughter? Yes.” — ;

“She had three flounces on her dress—what an ex-
travagance. But then she looked beautiful, and so did
Addy Tucker. Have youheard anything about her? She
was bridesmaid.” ;

“No, child.”? 5 ' *

“Ob, it's no consequence, only she’s engaged, I be-
lieve’—a shade of pain passed over the beautiful face,
“You've no idea how well she sings; taking lessons, you
know, and she is very pretty.” Lie :

“Do you think so? 1 never called her pretty,” said the
hat WAS eaten pec ot nos Se Pe
. “Ohyp stop. greatest piece of news yet.. Papa
has adopted, Sr aoe means to adopt, a lovely lige
boy, if nobody calls for him.” ae fe ee

Mrs. Lattimer, the sick” oat Brew pale
nurse passed by the bed, eyeing her narrowly.

“Isn't that rather a strange ireak for your fa

“Why, yes, people, seem: to, , but he saw
somewhere at the north of the city, and K
with his beauty, he brought ‘Nim home: His hair is the
color of gold.” METS vit fe HAE Teese Diverse f

  

 

“T never saw golden hair like—like—
“Your Willy’s ??? queried the youu

 
   

The sick woman nodded her head,

Her lips quivered, and she ed the outward signs of a
deep inwara grief. ‘Her story was a alg
Four years DE egy o the time © e write, she
had been the belle of the city in whi lived—the
loveliest, sweetest creature whose i ever haunted a
oet’s brain. She had married an oung

one of the most beautifal boys that ever was

i ng y
foerehant, and Wily, wno came to bless their union, w
His was one of those faces on which no one can look seen

out emotion purity, all heavenly, angelic innocence.
The young mother was proud of both husband and child. 4,
At the oft , it seemed as if
exceed t mee ach beau ty. , - ; ite pig
r Bag aay) i ter ee ea ee La oie home, |
written vy the tremb ing haese-ab r old other.
If she could. see her da ia ‘s little ld, she
thought that them she m me: '
“Can't you come o d bring him”? she wrote. “It
is almost the last desi be 8 ‘heart. I want to lay
my hand.on his precious - , and take him to my
bosom, as Ihave you many atime. lam almost. ninety
years old. My pilgrimages mearly over. It may be a

whim of mine, not deserving of favor; but my heart ach
to see Bessie’s boy.” — ‘ Bing ; :

Bessie was sick; but the letter mi seg fet strangely)

“T shall have to go to L—— ne eos ” said her hus-
band. “Can't you trust Willy with me? Carry. can go”?—
Carry was the nurse—“‘and we-will only stay a day or two.
It seems hard not to gratify the dear old lady.” - i cif

Bessie’s heart was divided between in
ty. It seemed almost a sacred matter to
of her dear grandmother; but then, w
alone, without the boy? It was torture to her to miss
his bright presence for an hour; what’ would it be for.a
day, a nigit—perliaps two or three days? The thought
was almost agony. or ae i

“T ought not to idolize bim so,’’ she murmnred. to her-
self. “Can I not trust him with his father, and with God?
He shall go.” ; ;

So she dressed him with her own hands in his bright
blue cloak, and white yelyet hat, put up lis tiny ward-
robe in his father’s valise, kissed. him a hundred times,
saw them all get into the carriage at the door, from. the
window, and kissed her at them till. the carriage
ve out of eM i sae sme a%

hat very night—oh! sai pean izing words to say !—
there was a dreadful accident. Never Sad there been a
collision fraught with such tearful resolts. Some were
killed outright, many were burned to death. For three
days Bessie was spared the news; but by that time, when
she was lovingly expecting her precious ones home, she
heard the awtlul tidings,

Stupor and death followed—the death of a little, new-
born babe. For weeks no one expected the bereaved
wife and mother to live; but she did—passed out of the
valley of the shadow, herself a shadow, scarce living—
and entered upon the scenes of life, a poor, pale, sorrow-
ful woman, looking only to the world to come for happi-
ness.

After a pause, Bessie said:

“OQ, Milly, I heard from Bert yesterday !”

Milly chunged color. A quick, sharp pang must have
gone to her heart to make her face s0 marble-like for a
moment; to make her lips quiver so.

Somebody called to speak to the nurse, who left the
room.

“Milly, I thought there was something between you
two; I did indeed,” said the sick woman, looking keenly
into the young girl’s face. ‘Bert used to talk so much
about you, and seemed so happy if ever you were here.
What made him go away in sucha hurry dear? Did he
and you have words ?”?

‘ Milly’s cheeks were crimson now—her eyes full of
ears.

“I know he liked you very much, dear.
loved you. Come, teil me all about it.
you know.”

“Well, we—wwe quarreled.”’

“And how coulda you—two such pacific creatures ?”

‘1 think he was a little jealous,”’ half sobbed Milly.

“Of whom, pray ?”?

‘Young Miller, perhaps; but then I had a friend, who—
that is, Lheard that Bert had been turned oifby Addy
Tucker.”’

“That abominable little flirt!’ cried Bessie, her face
flushing ‘Who told you so?”

“I don’t know—Onh yes, I think she hinted it herself.”

“Too bad!’? murmured Bessie. ‘I’m afraid Addy Tucker
is not only a mischief maker, but positively wicked. I
never liked her; she used to be forever making excuses
to get here, when Bertie was at home.”?

“But, Bessie, dear, I think he did like her, afterall. I
believe he has corresponded with her for some time; and
—in fact—I heard that Addy was engaged to him.”

“The graceless littie sinner!’ cried Bessie. “I feel like
shaking her, My brother Bertie! Why he uever encour-
age her by word or look; indeed, I have reason to believe
that he actually disliked her, Addy with her light curls
and empty head. Ican’timagine where such a rumor
originated, unless it was in herown frivolous brain. And
you really believe it?”

“You may be mistaken,” said Milly, unsteadily. ‘I am
sure she is getting ready to be married. 1 am sure that
letters pass between ner and somebody abroad. To be
sure it has not been said in so many words, I don’t
blame Bert—I said hard things to him in my anger; I re-
fused him bluntly. I only wonder he doesn’t despise me.”?

‘Well he doesn’t,” said Bessie, with a ring in her voice

ion 2 rn

Fb

 

I believe he
1 am his sister,

 

THE NEW YORK.

oe

“You are exciting yourself too much, madam;’’ she
said, looking again serutinisingly in Milly’s face.

“O, nurse, excuse me, but please go outa little while;
we are having a private and confidential talk,” and rath-
er ungraciously, the woman went out.

“J was going to say,’ she resumed, “that he has writ-
ten a letter to me, a part of Which Iam determined you
shall see, though I am not sure but he would be very an-
gry with me, if he knew it.” She fumbled underneath
the Se Milly trembled at sight of the large, familiar
hand, ©

*Now hear this, child.” js

“My best friend out here is soon to be married to Add
Tucker. Nis father has long been averse to the match,
and his letters were sent for atime under cover of my
name. I hear that poe is as great a fiirt as ever, but she
pc seve to be a good wife; 1 hope she will for Walter’s
sake.

«By the way, do you ever see little Mi
How I wish l could flatter myself th
for my sake. I liked her very much,
crets from you, I loved her—lI love he
only think that her refusal was the
should be too happy. But that I have
she as pretty as ever? give my love to
no matter; if ever I come home again,
so in the course of three or four mont™
give her the message myself.”

“There ! what do you think of that?”

Milly was crying, quietly, though it sv
golden sunshine was pouring straight inte ver heart. She
had not expected this when she came laden with good
news into the chamber of her friend—but, as yet, her
good news was not told.

“It is time for me to go,” she said, wiping her eyes;
“vou wilt get weary and then I shall be rciused your com-
pany. ‘ :

“Don't go, dear; at least not till that tiresome nurse
comes. And nowl1 ¢an talk about it, I couldn't av first;
tell me more about the child, the little boy. Whats his
name?” ~ i it;

“Papacalls him Chuck,” said Milly, turning red again.

“What a queer papa,’ Jaughed Bessie; i yeah OambeE,
he has nick-names for.all of you.”

“Yes, I used to be Popover, you know, and Bobby was
Turnover.” : fi

“Where did he get the child?

“Down town.
dead.” ; :

“Stolen him!” with a look of horror.

“Yes, nearly ayearago. It happened this way, if I can
tell the story straight. Pupa was going down Elm street;
a child trotted by all rags and dirty, clinging to the tat-
tered coat of an old beggar. Something in the beauty of
_ little one’s face attracted papa’s attention. He stop-
ped. : t

“Ts this your child?’ he asked.

“«Biess your soul, no,’ said the man, ‘butd do for him,
when the good people gives 7" penny. He's Jenny’s

ily, of late?
eeps single
ave no se-
dif I could

      
    
    
 
 
 

lift.? ;
«é¢And who is Jenny?! . read + {
“Jenny was me second cousin,’ said!the man,
own cousin to Jimmy McDougal. She died a while ago,
and on her dying bed confessed the Nit.’ .° &
“s} don’t understand you,’ said papa. / » ee
“The lift. It was traveling they were.’ ‘Milly paused
a moment.: ‘It was on the cars they were.’ Bessie’s eyes
glowed and her face grew white. A
“Dd better not tell you,’’ said Milly. 2
“If you don’t I shall die,” responded ‘Bessie, solemnly.
“Well, ‘it was on the carshe were,’ said he, ‘in the
care of a man and @ woman, and the cars was throwed,
and somehow Jenny found herself somewhere wid the
child in her arms, and crawled off by herself—and so she
kept the baby.’ ’. Dulia «
‘Merciful Heaven!’ cried Bessie, ‘it can’t—it can’t be
—my Willie.” 2HIOUN
The narrator had grown very pale, and the two women
sat lcoking in each other’s eyes. Lucky forthe fainting
mother, the nurse, who was Milly’s accomplice,.came in
with a child as beautiful as an angel, and the cry and the
pS went up to Heaventhat moment, no pen could
escr e , at ‘ + al
Everybody thought it would be death\toher, but 1in-
stead, it was life—full, blessed, joyous life, ' A happier, a
more grateful woman never lived, than that e Bessie,
and a few months afterward, when Milly ané Bert stood
upto be married, Bessie’s face having recovered its olden
loveliness, was the happiest of oll the weading guests.

OL

BLANCHE'S HOUSE-AUNTING.
; A Romance of the First of May. :
a BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“4 man is like a vegetable,” said Mr. Selby, thought-

so terribly second-rate.
entleman, ‘‘don’t you sup-
he was about, when he

  

and the neighborhood is

“aly deat? eald the eldg
ose speare ‘knew

Wrote that we had better

“Bear the syle that we have,

_ Than fly to others that we know not of.”
“Pshaw.!”? said Blanche, elevating her little nose, “I
don’t believe Shakespeare ever moved in his lile—what
should he know about it?’

. “He was universally allowed ta. a good judge of hu-

as

phan nature, my dear. However,if gou are bent. upon
Deing fa. blew T Lae eo fe
“It isn’t a question of fashion, uncle, it’s a question of

common comfort and decency,” interposed Blanche. ,
“Well, well, have it your own way,’ assented Mr. Selby.
“Only don’t ask me to go house-h A) ees seth
‘Lye no. wach idea,?? said. - . WAS I ot
1 of eighteen couldn’: find a house without falling back
n her uncie’s greater experience.’? ;
_ Mr. Selby looked after his niece with an amused, loying
smile as the pretty young girl bounded off, dark-eyed and
elastic, with brown curls drooping over her ivory-fair
brow. . ‘ st AN
“A house, indeedl’? thougiit old Mr. Selby, ‘The first
thing she'll be finding will be a lover, and then what, will
the old uncle do? 1t’s the way of the world, I suppose;
-bat I-could almost find it in my heart, to wish that little
Blanche would remain an old maid all the days of her
life. I know I’m a selfish old dog, but we’re all Selfish in
‘this world. She has a snug little property of her own,
too, that will tempt fortune-hunters, Ah! well-a-day! a

   
     
 
 

| pretty girl in this generation is exposed to as many perils

as were the warriors of old, who went out with shield and
| buckler, to fight their way through the world.”

‘}) Blanche Selby was radiant when she came home in

\the yellow April twilight.

0 obey Ul ishes|  }jureka, uncle!’’ she eried ly, “I have found it.”
hat shouidshe do, |, tan

.*What? the Philosopher’s stone ?? ii
~ “No, the house.” . i Fig -
“Oh!? said Mr. Selby, ‘Well, where is it?”

“On Glenn Street. The pretuest house, in perfect repair,
avitir a delicious little green gem of a garden around it—’
etFull of frogs and fever-and-ague, I suppose 7”? ;

“No, you increduious old. uncle—fuli of lilies of the val-
ley and tulip beds, with two royal old elms drooping over
the front porch————””

“Oh!—h!—h!’, eried Mr. Selby, with a counterfeit shud-
der, “that accounts for the blue mould on the mantels and
tne mildewed wall-paper, and the leaky roof.’ ’

“Nothing of the sort, uncie. Didn’t1 tell yeu the house
was in perfect répair? But uncle : :

“Well, what’s coming now ?¢”

“The lady who owns ‘the house—she’s a widow, uncle,
with such soft brown eyes, and hair just like the shell of
a ripe chestnut—would like theprivilege of retaining jus
two rooms for herself, on the second floor. She has had
reverses, and cannot afford to keep the whole house.”

“Cool of the widow, upon my word!’ said Uncle Selby.
“So Lam to open a tenement house for her benefit, eh?’

“Unelel?

“Well, what else does it amount to?
dren has she, I’d like to know ??

“Only one son, uncle, and %?

“A noisy, romping school-boy, I’ll go bail, playing ball
in the back garden, and smashing in all the window-
glass, baiting cats and tormenting dogs. 1 always did
hate boys,’’

‘Wrong, uncie, 411 wrong from the beginning!’’ cried
Blanche, gleefully. “He isa young clergyman, and he
preaches in the Mill Street Church, and one of the rooms
is to be his study,”

“Worse and worse,’’ said Mr. Selby, with a grimace,
‘he’ll be trying to convert me, and giving me bundles
of tracts to distribute among my friends. No, Blanche,
no—tell the young clergyman and his mamma to clear out.
If lm to have a house at all 1 want 1t entirely to myself.”

Blanche colored and hung down her head,

“But, uncle, I promised them they should have the two
rooms, I didn’t suppose you would object.”

“My dear, that shows how much you still have to learn
of your uncle’s charactor,”’ said the old gentleman, drily.

“I can’t do it, uncle!’ pouted Blanche, ‘i promised
them, and I cannot forfeit my word.” |.

“Forfeit a fiddlestick,’? said Uncle Selby, gruffly..

“And the young clergyman was, so polite, and I—I
promised to take a class in his Sunday School.”

“So you got up a flirtation with the young clergyman,
eh??? said Uncle Selby. ‘A pretty way you have of house-
hunting, miss.”

“J couldn’t refuse to speak to him, could I ?”? demanded
Miss Blanche, with some asperity.

“Well, well, all there is left for us to do,” said Mr. Selby,
shrugging his shoulders, “is to go and undo the mischief
you’ve conjured up, a8 well asinmay be. You Say you en-
gaged the house?”

“Yes uncle,’’ whispered Blanche.

“Atwhatrent?? |

“Only fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Upon my word!) laughed Uncle Selby, “your widow
understands the greatart of makinga bargain remark-
ably well. Dll go there to-morrow morning the first
thing.”

Blanche. cried a little, but Blanche’s tears only seemed
to strengthen her uncle’s grim determination to have
nothing to do with interesting young clergymen and soft-
eyed widows.

“Oome, Blanche,’ said the old gentleman, resolutely,
the next morning, as they rose from the breakfast table.

‘Must I go with you, uncle?” hesitated the young girl.

“Of course !’ cried Mr. Selvy. ‘Don’t I need a witness
of whatever bargain I may conclude to make ¢”?

“Bat I don’t want to, uncle.”

“Nonsense, child—come.along!”’

And Blanche, the more submissive and yielding of the

 

How many chil-

 

 

 

The woman who. had stolen him was
wo :

‘and

f iy rapa s tacles; ‘he don’t like to be uproot-

ob where once he has tak n kindly to the sot 7) ;

‘be “But, Bay Parry Blanche, timidly, ‘the old ‘house
is so shabby, ‘the Jandiord.won’t put on any repairs,

ostnadl

Sos

most relented, as the trim maid-servant showed him into
the parlor, and tripped away upstairs to call her mistress.

Ina few minutes the parlor door opened, and a tall,
graceful lady in block entered.

“T am sorry to deluy you, sir,? she began, ‘but ”

“Why. ivs Minnie Cleveland !? burst from, Mr. Selby’s
lips. ‘Minnie, don’t you remember me—old Ralph Sel-
by, that you used to tease so mercilessly? To think lL
should meet you here, Minnie, of all places in the world!
And you are a widow, too’’—with a glance at her black
garments—‘‘dear me, dear me !*”

And Mrs. Elmsley smiled and colored, with glistening
eyes, as she recalled tne days When Ralph Selby had been
her first love—rough and brusque, and a litde disposed
to be domineering, but true and noble-hearted withal, as
a knight templar of old. ‘

“You're as pretty as ever, Minnie,” said the elderly
gentleman, holding her hand in his, and looking at the
dewy eye and luxuriant brown hair, which seemed as yet
untouoled by time. 4° *

“Nay, you must not flatter me, Ralph,’? smiled the
widow. ‘lI have been used to meet the world on far other
terms than that, since last we parted. Tnis house is all
I have left of the fortune whicti once seemed so boundless
to me, and even this 1 find myself forced to resign.”

“But you shan’t resign it,’ said Uncle Selby, warmly.
“Didn’t Blanche tell you you should have the two rooms
you wanted, and more too if you should think it neces-
sary ???

“But, uncle ” began Blanche, mischievously.

Mr. Selby frowned at his niece, with many pantomimic
signs that she should “hold her tongue!’ and promptly
concluded the bargain with Mrs, Elmsiey on the spot.

“Didn't I dell you she a pretty widow, uncle ?”? demand-
ed Blanche, as they were walking homeward. “And you
didn’t see the young clergyinan after all.”

‘The idea of Minnie Cleveland having a son old enough
to preach the Gospel!’ said Mr. Selby, mechanically rub-
bing ‘his eye-glasses. ‘‘Pretty!—she was the beauty of
all our set, when I was a young man.”

So they hired the picturesque cottage in the suburbs,
with the elm-trees nodding over the porch, and the lilies
feta ates strings of pearls under their green, glossy
leaves; the June roses blossomed and died, and the
summer glow softened into autumn, and when the elm-
leaves showered down a yellow rain on the lawn below,
Uncle Selby met Blanche coming from early service at
the Mill street church, one clear, crisp morning.

*Uncle,”? said Blanche, eagerly, ‘I’ve something to say
to you.”?

“And I wanted to tell you something,’’ said her uncle,
with rather an embarrassed air; ‘but you may say your
say first.”

“No, uncle—you,” insisted Blanche.
eldest.”

“Well, then,” said Uncle Selby.
Mrs. Elmsley.”’

“Oh, uncle—how nice!’ cried Blanche, clapping her
hands. You’ll be my father-in-law, then.

_ “You are mistaken, my dear,’ said Mr. Selby, com-
placently. ‘Minnie will be your aunt,’?

. “Oh, uncle, you don’t understand,’’ said Blanche, color-
‘ing and smiling, and mercilessly pulling the scarlet ber-
ries off ‘the mountain-ash bythe gate. ‘Herbert has
-asked me to be his wife-—and I said yes.”

“Herbert Elmasley, eh??? said Uncle Selby. ‘Well, my
dear, I believe he’ll make you an excellent husband. 1
congratulate you, Bianche.’?

‘And I you,'uncle,”? said Blanche, reaching up to kiss
the gray-mustached man, who seemed, in her young eyes,
to be beginning the world “so late in life.”

But she did not know that autumn sunshine is some-
times scarcely less radiant than that of spring.

Neither had she known, when she went ‘“nouse-hunt-
ing,’ thaf she was finding not only a house, but a hus-

The Shadowed Altar.

“Say! are you boss of this crib?”” 2 :

This was the salutation which Dr. Merle received on entering
the room where Awnings was confined, immediately after the
interview which the dector had held with Miriam. ‘i

“J preside over this establishment, my hopeful young friend!”
replied Dr. Merle.

“Then I want to see my sister!"’. ; :

“Yon shali—when J think it best, not before!’' said the doctor,
quietly.” ‘

“That's cool! Did you ever try to stand on your head, Mr.
Sidewhiskers ?t” ;

“T cannot say that I have!” replied the doetor.

“Well, you will try, and that right soon, if you don’t take me
where my sister is!”? said Awnings, savagely. “I'd like fo knew
what kind of a hotel this is anyhow. I heat singing and how!l-
ing, and laughing, and sobbing, all.going on at once, like a Sixth
ward election row, oran Italian wake. in Baxter street! It’s a
iMigh old place; 1 reckon, if you ee boss!” gy,

“You'll think so betore you leave it, my. young friend. Are
you comfort: here—got room enough to stretch yourself in?”
“Dll show you in about a minute and-a-half it youdon’t take

me to my sister!” 2, ‘ ; ;
teoat, do you??? ae
yowlt, find when I'm ready to go

“You want a straight w
“beliave well, then, if you ever calculate to go

: “tT don’t waste m ti
“Put me where ster is, and Pll be as good asa preacher
Where she Is and come, old: Sidewhiskers, just take me

 

 

“You are the

‘Um going to marry

 

 

  
  
 
  

 

ne :

“You had bett

where she is, and there won't be ray muss in your crib!”
“You will remain separate while

a quiet smile, as if he rejoic

piness of his prisoner. es : é
‘Time- out—it's comin ried Awnings, and it did come

right from the shoulder betore the doctor dreamed of what was

ng. .
The clenched fist of Awings struck him so fair between the
eyes, that he keeled over on his backina pgpis, tetreen and
in pugilistic parlance, went down stiff as a log.

he doctor was so stunned that he made no ot

eré!’said the doctor, with
is power Lo add to the unhap-

,and when,

two or three minutes after he be conse some-
4thing had: ; rk j mihamiing over him swith his
fists ready to renew the exercise.

ak a loud word to call help and I'll make you dumb for-
ever!” said Awnings in a low, savage whisper. ‘“Tuimno chicken
iflam young. You’l find me as tough as they make ‘em!” °
' *Do you mean to murder me?” moaned the doctor.
: ees it you don’t let me stay where my sister is! Will you
do it?’ r

‘Tue boy's hand was raised to strike again, when the doctor
said yes.

“Right away; and no fooling?’

“Yes—yes—do not strike me again!”

For the boy seemed determined to finish what he had so well
begun. . “

“Swear it, you dried up old ‘natomy—swear it!”

“T swear!”

“And you'll call no help, but take me right to her? If you
don’t—see here!”

To the horror of the doctor the boy took a small six-shooter
from his pocket. It wasJoaded and capped.

“T'lleall no help! You had best be quick'in helping me up,
for wy eyes are closing and I shall not be able to see where to
go. he blow from your hand is blinding me.

*“Yes—I generally put em ontostay. Charley Ottignon learn-
ed me how to put ’em on!”

“Jo put what on?” asked the doctor, asthe boy helped him
to his teet.

“Heads !? said Awnings, quietly. “Now take me to my sister,
or I'll throw lead instead ot a bunch of bones!”

The doctor groaned, made the signal for the door to be opened,
and for a wonder fulfilled his promise. Ife took Awnings to the
reom where Miriam was confined. Perhaps the fear that the
boy. would throw lead had something todo with it, Awnings
did not care—his wish was accomplished, and he and Miriam
“were together once more.

. “Did you see old Sidewhiskers?” asked Awnings, after his
sister hud embraced hiin.

‘The doctor, yes—what was the matter with him?”

“Te dian’t want to let me come to you, and so [stood him on
his head. I gave him one from the shoulder, and he thought it
wouldn’t be healthy to take any more. I made him promise
while he wasdown, and when I Jet him up, I showed him thus,
and he coneituded to let me come to you!”’ 7

ar brother, you are armed? We will yetescape from this
place !”?

; “Or course we will! I'd. like to see the crib that won!d hold
me when Ididn’t want to stay. Have you heard anything of
mother being here ?”?

“No—yet J feel that she is near—very nearus! Hark—do you
hear that?”

“T hear some one ‘singing like I’ve dreamed angelsdo. You
can’t sing like that, Miriam !”

“No, brother, no. How sad and yet how sweet.
that is our poor mother !””

“Tf itis, she can’t be far off. I reckon she is in the next

Oh, perhaps

om |”

‘ “Yes—but the wall between us is of stone, and that door is
ron!

“Well—if she 7s in there, I'm going to see her!”

“How, brother—bow? The doctor will uot again place him-
self in your power!” ¢

“I domt want him too. The further off he keeps for a little
while, the better I'll like him!”

“What do you mean to do?”

“To get in where she is singing, and to let you in too!”

“Brother—dear brother, are youandeed guing crazy ?”’

“Not a bitof it. Do you see this?”

Awnings raised one leg of his pantaloons to the knee, and
drew out from the leg of his boot, a huge bowie-knife.

“Yes—but of what use will that be?’

“It will dig out mortar, and when the mortar is out, one of
them big square stones willcome too. And then well know
who it is thatis singing in there. If it is our mother, them that
try to separate us, after we meet, had better make their Jast will
aud testament before they commence! See here—the knife is
just the thing for such work!”

And the boy began tocut mortar from between the joints ot
stone in the wall, with a celerity and ease which told Miriam
that there was indeed hope of success in his plan,

CHAPTER LIV.

“You have deceived me, Horace Blachart—you have deceived
me. You promised that my Miriam should he restored to me.
I have given you security for a Jarge sum, and Beis to hold
you free from harm!” cried the old man Volski, as he entered
the presence of the chuckling millionaire.

“Promises, like pie-crust, are made to break. I have your
name to papers that will reduce you to _beggary, you old fool.
So, if you have any wisdom lett, you will be very humble in
the presence of your master!” cried Blachart, in response.
“Don’t you think so, Eldard Grump?”

“I don’t know what you asked, but I think whatever you
want me to think, most honored patron,” cried the lame law-
yer, who had hopped into the room, just as Volski had finished
his excited remarks.

“Haven't we got this old fool's name to papers that will make
him a beggar ?’

“Of course we have—all duly witnessed, as well as signed and
sealed |”?

“I believe you both speak falsely. All I asked of you was my
child—my sweet Miriam.”

‘‘My child, you mean !” said Blachart with a sneer.

“No—you cast her out in her helpless infancy to die!
have no right to her. I who have raised her, had her educated
till no lady in the broad land is her superior—l who love her
more than my own life—I whom she loves have the best right
toher. Youhave none! ButI will not waste time in talk, I
knew you were trying to play me false, and itis now my turn
to laugh. It is my turn to triumpb. For 1 not only know where
she is, but where for these long, iong years my poor wronced
sister has been kept inagony, apart from her kind, and igno-
rant even that her children tived. Horace Blachart, the meas-
ure of your iniquity is full, and youcan gono further. As for
that miserable trickster, there, he teo has got to tbe end of his
rope and so6n will have a chance to hang himself or to do the
State laborious service.”

You

 

PS

 

 

3

 

TaBSer <r tae

 

ee

about to visit your trio of victims in the asylum of Dr. Merle, in
my company and that of these officers.”’ fs;

As Volskispoke, Summerdown accompanied by four more
officers stepped into the room, and said to both the millionaire
and the lawyer:

“Gentlemen, you are both my prisoners.”’

“Yo hed oe pe hoy warrants!” cried Grump, angrily.

       
   
  
 

“They ere!” said Summerdowa, quietly, producing the
documents, .
“On wh e 2? continued the lawyer.

wtorgery, theft und subornation of perjury. Enough
. refreshments at Sing Sivg fora longtime. For him,
even yet more serious charges | No he-itation—nor an offer of
resistance, and you will be ironed hand and foot.”

“Where will you take us? Ican give bail to any amount,"
cried Blacbart, pale with sudden. apprehension.

“You wil have no opportunity to get bail at present. You will
first go with us and see your wronged wife and children releas-
ed. Then ic will be time enough for the other steps in the pro-
gramme. e
i ae shall pay for this,” hissed Blachart, addressing

olski.

“tT am able to,” replied the other. “Officers do your duty—we
have no time for delay now. Itis time we were atthe asylum,
for by this time it is surrounded, and there will be an excite-
ment within before we are there and ready.”

The party at once moved out tothe carriage in front of the
house, and in spite of several futile attempts to incite passers-
by to assist them to escape from what they termed illegal ar-
rest, Blachart and Grump were placed in separate carriages—
the officers got in to guard them, and they were driven off.

Detective Summerdown, with a ha smile on his fine face,
got into a third carriage with Alexis ki and followed close
afler them. :

“If the colonel} does his part as well as me—this will be a hand-
some-day’s work all around!” cried the officer, as he closed the

carriage door.
CHAPTER LY.

Anna—the divorced wife—the yet loving, though separated
woman, had at last consented at the repeated urgings of her
mother, to take the air in a carriage ride. It was not her own
will, for all that she asked now was seclusion from a world that
had no joys for her.

Anna was alone inthe earriage. Her mother had intended to
accompany her, but friends had called just before they were
ready tostart, and she to.d Anna to go on without her.

The driver had no directions—in fact Anna did not care what
course he took. By his side, acting as footnian, was the man
who had all along played the spy for BeJphor and Durant.
And listening to the advice of this man the coachman drove on
Wbrongh ihe Central Park, and outinto the open country be-
yond.

Anna, laying dreamily hack on the soft cushions, thinking of
what had been and never might be again, did not notice whith-
er the coach was being driven, but when it suddenly came to a
stop, and she raised her eyes, a cry, both of anger and alarm,
lett her Jips.

For close beside the carriage-door, stood Frank Belphor, with
a triumphant smile on his dark face.

He had just stepped from a close-curtained coach, which had
stopped not three yards away.

While he smiled, Durant stepped also from the other coach.

“Drive on—drive me back to my home instantly!’ cried Anna
to her coachman.

“He loves lire too well to stir his horses without my permis- .

sion, fair lady!” cried Belphor, sternly. “If you will change
carriages, he can return at once and inform your mother of our
elopement!”

“Oh villain—villain! What do you mean?’

“That you are In my power, proud beauty, amd_may as well —
’ : '
have played a strong game this time, and ©

yield gracefully. I
hold every trump in my own hand. The poor innocent fool,
whom I got divorced trom you, ison his way fo the far-off wil-
derness, Dut he has not gone so far but he shall hear that his
late queenly wife has eloped with a hated gambler. Oh, how
that will make his heart jump. It will be worse than losing you
—worse than the lies which were trumped up to separate you
and_him!”?

“Oh, wretch—wretch, is thereno hep? Just God, do not de-
sert me!”

Never yet was the prayer of the inncecent and the helpless dis-
ee by Our Father.

here was a sound—the swift clatter of hoops along the stony
road, and several horsemen were seen approuehing at a gallop.

“It is he—it is he! Edgar—dear Engar!” came in a wild, glad
shriek from the lips of a fainting woman, for the quick eyes of
true love had detected’ farin advance of the others, the oue
noble form morc precious to her than all others on earth.

A bitter oath broke from the lips of sua a as he raised a re-
volver in his hand. The oath was echoed, the action imitated
by Durant.

On—thundering on, asmany a time he had dashed in the mad
charge, far, far away,.came Edgar Mansfield,: never halting
though shot after shot was fired full at him, tll his horse was
fairly upon his assailants.

Then, as the dying animal plunged wildly down on Belphor,
whose bullets hud entered the horse, instead of the rider, the
colonel fired his firstand only shot. It entered. and passed
through the head of Durant, who had Jaid his hand upon the
bridle rein. ,

Then Mansfield sprung to extricate. himself from his fallin,
horse, and saw the form of Belphor, mangled and bleeding, with
the skull crushed ia, beneath the animals hoofs.

When the officers following, arrived ata gallop, both of the
gamblers were dead. F

Anna had fainted.
her—his lips pressed to hers, and he murmure¢l in low, thrilling
tones: si wer ;

“You are saved, my Anna—you aresaved!”

She cpened her eyes. ;

“Yes—by you and for you, my true, my noble husband!’’ she
ane “Never—never again will 1 part from you, but in
eath!

(To be Continued).

——-- > 94

Items of Interest.

-ko> Dr. Geo. B. Smith, of Randolph county, Ala., was
instantly killed by lightning recently. He was taking
down a book from his library when the Dolt struck him in
the heart. Kev. Mr. Armstrong, a few feet distant, was
prostrated and severely stunned, while Mrs. Smith, wife
ofthe doctor, and little daughter, were knocked down,
severely burned, blackened and blistered. The house
was burned with ajl its contents, The family did not save
even,a change of ciothing.

kaze Captain John F. French, of Qhio county, Ind., and
Israel Apraers. of Centreville, are said to be the oldest
“Masons” in State. The former was a captain in the
war of 1812, and was made a Mason in the city of New
York sixty-one years ago.

 

When ‘his arms were once more around |

:

ka A London mendicant, recently arrested for beg-—

ging, was found to have on his person £30 in silver and a
savings bank ceéttificate for £60. He was sent to prison
for a monih, the cost of his maintenance to be taken out
of his own noard.

X¥@ Portsmouth, N. H., has a restaurant where one can
obtain a piece of beet or fowl, cooked jin a tin-kitchen be-
fore a wood fire, bread baked in a pan covered with hot
coals, and anything else requisite for a substantial meal
cooked in the style of fifty or more years ago.

has At Hamilton, Ohio, recently, Lorenzo Muller, aged
20, was pushed into the masher of a paper mill by some
boys, with whom he had quarrelled, and was instantly
killed.

8@- Columbus, Ga., which now bas two cotton mills
running thirty thousand spindles, is to have another run-
ning twenty thousand spindles. Georgia promises to be
a great manufacturing State.

az A new clock is soon to be placed in Portland City
Hull. It is made of pure white marble, three feet six
inches in length 2nd two feet across the dial. It is similar
to the one destroyed by the great fire.

BG The body of a little Kentucky boy, found frozen to
death, was guarded two days and pointed out to the pa-
rents by his faithfal dog.

4a Gil- Migoter, the postiliion, whose skilful riding
saved Bonaparte from being’ captured by the Cossacks at
his evacuation of Moscow, has just died in Russia.

nua The coffin at a recent New Hampshire funeral was
drawn to the grave on a hand-slead, and the mourners fol-
lowed on snow-shoes.

8as> The King of Bavaria lately gave a dinner to 14,000
poor people in Munich, and engaged twelve hotels for
their accommodation.

Bas Bombay cotton, sent by way of the Suez Canal, has
been returned to India from Huddersfield, Eng., as yarn,
in forty-five days.

&a> In Chicago, a man has been fined $20 for refusing
to kill a dog that had bitten severa) children, besides
“two dollars for every day the dog is not killed.”

ga The procuring of adivorce is called “courting after
marriage.’?

ka= A letter carrierin Boston has been seventeen years
in office. 7

ka Imprisonment for debt has at length been abolish-
ed in Rhode Island.

RGF tis noticed that all the severe storms, so far this
year, have come on Sunday.

Ray An old gentleman of ninety, in Maine, is now in
mourning for his fifth wife.

Ba Two lady clerks have just received appointments
in the San Francisco Post Office.

ka La Marianne, the great secret society in France,
is said to number over five hundred thousand members,

Ba Rochefort has announced in the papers that he is
at work in prison upon a history of the Second Empire.

kay There are upward of 40,000 more white males
than females in Iowa.

gas- Mucilage made from the sap found in the leaves of
the New Zealand flax is used in England.

4a5- The legal rate of interest, in California, has been
raised from 7 to 10 per cent.

Aa The city of Elizabeth, New Jersey, has a hen that
recently hatched seventeen chickens trom fifteen eggs,

hags- Milton, Me., annually cuts four hundred cords of
beach-wood into shoe pegs.

Oa

 

Drawing-Room Chat.

The following conversation took piace in the drawing-

room. of a mansion on Clinton Avenue, Brooklyn, one
pleasant forenoon about ten days ago. (Two ladies, Mrs.
Morgan and Mrs. Knight, had just dropped in for a
morning’s call on Mrs. Rapelje. the lady of the house.)

Mrs. M.—My dear Mrs. Rapelje, ure you sick? You look
quite delicate,

Mrs. R.—No, not sick exactly; but suffering from de-
bility, and dreadfully nervous. Do you know, I could cry
tnis minute.

Mrs. K.—Too mueh excitement, I’m afraid.

Mrs. R.--Perhaps. But what canone do? In the gay
season, one must give parties and attend them.

Mrs. M.—I suppose so. Fashion is law—more’s the pity.
But you must take something to tone your system, or
you'll break down. .

Mrs. R.—I hate medicine! But you shall prescribe for
me. What would you advise?

Mrs. M.—Well, P’ll tell you my plan, Whenever I’m nerv-
ous or hysterical, or havea headache, or am at all out of
sorts, I take a couple of tablespoonfuis of PLANTATION BIT-
TERS once or.twice a day fora week or so, and it tnvarid-
bly brings me round.

 

, 4 —‘‘he doesn’t despise you, and he is not going to marry | two, was forced to aceon f 1 “What do you mean, old gabbler? What do you meant cried | “Mrs, K.—I do the s thi ith the same pleasant
signed : ; } , y j npany her uncle. : ‘eqlaptie Lae a ‘ rs. K. o the same thing with the s Pp
ah i. T. HELMBOLD. that girl, | know that; and moreover he has written.” Even Uncle Selby was forced to confess that the cottage Spanien » while Grump stared at him as if he thought | pocuit | have implicit faith in that article.
4 The nurse came in, on Glenn street was ‘‘a little gem of a place,” and he al- “The explanation will come in good time. Now you are | Mrs. R.--Well, ladies, on your recommendation, Dll try it.
+

 

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AAPA ADS pee

New York, May 12, 1870.

LPP PPL PDD OOOO Ieee”

The Terms to Subscribers:
One Year—single COPY ....+--ceeeeeesenerceees Three Dollars.
* Four copies ($2 50 each)........... ..-Ten Dollars.
Wight. COPS)... cans viccessererenre Twenty Dollars.
Those sending $20 for a elu of Eight, all sent at one time,
will be entitled to acopy FRer. Getters-up of clubs can atter-

RAO ODADRD ID Oe

 

ts “

ward add singie copies at $2 50 each,
All Letters must be directed to
STREET & SMITH,

Office 55 Fulton Street.

 

  

“How is This for High ?”

 

Merely as an indication of the great variety of serials
which will appear in the New YORK WEEKLY during the
coming summer, we appena 2 list of a few that will be
commenced as soon as space will permit. The object at
which we have so persistently aimed—that of securing a
circulation of 300,000 copies—has at length been attained;
and now, instead of indolently contemplating our re-
markable success, the encouragement of an appreciative
public only prompts us to greater exertions. We have
effected arrangements which will enable us to give to our
readers better stories than even the NEw YORK WEEKLY
has yet contained; and while we have elevated the stand-
ard of merit, we have also determined to hasten the pub-
lication of our stories by giving larger installments.

Untiring industry, a keen appreciation of the wants of
the reading world, and the liberality to pay the best
prices for the best stories, have been instrumental in giv-
ing to the NEW YORK WEEKLY a circulation which excites
at once the envy of unsuccessful cotemporaries, and the
admiration of our friends. Shall we now pause in our
efforts because the envious sneer? No. ‘Onward, still
onward,” is our motto. The tactand energy which have
made the NEW YORK WEEKLY the best story and sketch
paper of the age, must not slumber until we have a cir-
culation of four hundred thousand copies; and then only
a brief period of rest will be permitted—just enough to
give breath for a fresh start; for the NEW YORK WEEKLY
will ery “Excelsior” until it numbers its circulation by
the half million. Good stories and excellent sketches
will do it, and only the best do we intend to publish. The
stories named below, which will be commenced as soon
as possible, ought to convince the public that it is our
determination to make the NEw YORK WEEKLY more
prosperous than ever,

No. 1.—THE DIAMOND COLLAR; Or,
By ANNIE ASHMORE.

No. 2.—NOTOHES ON THE STICK; or, The Avengen's Record.
By MAURICE SILINGSBY, author of ‘Buckskin
Joe.”

The Bishop's Debt.

No. 3.—THE FLOWER OF SuDA. By LEON LEWIS.
No. 4.—THE KEY OF GOLD; or, The Heiress of the San-

dal Wood Chest. By EVELYN B. HARPER, & new
contributer—who, until now, has never written a
line for the NEw YORK WEEKLY.

No. 5.—£15,000 REWARD, DEAD OR ALIVE.
HENRY: PECK.

No. 6.—THE CRIMSON RooM; or, The Shadow on the Moat
—A Story of English Society. By Mrs. HARRIET
L. AINSWORTH, an old contributor, returned to
the NEW YORK WEEKLY.

No. %.—LITTLE BucksHor, The White Whirlwind of the
Prairies—A Wild Tale of the Far North-West.
By NED BUNTLINE.

No. 8.—THE Lost BRIDE; or, Pluto the Avenger. BY
TLERO STRONG.

No. 9.--REDEEMED BY LOVE; or, The Drunkard’s Daugh-
ter, By HANNAH HOPPER.

No. 10.—THE CONSPIRATOR'S Doom; or, 7 he Lost Heiress
of Latymer. BY WM. EVELYN ASHBY.

No- 11.—THE MAN IN BLUE; or, Which did he Love?
By SorHre OAKLEY, a new contributor.

><
VENOMOUS
TONGUES.

By PRoF. W.

x

 

WOMEN OF AND LYING

 

Are there such women in the world? Heaven help us,
yes. Society abounds with them. No circle, however se-
lect, is exempt from them. Wherever you find Woman-
kind, there you will find these specimens of female de-
pravity. They are the growth of ‘idleness, of bad pas-
sions, of low tastes, mean habits, and coarse associations.
Envy and spiteful malice enter into their composition,
and a desire for revenge, for neglect, which they imagine
they have suffered, and fancied insults they have sus-
tained, are the constant spurs which urge them to pur-
sue their genial employment of scattering venom and
spreading lies over everything which female nature,
above all others, should hold in most reverent regard.

Women of this description are the Ishmaels, in petti-
coats, of civilization. Their tongues are against every
other woman. Even they, themselves, are not safe from
the venom ofeach other. A slanderous tale is their de-
light, Ro matter whom it affects, nor how much happi-
ness it may destroy, nor character it may biast. The
hardened representatives of this class, they who have
passed the period of maidenhood, who may be married,
by some inscrutable combination of circumstances, but
who never can be loved, find it their best card to be very
dragons of virtue, models of chastity, marbie columns of
purity; and, under this guise, they Spend their ume in
prying out some foundation for venomous and lying
tales against all who are so unfortunate as to come with-
in their sphere. Brooding over their unloved and un-
lovely life, divided between unrequited passion and de-
based and prurient ideas, every action of man or woman
that comes under their eye, takes its hue from their own
jaundiced minds. Hence, it is not difficult, according to
their mode of interpretation, to find scope and employ-
ment enough from the slightest circumstances, from “trie
fles light as air,’’ for their venom and their malice.

Social slander is the current coin of these poor speci-
mens of the female sex. And we ask womankind, gene-
rally, if they themselves-do not do far too much toward
encouraging it? Do they not like to hear this sort of gos-
sip? Do they ever turn a deaf ear to it? Do they speak
a stern rebuke against it? Did they ever see a gathering
in which it was not indulged in, without rebuke, toa
greater or less degree? Truly, all women have need to
adopt the prayer, “Deliver my soul, O Lord, from lying
lips, and from a deceitful tongue 1?

Let it be observed that we do not confine this. class of
women to spinsters. There are many spinsters who are
far too-highminded to degrade themselves so much. Old
maids, instead of being the worst specimens of their sex,
very often set an example to the married. They are im-
pellea to this, not by the tie which binds the sexes in hap-
py union, but to get a position, a support, a status in so-
ciety. After marriage, and by degrees, the true charac-
ter is unmasked, and the wife who was thought to be a
helpmate and loving companion, proves to be only a seli-
ish, vulgar, ignorant, and malicious being, without a
womanly attraction about her, with nothing in manner,
temperament, mind, to hold a man attached to her. It
would be in vain to inquire by what means such women
originally succeed in drawing men into the matrimonial
noose. We shall not, therefore, pretend to pursue the in-
quiry. Having achieved the first object, marriage; hav-
ing attained a position in society through the industry of
their husbands, they pass their days in idleness, in pry-
ing, in mischief-making, in malignant gossip, and in
breeding troubles. Their efforts, it will be found, are
chiefly directed against women who are younger, fairer,
purer, more loving and lovely than themselves. They
stop not at a downright lie, nor a heap of lies; and all
the while they are pretending to be “chaste as ice, and
pure as snow.’?

Let it not be supposed by the fair reader, that I am
passing a sweeping censure upon my own sex. Far from

 

it. We owe to the refining presence of woman a large
share of all that is worth enjoying in the world. A truly
good woman is the greatest prize a man can possess. She
is the light of home, the protector of childhood, the help-
mate of man, the true consoler in sorrow, the nursing
mother of the race. A woman may truly be the earthly

Heaven to the sorrowing heart of man. They of whom I
have been speaking, are not women, for the designs of
their creation have not been accomplished in their lives;
and so far from beg the blessed light of their home, they
make home a place to be avoided by all who are so un-
happy as to claim a shelter beneath the same roof with
them; they are hatetul and hating; they drive husbands,
brothers, and sons to the ale-houses to escape from their
domestic purgatory. When they die, they will die with-
out regret, and imposing processions may follow them to
the grave. No tears will fall as the coffin-lid shuts them
out forever from mortal sight. The mourners for the
whole tribe could be accommodated in one cab; and they
will go down

“To the vile dust from whence they sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”

0, woman ! woman! live more for your husbands and
your children! Remember that, of all earthly things,
slander is one of the greatest curses! Employ your time
in some noble work, and let the world see that ye are, in-
deed, true women ! 1zoLA (BOOTH) STEVENSON.

SAME TAU IP a Bal Aha Lala
THE CLERGY vs. ROMANCE.

4

 

It isa good sign for religion and humanity, when cler-
gymen become liberal and charitable. The time was—
and not long since, either—wlen to laugh heartily, was a
grave offence in the eyes of some clergymen; to attend a
social gathering at a friend’s house, absolutely wicked;
and to be found reading a romance utterly unpardon-
able. In our churches the wrath of the Almighty, instead
of His love, was the principal theme, and perpetual gloom
hung around the sanctuary as well as around the home-
circle.

There is a marked change in these matters at the pres-
ent day, however. We have now greater love for true
religion and a greater detestation of mere pretence. Tne
brightest and best of our clergy, are now’not afraid to
laugh at a harmless joke, nor do they look with holy
horror upon those persons whose tastes lead them to
read such papers as the NEw YORK WEEKLY. On the
contrary, they, themselves, not only read our pet paper,
but write for it. More than one orthodox clergyman,
in good standing, has contributed to our columns, to say
nothing of the wives of ministers, and church members
without number.

And why shouid they not write for us? Those who are
opposed to us will say, ‘‘Because you publish sensational
romances, which are calculated to do harm instead of
good. We den it. We publish romances, it is true—
sensational romances, if that term suits you better,—but
we emphatically deny that they are of such a character
as todo harm instead of good. We suppose the very
persons who object to our stories as sensational, read the
works of Charles Dickens with great gusto; and he, we
hesitate not to say, is the very chief of sensational roman-
cers. Or, if they do not read Dickens, they certainly read
the Bible, many of whose wisest and most impovtant les-
sons are conveyed through the medium of sensational fic-
tion.

“Why should the devil have all the best tunes?” queri-
ed some wise old pastor, when expostulated with be-
cause he permitted his choir to sing some of their hymns
to song tunes. And with equal force, we think we may
ask, ‘Why should the devil be allowed the exclusive use
of so powerful an engine as tue press?” Ifa taste for
moral stories, such as we Claim to publish, were not tos-
tered, their place would be supplied with vicious and un-
heaithy reading, for the people will have light reading of
some kind; ard it is easy to see how disastrous would be
the consequences, if the literary journals of the day were
filied with such pernicious trash as may be found be-
tween the covers of certain cheap books,

We claim that the New YORK WEEKLY is a powerful
engine for good. We donot publish a story but has its
moral, and, with a cireulation of over three hundred
thousand copies, our paperis read by about three mil-
lions of people. We feel that a terrible responsibility
rests upon us, and we should be wicked indeed did we
publish anything calculated to vitiate and deprave the
masses instead of to elevate and refine them.

But there will always be fonnd some persons, however

‘holy the calling which they follow, who oppose every-

thing which does not exactly sqaare with their views.
Narrow-minded, bigoted, and uncharitable, they go about
venting their spleen in lachrymal complainings to all
who will listen to them, making themselves unhappy and
all around them miserable because they cannot make
everybody else think exactly as they do.. Rule or ruin is
their motto, If they see a brother engaged in a good
work—even though that work were the building up of a
church for the service of Christ—they would prevent him,
if they could, if he dared to read the New YORK WEEKLY
against their express commands; and should he be en-
gaged in publishing it, he (the grumbler aforesaid) would
be willing to hang the offender to the first lamp-post.

However, if we should write forever on the subject, it
would alter nothing, for it “takes all sorts to make a
world,” and we shall go on publishing the New YORK
WEEKLY, doing all the good we can, and making it the
best story and sketch paper published in the world,

——_—_—_—__ >- 4+

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING Day.—This is the
title of a very interesting sketch, which will be found on
the eighth page. The gifted and talented author has
been engaged to contribute regularly to the NEw
YoRK WEEKLY. Alter perusing the sketch to which we
direct attention, the reader will admit that it evinces re-
markable ability, and that, therefore, the writer is a de-
sirable acquisition.

THE MILD-EYED WOMAN.

CRIPPLED JOE’S STORY.
BY ESTHER SERLE KENNETH.

 

 

That’s what I always called her, sir. The time came
when I knew her name, but tnat didn’t make her any
more real to me, atall. here’s plenty of people whose
names you know wituvout finuing the real soul of them.
The first time I looked into her face, I saw what I don’t
see often, sir.

How did | lose my feet? In battle, sir—at the fight of

 

the Wilderness. 1 was good old Cup. Nain’s boy—tnat is,
Cap. took me from a band of refugees to be his servant.
He was a kind man, sir; he never struck me in his life,
nor so Much as swore at me.

I followed him into the fight. He was cheering on his
men, When he went down among their feet.

I tore my way over the dead bodies and under the
horses’ hoois to his side. Some of his men were raising
him. You couldn’t have told black from white down
there, sir—for most of us were begrimed with powder,
plood, and Gust. In the rush, the three men who held
him were jostied and knocked down.

“Never mind, cap’/n—we'll get you out of thisin a min-
ute,’ said one, and the next instant the speaker’s body
was rolling, a headless trunk, on the ground.

“Never mind—never mind me, boys,” said the cap, fe-
verishly. ‘Leave me where I am, and go to your places,
lll take my chances here. Where’s Joe?”

“Here, sir,” said I, getting hold of his hand; and then,
somehow, the men were trampled and beaten away, and
1 put my arms round dear old Cap, and drew him back of
a tree, and kept the crowd oif him for a minute.

But ‘twas only fora minute. The next thing, I was
down beside him, screeching with agony—both my feet
cut off by a cannon ball.

While I lay there writhing, I heard the Cap’s voice:.

“Joe, Joe! poor, faithful fellow!”

Then a merciful deadness came over me. I don’t know
how long ’twas ‘fore | woke out of that sleep, sir, but
‘twas night, and all was dark and still, and some men
were going about with a lantern. By-and-by they came
to me.

“Here’s an officer with his feet off,” said one.

I was all numb and stupid-like, but I had sense enough
left to know they had made a strange mistake. I couldn’t
speak, though. They began to raise me, and then, when
1 saw old Cup lying dead and stark in bis shirt-sleeves, 1
saw whathe had done. Pulled off his coat, with its straps,
and laid it over me. He Knew the men of rank would
get the first attention, and that’s what he’d done, sir; so
| was taken up and cared for, and it was two days before
they got the dirt and powder olf me, and discovered that
| was only a black man.

Dear old Cap was dead, and J didn’t Yare to live, but
they palled me through, and I left the hospital, a cripple,
as you see. Some kind gentlemen, as knew my story,

 

furnished me with thease two strong Canes, some money,
und a pass North.

      

cm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

It was because people were new tosuch sights, and
gave money readily, that I came to bea street beggar.
Besides, no other way of earning a living Was opened to
me, sir.

Month alter mouth I stumped about the streets of Bos-
ton, and people looked at me with horror and compas-
sion, and gave me money. After the first nine months
not a8 much as at first, for more war-maimed men found
their way north, and stood about the streets, and people
became used to such sights, and stopped less often to
give, Sol was obliged to share my poor room with an
Italian organ-grinder and his monkey, and be contented
with one meal a day.

Sometimes, sir, it was hard to gecthat. But we’re said

atient race, sir, and when I crept away in the

: ally to sleep well. Or I did till

and then it was hard enough, It

Uppose, but it was so bad that I

from starting, sometimes, as
hurch.

at when things get just about

y generally turn right-about-

 
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  

mg about this time—a young
i handsome, pale, dark-eyed fel-
y and beard, aud he had but one
‘at Antietam. He was not rich.
mpty sleeves pinned up, was
ver he gave me money, he’d
, “I wish { could make it more,
: “You're not the ouly man the
nd Joe.”’
e, sir, had wonderful power
his air of fine breeding, lie never
and he was white. We were
mapy 2 five minutes to tell

We)

Hed
a bit of astory that would make me laugh. And ’twas lit-
ule Cap'n Fane, sir, that taugnt me to read, I had Jearn-

just two men, sir.

ed to spella bit with the old Cap.; but Cap’n Fane
brought me along a speliing-book one morning, and when
i'd worked my way tnrougp that, he’d fetch along the
evening paper for me reg’lar, and the next morning he’d
ask me the news as serlousas could be. Them uewspa-
pers chirked me up a good deal, It gave me something
to think of beside my troubles.

Then, that winter—and, as I say, I knew he was poor—
Cap’n Fane orderev two tons of coal sent to my place.
Old Antonio, the organ;srinder, provided kindling, and
over then fires, with my book or newspaper, 1 did take
comfort, those winter nights,

Then the spring came; aud then she came, sir.

You’d not think it, sir, to look at me, but when the glad
April days first come, there’s something in me that flut-
ters to be free, and soar up, up. up, Where the blue und
gold is, and where the viru-songs come from; that some-
thing in me sings like a lark at sight of asuobeam, or a
fresh-blown flower, or a kind smile. It was few enough
of smiles old Joe got in those cays, sir.

Bot that spring | sat, one merning, at the entrance to
one of the big stores on Wasningjon street.

Inside there were beautiful jewels and gilt clocks, and
marbie figures, Outside the crowd seemed brisk aud gay,
and down out of the solt blue sky fell the floous of warm,
sunny light. 1t warmed my poor old bones; my heart
wus happy within me as I saw everythin pearing so hap-
py arovnd me. I forgot all about myself as 1 watched
the little children dQancing by, apd a pair of chippering
birds whirlivg round tue old South Cnurch. You see,
the joy of other people and other things was kind 0’ re-
flected ou me; and gradually T feil to thinking of the
country where the young corm Was a shooting up, and
tne brooks running free aiveng the fresn grass, I always
was fond of tue country, sir; there’sa something there you
don’t get in cities. All ab once the kick O1 @ man’s DOOE
almost Knocked the breath out of me. :

“Get away from here, yoa dog!” growled a big man in
@ brvadcloth cloak, and with diamonds on his shiit-front.
“Pye suffered enough frow the likes of you. Get out of
this!’ he repeated, ready to kick me again if I aidu’t
move. .

 

-France; St. James of Spain; St. Anthony of Italy; St. Andrew

 

To Correspondents.

ee

Gossip WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Hannah R. Nail.—Your letter, in which was inclosed subscrip-
tion money for the New York WEEKLY, did not give the State,
county, or town in which you live. We cannot send you the
paper until you forward your address.......... H. E, C.—\st. He
does not. 2d. Of course, those we employ. 3d. The American
News Co. furnish their trade list to newsagents. Those not in
the business must pay for the “‘list.”........... 0. P. Huron.—No
amount of money. would induce us te degrade the New Yorx
WEEKLY by permitting a matrimonial advertisement to appear
in Its columns..........- Flum.—\st. We do not think the medicine
would have the desired effect. 2d. “Buffalo Bill” is not dead,
The person who was killed was named Levi Maize. The right
name of “Buffalo Bill” 18 William Cody. The last we heard
from him he wasieading a hunting expedition in the neighbor-
hood of the Republican river. We have seen letters which he
has written since the papers contained the reports of the death
of Levi Maize, the spurious ‘‘Buffalo Bill.” San Francisco,
—Ist. All hair dyes are more or less injurious—some to the gen-
eral health, others to the hair. Many cases of par/ial paralysis
have resulted from the use of hair dyes. 2d. and 3d. We do not
care to state what daily papers we consider the best, 4th. Lud-
wig Van Beethoven was one of the greatest of musical compo-
sers. A well-digested article inthe American Cyclopedia, upon
this great masical genius, says: “As Gothic architecture is the
artistic recurd of the aspirations of the a during which it
grew to perfection, so the orchestral works of Beethoven are
the musical record of the great ideas of his time in the form
and tikenesswhich they assumed inhis mind. Haydn and Mo-
zart perfected instrumental music in its form—Beethoven

touched’ it, and it became a living soul.”........ A, J. W.—The
Prairie Farmer is published in Chicago, Ill. The subscription
price is $2 a year...... Ed. L. W.—We could not make use of the

result of your labors, though we thank you kindly for the
proffer which you make us... .Subscriber.—It shows that you ad-

mire stories of adventure, when well written and presented in-

terestingly..... vas fone Emma.—\st. We cunnot give you the name
of the drug which had so powerful an effect. 2d. You write a
SOUT IIE inde 0! dv 4 an Justice.—We do not think you can recover

the articies, save by pur: hase. The wife and children of your
deceased uncle are bis heirs. Ashe bad in his possession the
papers, etc., it would be difficult for you to prove that they hud
not been given to him by his father. The papers are not of the
least benefit to the possessor..... .. ....Anxious,—lst. When we
give general information, it cannot be expected that we wi-l
specity the place and hour at which certain thingsoccur. The
information which we gave a few weeks ago concerning the
fastest time made by ra.lroads, was gleaned trom a book on the
subject of railroads, but which gave no specitied rvad as the
one on which speed at the rate of 93 miles to the hour had been
made. It was not claimed that this speed had ever been at-
tained for more than short distances, 2d. A quack. 3d. When
you ask questions you must wait your turn for answers. We are
in receipt of an enormous number of questionsevery week, and
we auswer them allat the earhest opportunity. For recipes for
pomades, etc., search the “Knowledge Box.”...... B.—Yes......
S. N. Oakes. —We must decline comp lance with your exceeding-
ly modest request, as we are not iu the practice of suppiying in-
uirers with che addresses of our contributors........ Ned Mait-
nd.—\st. Nupoleon Bouaparte was born on the 15th of August,
1769, on the 1 land of Corsica. 2d. We regard the work to which
yourefer as altogether wortbless—not a history at all, buta
grand specimen of wholesale puffery........2. UM. N. 0.—We do
net Know tne lady’s address........ Frank.—You should ask the
lady trangkly to murry you, If sue aecitines, she can give her
reason for so doing or nol, just as she sees fit, but yon have no
right to press an explanation...... W. C. Lewis.—lst. We do not
know 2d. There is no su-h paper published in New York. 3d
Your penmanship is good, but yuur spelling is bad. The words

 

——

 

 

has been growing betterand for the last seven or eight years,
until it has now reached perfection. One of the prominent fea-
tures (which cannot be found in many other journals) i, the index
at the heading of each continued story. by which any one may
immediately Know where to look tor the commencement of the
story. I might name many other superiorities, but there is no
need—any one can see with half an eye that the New Yorx
WEEKLY is the paper for the millions. Before bringing my com-
munication to a close I would ask you: JVotto enlarge your pa-
per; not to use any larger type, and, in short, notto make any
alteration whatever, for as itnow comes to usit must certainly
suit all toaT. I, as one of thousands, do not see how you can
improve itin any respect.”...... Charles Jenner.—If your father
became a citizen whiie you were a minor, you then residing in
this country, you are entitled to ail the rights of citizenship on
reaching twenty-one, Butif your lather was nota cituzen be-
fore you becaine of age, you must take out papers of naturaliz-
ation. 2d. We think it great folly to have correspondence with
unkaown persons—especially so if the unknown person be of a
different sex from yourself, 3d. You will observe that the thing
with which you find fault has been amended..... H., of R.—The
number of words stated would make about seven lines. Our
charge is $2 a line each insertion...... Ramom,—Quacks...... EZ.
J. C.—\st. We know nothing of the reputation of the business
college nameJ. Your penmanship is in every way excellent.
2d. It is impossible for us tosay which of the many excellent
steel pens in use is the best...... M.—Stop chewing tobacco......
Fda ‘s.—Ist- We know nothing of the watches sold by the
person named. The watches made by the Elgin, the Waltham,
and the United States companies are all serviceable time-pieces
2d. You must practice a great deal before your handwriting is
up to the bookkeeper’s standard. 3d. lf you would Jook through
the “Knowledge Box” weekly, you would find recipes for the
removal) of freckles........Shoo Fly.—A quack........ Veronica. —
Your writing is neither plain-nor distinct. The fauit with your
writing isthat you curl the characiers too much, and do not
write a large enough hand...... Fort Reader.—\st. There is noth-
ing that will preveut the beard trom growing. 2d. We can give
you no advice. You must seek a doctor. 3d. If youwould lose
flesh, you must avoid eating food which contains sugar and
starch in large proportions—such as bread, beans, peas, Indian
corn, beets, butter. etc. You must also avoid all fatry meats and
oily fish. 4th. You write agood hand..._....John.—As we do
not know what magazice the gentleman edited, it is impossibie
for us to give its address...... A.J. S.—See the assessor for the
district im which you tive, avd he wll give you full parteulars.
Jonas Su terle.—Ist. Itis perfectly proper for a gentleman to es-
cort to her home a lady acquaintance whom. he meets acci
dentally—tnat is, if she makes no objection. 2d. Yes.... .Simon
Lahif.—The steamer Stonewall was burned im the Mississippi
river, at Neeley’s Landing, Mo., on the 28th of October, 1869.
There were 231 Ilves lust M. Gorga;s,—Yorr penmanship 1s
excellent......4 Rea er.—ist. The author of the story has pot
supplied the information, consequenuly we +reas moch m the
dark as yourself. 2d. You write a good hand, which wou'd be
improves did you ornainent it less..... ae. Peurle.—Ist. Mrs.
Holines’ story named “Darkness and Daylight’ was publisped
in the New York WEEKLY in 1861, 2) All her works which
have been pu: lished in book form can be bought for $18.
Teaching clu dren for from ten to twelve nours Adayistoomu hk
labor to ask trom anyone. fhe strongest copstitution would break
down under such a tax onit ina few years... ..A, H—Ist.
There is no way to tell an egg which will produce a hen trom
one that will produce a rouster. 2d. Chop wood, and walk tor
two or three hours aday. You'll find both these as excellent
exe: Cises as can be taken for the health...... Ge Bie VHB 64s
Aunings.—I-t. Stay where youare. There are few of yous age
tbat receive as good a sa‘ary as you get; and, besides, there 1s a
prospect in time of your emplover a-preciating your services
by advancing your pay.. It is a saylug, among business mich,
that a clerk or bookkeeper who keeps moving from place lo
place isn’t worth much. Don't get the reputation of beiug
worthless. 2d. Your handwriting could not be improved mm any
MAU sess G. M H—Quacks...... One of the Weekly's Best Friends

 

“style,” “giving” and “columns” are all wrongly spelled......
C..N. J.—several works have been published, by means of
which you can acquire a know ledge of German. We advise you,
however, before undertaking the study of German, to gain a
more thorough knowiedge of English than your letter shows
you to possess .... George St. Louis.—“Yankee” is regarded by
ely mologis’s as a corruption of the word English by the Norto
Americas Indians, who pronounced it Yenghees or Yaoghees..
ssa Satan.—ist. “Elite” is pronounced “»-l-er,” and “muad-
emoiselle,” “mad-nwa-zel.” 2d. ‘Ad interim” means “in ihe
meanwhile; “habeas cor, us,” “you may have the body;” and
“post-moriem,”” “after death ”...... Excelsior.—lst. We do not
know. 2a. The Seven Champion: of Christendom were as fol-
lows: St. George, the patron samt of England; St. Denis of

ot Scotland; St, Pairick of Ireland; and St. David of Wales. 3a.
The following are the Seven Wonders of the World: Ist. The Pyr-
mids of Egypt; 2d. The Pharos (or lighthouse) of Aiexandria, 3d.

The Walls and Hanging Gardens of Babylon; 4th. The Temple of

 

lcrawled up and stuinped away, looking back in fear,
his glowering eyes had such a threatening look. I found
another place, and sank down again; and my heart sank,

‘boo, as heavy as leau.

Just then a lady’s hand, soft and white, was laid on my
ragged sleeve. ;
“Wouid you like these?’ shesaid.
She was helding toward mez bunch of blue: violets,
and their sweet breatli was like a little baby’s kiss.
luoked from them up into per face, and of! sucn a lovely
face it was! with eyes so calm and sweet that tnelr look
was a benediction, She seemed to be poor; mer dress was
plain mourning. I nouced that she wore a wedding ring
afterward. But at that first meeting I saw hardly any-
thing but her eyes and the violets, °
She gave me a smile as 1 took them, and then passed

on.

{ don’t know just how to tell yoo, sir, what that smile
and those Jittle blue fluwers dia for me. But I’d rather
have had them than u five dollar gold piece, just then,
sin : ;

I hoped to see her again. I used to watch, after that,
for the mild-eyed woman. er

A week froin that day, she passed on the sidewalk; and
then, a week later, I saw her aguia. sd

She had a sad face; not spiritiess and broken, but she
looked like ope wno bo?e a sorrow. Pernaps you think
l'd no great reasov, sir, but at sight of her, my heart
melted within meio such a rusn of gratitude, that I'd
nave laid down at her feet, and let her walk over me, if

eiped to clear from her life the burden

      
 
 
   
   

I saw sne
right up:
cuild’s.
I'd ge
she fouu

well as ill, wnen the mild-eyed Womail put he
hand on my ragged sleeve again.

“Joe,” sue said, “1 have something for you. Not money,
for | am almost as poor as you, Joe; but my little daugh-
ter has sent you ner picture. Here it is.”

She gave Ine the photograph of a little girl—such a
lovely little girl, with dark eyes, and soft, fair curls fall-
ing over the shoulders! The pretty eyes seemed spark-
ling into mine like diamonds. ,

“Ihave told my child about you, you see,” said the
mild-eyed woman, bending down to me. ‘A Jew weeks
ago, | was carrying her homea bunch of violets. The
little thing Stays. patiently, all alone, in our attic room,
while 1 come down town, and she is bat five years old. 1
was carrying her the violets that day, when I saw you in
trouble, and gave tnemto you. I was glad that I had
them to give you, when I saw how pleased you were, but
I had promised to brivg Lily a bunch of violets, and I
could not afford to buy any more. So I went home, and
told her how it was, and tauglit her that we must be will-
ing to sacrifice our own pleasures fur others, whe have
less than we. The lesson seemed to sink into hei Sip rv.
She asked many questions about you; and this n-4ijabig,
she brought me this picture, Saying: ‘Mamma, gif¥ 4é to
poor Joe, with my love.’ Sol have wade it, Joe.”?

She kissed it, and gave it to me—smaled and passed on.

The violers had faded long ago, but the picture was a
treasure Lcould keep. And I never had anything in my
life that I set store by aSI did by that cunning little
chila’s face.

3 ue next night Cap’n Fane came aiong and held out his
and.

“Good-by, Joe,” he said. “I'll be offin the morning.”

“Cap'n Fane,” said 1, “i'd just like to show you some-
thing,” andl pulled little Leily’s picture out of my
breast.

He took it. His eyes dilated, his face turned like ashes.

“Joe,”? said he, holding the card with a shaking hand;
*““where did you get this?”

Just then the low, sweet voice of the mild-eyed woman
spoke to me on the otner side:

“Lil bring you something for your rheumatism to-mor-
row, Joe.”

it was almost dark, but Cap’n Fane turned like a flash
of lightning, cried “Mary!” and the next imsfant tuese
two were in each other’s arms.

“My husvand,” she was murmuring, with her arms
around inis neck.

“Why, it’s my wife, Joe, said Capt’n Fane, looking
as if it was raining gold all about him. :

And then i1tcame outthat he had been in the army,
and she had thought him dead; and he had come back
and could not find her. They’d been separated jor three
years, these two tnat loved each other better than life.

“Well, sir, Gap’n Fane didn’t leave the city. He got in-
to business in Boston, *fore iong, and it was through bis
influence that [ got imvo the Soldier’s Home. 1t’s not
quite regular, as 1 never was ‘listed, beim’ able to earn
wy living among ’em, sir, at watching with the sick, and
so forth, and they’re all friendly to vid Joe. Here’s Miss
Leily’s picture, sir; she Was here yesterday, with her
motuer to see me. Andthem fresh vielets are some she

NEXT WEEK

WE COMMENCE:

TWO NEW STORIES.
THE
WITCH OF THE OCEAN;
oR,
THE LADY OF THE SILVER SPRAY.

By Edward Minturn,
Author of “Red Douglass,” ‘Ethelbert, the Wanderer,”
etc., and

Who Did Lady Violet Marry?
OR, THE
MYSTERY OF HE BLACK DIAMOND.
By Helen Corwin Fisher.

Will our readers please bear in mind that the two
stories above named will certainly be commenced NEXT
WEEK ?

 

cre Be

A ROARER!—The current, number of the PHUNNY
PHELLOW. Every lover of fun reads it, and every melan-

 

choly individual should peruse it, to banish the blues.

Diana at Ephesus; 5il. The statue of the Olympian Jupiter;
6h. The Mausoleum of Artemisia, «and 7th. The Coloxsas ot
Rhodes. You will find these Seven Wonders fully described in

iy

No. 3 of the present volume. 4th. We bave never heard of the
seven modern wonders......-.... P. HM. H.—You can start a news
agency on a small capital—say from $509 to $200. If you know
of apy town in which an agency has not been established, that
should pe the place for you to Jocate. If you have energy, and
are pleasant and obliging to your ‘customers, you cannet but
makea fair living...... Ixion.—Iist. A quack. 2d.-You do not
need medicine. By followmg tus system of: living, you will
find your digestion strepgthened and your weakness d: Eat
wholesome, nutriuous food, avoid tobacco and aicebol in all
their forms, use coffee at breakfast only, take Two hours’ exer-
ci-e out-of-dvors daily, s end: acertein portion of tbe time m
pieasant social interéourse, go to bed when you feel sleepy, and
jump outoritthe moment you awake in the morning, take a
cold bath three or four times a week, and avoid all debilitaung
i

—In 1866 there was a vill passed giving the soldiers Who enlisted
without other then the $100 bouuty from the government, an
extra bounty of .$100. No provision tor givipg more extra

bounty has pas ed Congress......... S. Henvy.—A quack.......--
eres R. M.—Your handwrinng is good ...¢C. X. B.—We do not
kuow whe her he 1s in business or wot at present...... Out of the

Dark.—ist. It is not in good taste ter au lady who is engaged to
be married to go to places of amusement, parties, etc., in the
compapy of other gentiewen thaa her intended. 2d. A quack.
3a The nembers in which ‘Milibank” appeared are cut ot
Dros. << Buckeow.—Sre answer ‘0 “Ixion.”’...... Billy Boiclegs.
—Ist. There is no method by which a person whose lexs have
been bowed from infaneycan have them straightened. 2d.
Your hancdwritmg is exceilent...... No. Nine.—ist The christen-,
ing 1s legal, and you have noredress. 2d. Any one_of the six
different ways Is correct...... Horse Shoe Bend.—ist. For recipes
see “Knowleuge Box.” 2d. The author took the hberty, which is
accorded to all writersof fiction, of killing a character in a way,
time and place best sutted to dramatic effect in his work. 3d.
Did it ever occur to you that when gentlemen ask favors they
do not preface the request with an imperunence? The nex
time you have occasion to address gentlemen, assume the man-
ners of a gentleman for t:.e nonce, or your letter may be treat-
ed with the contemotuous silence which it deserves...... George
Christopher.—Ist. Your penmanship is n t quite up to the book -
keeper’s standard. 2d. We donot know. 3d. No knowledge
can do you harm in any business which you may follow. ‘The
more you know the better workaian you'll make...... Ned Bunt-
line, Jr.—ist. Write to the Naticnal Temperance Publication So-
ciety, No. 172 Wiliam street, N. Y. 2d. No. 3d. You should
apply to the members of the chureh of which you are @ mem-_
ber for assistance to carry you through your studies for the inm-
istry. 4tn. Your handwriting is poor, and your spelliug 18 1 ass-
ubly good. 5th. We cannot point out the places im the West
which are the best to emigrate to. 6th. There is a free academy
in New York city for the gradvates of the free scboo's..........
Gosh n.—We have auswered the question which you put a pum-

 

 

dabits......C. Legg.—Ist. In the States ot Vermont and Ohio, te-
mules are legally of age ateighteen, 2d. A feipale of age in the
State of Ohio, yet not of age in the State of New York, cannot
have the mahayement and control of property situa ed m the
latter State. in New Yorka temale is a minor unul sbe has
reached her twenty-first birthday. 34. No two words will con-
vey exactly the same meaning as the five you use. 41h. ‘Ema-
ciate” is pre ced “e-ma-shi-ate,”’ and means “(0 waste away

iY ae. The cistance trom New York to Waverly, Lowa,
miles...... Junie.—American News Cumpany. ....
. Pe —We have no record of thediffere tsteamsbips
which have left port and never been beard or within the past
ten years, conseqt cannot give youthe required informa-
EWONs dns hears Co you d» not get sufficient courage to make
known your leve, it_ 38 probable that the Jady wiil bee me dis-
gusied with you for your extreme bDasitulness—as Women,
though they ¥ ‘be excessively bashfal themseives, do not ad-
mure basht -when carried to the exireme in man. | You
must determine that the next time you visit vour enslaver you
will boldly, burst upon her with some such speech as Uns: “Ar-
abella (or whatever else the dear one’s hume may be), Ilove you
deariy and wuly; can I hope that you return tnat love even a
little ?? After you bave gone thus jar yoo'll find it piain saii-
ing......-Mary.—“sibyl” is pronounced “syb-il,”” both the vow-
els short, like cg letter “1? in sitt.”.......... Wolfer Joh

pty
is avout 1,
N. J. Bis

a mry.—A
P. G.—“Buffalo Bill” was never published in
other paper, nor im any book, till t appeared im the
presetit volume of the New York WEEKLY...... A Weekly Admirer.
—ist. A minor cannot conduct a manutacturipg business in his
own name, as he cannot get a licevse for maputacturing from
the U, S. officials. 2d. A license must be taken out for all busi
pesses which give au income of Over $1,000. There are many
busimesses om Which there are special licenses. We. do not,
know whether the ring has been patented or not.......D. D..D.
—Ita stered etter be lost, you cannot recever from the
United States the amount of money it contained....J. Leavinurs.
—He is a quack...........-2.A. G. Sprite.—Ist. We do bot know
where you caa.obiain such a work—in Jact, we think no such a
buok has been published. 2d. Apply at the American News Co.
tor works on etiqurite. We will not recommend any particular
one totavor. 3d. Your handwriting woula not be an objection
were you to apply fer a bookxeeper’s situation. 4th. For some
purposes Colt’s are the best, for other, Wesson’s, gent.—
The nave of the Secretary of the Navy is George M. Robeson.
_.. Ales. M.—Robert Wigram Crawtord is Governor of tye Bank
ot England,George Lya:l, beputy Governor, and George Forves,
Chief Casnier.....J. JicD.—We Know ot bo way in which you
can reach the West but by paying your railroad fare. It will
nottake you long to get sufficient money together to pay your
way........ William Tell,—ist. The French name “Guillaume” is
tronounced “gei-yom.”? 2d. Your penmanship is geod..........
No. Ninety-nine.—ist. Abumbug. 2d. Your writing is good, but
you should use better ink......-...- W. H. L. Ramsey.—the word
‘“;olasses” is always in the sivgular number; conseqoeltly,
when asking for it at table, you shoud not say, “Please pass
those molasses;”? but would express yourseif properly did you
say, “Please pass the molass:s.”...... Busylody.—ist. When the
words “no cards” are used at the end of a notice of a wedding,

satiusialt

 

ber of times, Aguin let us say, tat ‘he most eminent physiolo-
gists d ny that the offspring of the marriages of cousins are
likely ta be less robust, meuta!ly and_ physically. n those of
other marriages.......... 4. W. B—Youatt’s “Tro atise on the
Horse” is generally regarded as the best work of its kind which
has been written. William Yeuatt was an i cd veterinary
surgeon of grea’ celebrity. He was born in and died in
TBEL: «<2 nee An Old Reader —\st. It would not be improper fr
you to present your likenesstoa young lady relative, even
though she had expressed no w sh to have one. 2a. You write
a good hand, but y}ou use miserable mk....... ‘ape Cod.—ist. We
should think it woukt be advisable tor you to apprentice your-
self. 2d. You cannot acquire from boeks aione the knowl-
edge necessary to make you a physician competent to treat dis-
GARG. o.oo = Harry Campbell.—ist. Phonography has almost en-
urely superseded st: negraphy in shor-hand reporting. Phono

graphy is based upon an analysis of the sounds of the English
language. The consonants are represented by straight lines
and curves—the vowels by dotsa d short dashes, which are
made heavy and light torepresent long ana snort vowes. We
can give you no idea of the system in our limited space. 2d.
There are always more short-hands writers than cau find em-
ployment. 3d. Phonograpby is used by lawyers and ministers,
and itis aseful in all businesses, as no es_ of Conversation ol im-
portance can be taken with rapidity and ease. 4il. Reporters
make but fair livelinoods....... Wm. Po-ter.—ist. You.can get a
han some set of clessmen for $5. You can getsets for from $l
to $50. . A good revolver will cost frem $15 to $25 3d.
See “Knowledge Box” for recipe for the removal of pimpies.
4th. For obvious reasons we will pablish no information con-
cerning the removal of ink from postage stamps. Sth. How
can we tel! whether a perfume would sell well or not? Ifyou
want any particular perfume we will on you instructions tor
making it, but will not guaryntee its sale. 6th. We will nofan-
swer questions through the mau.........- Inierested.—We do not
think that an itinerant tuner of pianos would make even a fair
living. To meet bis trave ing expenses he would have to make
at least $10 2 dav to be in receipt of mechanic's wages. How-
ever, you should try a short trip a8 an experiment...... Fetcher
Von Ravenna.—The persons named are quacks...... Gambler.—
We find in ‘Hoyle’s Games,” published by J. B. Lippiacott, of
Phila., the toliowing: ‘With some players, if a partner assists,
the dealer may play alone: with otbers he has not that privi-
lege—eitber way is believed to be correct; but to avoid all mis-
understanding, it would be proper to determine upon that point
at the commencement of the game.” This is substantially the
decision we gave; but to that decision we added: “Tne best
players of the game (euchre) in_ this vicinity do pot periic of
the dealer playing alone atter his partner assists.” You ask,
“Who are the best players in this viemity ?? Our answer is:
Gentiemen who play the game for amusewent, and who would
not be guilty of anything approschiug trickery or unfairness to
win agame. Now we think, and all whom we have consulted
on this point agree in our view, that itis unfair to permit the
dealer io play “alone” after the partner “assists,” as the part-
ner has in effect said that he has cards in his hands wito which
he has a fair chance of making two tricks. We think that this

 

it means that he bride and groom willsend no cards announc-
ing the marriage to tneir acquaintances, and th»t there will be
no furmal wedding reception. 2d. Lloyd’s received is name
from the coffee-nouse kept by Lloyd, in| Abchurch lane, Lon-
don, in 1710. Itatterwara removed, and was established final-
ly in the Royal Exchange in 1774, where it remained t ll the fire
in 1838. Lt is now established on the first floor of the Exchange
iu the form of subscription rans where merchants, shippers,
and underwriters attend, to obtain shipping intelligence, and
where the busmess of marine insurance is carried on. Oue large
room, with sal! rooms attaebed to it, is occupied by tue un-
derwri ers, the object of whose association is to limit the inter-
est of every underwriter to a moderate amount, which rarely
exceeds $1,000; so that 1n case of casualues the loss is divided
awong bundreds, instead or fi sd upon one. The underwrit-
ers of Lloyd’s have agentsin all parts of the world to report
casualties and attend to their interests. Their affairs are iman-
aged by a commitiee of nine members, and the chairman is

gives the dealer too great an advantage. Do yeu not agree with
ms Ti cc3e C. Giraud.—Ist. See answer to “Ixion.” 2d. It isa
quack medicine...... A, G. Stoddard.—As you would not pass an
examination at either the Naval or Military Academy it would
be useless to answer your questions—questions wh:ch we have
answered over and over again. The first thing necessary to en-
ter either ot the academies 18 to recvive an appointment from
the Member of Congress irom your disirict; and the second to
be able to read and write well, spell correctly, and to do the
ground rules of arithmatic with ease. The first you can judge
whether you are able t» procure; in the second, you would fail,
as your handwriting 1s bad and your spelling miserable.-......
S. G. H. R.—Ist. Fishermen generally use as bait clams, crabs,
and shrimp. 2d. Cider canbe made only from apples. A poi-
sonous imitation is made from a combination of acids and mo-
lasses. 3d. This is the way to make fiue coxogne: Take alcohol
at 85 deg., 10 quarts; di-soive in itessence of neroli, 1-2 0Z; €s-
sence of rosemary, 2 drs.; essence of lavender, 1 1-4 drs.; es-

 

elected annually. Another large room, usually culled “the
merchants’ rovin,” is provided with newspapers from ali parts of
the world, and open to subscribers, who. for the use of this
room, have to pay two gu neas, and tor the whoie establishment,
four guineas annually. Tbe third room is called the “captain’s
room,” to which a bar is attached, where captains aud mer-
chants meet in a more social manner, and where ship auctions
are held. The term “Lloyd’s” bus now become a generic pame
tor simisiar associations in meny parts of Europe. An Austrian
Lioyd’s was esiablished in ?rieste, in 1833, by Baron Bruck. It
is not, like its London namesake, an association of underwriters,
but for general commercial and industrial purposes. Iv 1836 it
esiablishea a journal, in 1837 a line of steamers, and in 1849 an
institution devoted to printing and art. 3d. “Scores” is the plural
form of ‘score’’—twenty. It iscommon to say, * they caine by
scores and hundreds.” 4th. The bieeding of the nose is often
caused by fuiness of blood, dissipation, violent exercise, great
emotion, cold in the head, ete. Where the bleeding is not too
violent it does good instead of harm, 5th. We have never seen
the word, and do not find it inany of our dictionaries. 6th. The
je:ter “h” inthe word “hamble” is sounded. 7th. The French
word “foyer” hasihe following meanings: a hearth, heat, house,
center, scat. tiring room, and focds...... Fred. Fenton.—ist. The
longest bridge in the United States, we believe, is the Quincy
railway bridge, which crosses the Mississippi River at Quincy,
lii., and connects the Chicago, Burlington, Quiocy, and the
Hannibal and St Joseplis railways. It is upward of 5,000 feet in
length. 2d. Mrs. Parton, 3d. Yes. 4th, Of course he isa hum-
pug..." .- Faithful Achates.—Ist. Yes, we are taking the matter ia-
to Consideration, and hope ere the conclusion ot this volume to
arrange it so that we shall meet your approval. 2d. As the gen-
tleman is wrling under an assumed pame, by his own choice,
it would not be honorable on our parc lo make kuown his real
name. “Squirrel © .p” wili be followed by other stories from
the pen of Burke Brentford. Sd. We are in hopes to be able to
commence another of Hero Strong’s excelleot serials in the
course of a couple of months. 4th. The gentleman is about
forty years of age. 5th. Wm. A. Sinclair is exclusively engaged
to write for the NEw YoRK WxeKLy. He is now writing us a
story which we think will meet with the applause oi our read-
Ors .vicee S. H. R.—lIst. We would advise you to study uuder the
teachers of the regular school, and to accept of everything
which is good in a.! schools of medicine. 2d. Your handwriting
is but common-placs, 3d. Ask the news agent trom whom you
buy. ..9).4 Atbara.—ist. The paper has been torwarded. 2d. The
second question we are unable to answer. Perhapssome of our
scientific readers may be able to give the explanation desired,
if the facts are as stated by our correspondent: “Do logs float-
ing in a river move faster than the current ? A few days agol
would have called this an absurd question; butin this lumber
region I fied that nearly all lambermen believe that they do.
They state that they dam up Fiat river, then let the flood out to
float their ratts upon; and they claim that they will le: the flood
have six hours’ start of the rafts, yet the rafts will overtake and
go by the flo.d till they get stuck in the shallow water, where
they haveto wait until the high water overtakes them.”......
Squirrel Cap.—lst. A moderately good trade tolearn. 2d. About
$18 a week in the city of New York. 3d. See Kno» ledge Box.”
4th. The expression ‘finders keepers” was common among
school boys when they found anything, and was supposed to
shut off the claims of the owner for its return, and to cut off all
sharing with companions. 5th. Your handwriting is fair......
S. A. M.—Our arrangements will not permit of their acceptance.
CSS J Knox, Jr.—the feltow isa humbug... -Edna Hathaway,—
Your mother'’s'pride is of the false kind, and she is doing you
great wrong in not allowing you to precure work so that youcan
earn sufficient to pay your way through a femsle college. We
know ot no way in which you can earn money without the
knowledge of your mother...... A Constant Reader.—ist. The in-
stitution is aquack coucern. 2d. See answer to “Ixion.”....4n
Old Reader writes: “L have noticed in several of the late issues
of the New YorkK WEEKLY that there are some persons who

 

seem not to be satisfied wiih the paper asit now is. If I might
‘ be permitted to express an opinion I should say thatthe WEXKLY

sence of clove, 1-2 dr.; essence of peppermint, 1-2 dr.; essence
of bergamot, 12 1-2 drs ; and alcoholic extract of geranium, 21-2
lbs. Shake several times, leave 14 days, and then hottle........

eystone.—ist. You must get an appointment us West Point ca
det from the Member of Congress for the district in which you
reside, and then undergo an examination before a board of of-
ficers. If you pass, the government will support you while at
the academy. 2d. Your handwriting is good...... Typus Tympun.
—ist. The yeptieman is m this city at present, but will readily
accept of an envagemet to lecture in the “Queen City.” 2d. No
learning is ever thrown away, but we doubt the monetary ad-
vaniage Meeting your expectations in this case. 3d. Munso .’s
is generally regarded asihe best System of Pponography. 4th.
You could not becume a good phonographist withett a know-
ledge of grammar. You can tind Goold Brown’s Grammar in any
store where educational works are sold. 5th. Your peamanship
1s good.... ‘Hud.—A quack... .Anthracite—I\st. the firm of
Harper & Wilson ts one of the most notorious of the gift enter
prise swindling concerns... .. Reverence.—Your way of giving the
upple was as rude as your friend’s reception of it. As you were
in the wrorg first you should take the first steps to recencilia-
tion.....- Pinto.—We know nothing of either of the nersons
named; but this we can teil you, no doctor can preseribe for you
with hopes of curing you without a personal examination.....,
Sam Patch.—America« shipping is very depressed at present, and
your chances of getting a beri aboard ship are very bad.....
‘Title Goose.—The gentleman ts always introduced i the lady.
The common formula is somewhat in_this style: “Miss Jones,
permit me the pleasure of making Mr. Hopkins acquainted with
PLS Anke Saint Louis.—The three largest cities in the United

tates are New York, Philadelphia and Brooklyn. Kew Orleans,
in 1860, had a population of 168,675, and St. Louis had 160 773....
R. R. Ramsey.—ist. All the doctors named are quacks.
do not knew aught of the firm. 3d. See answer to ‘“‘Ixion,” and
follow the advice given to hm......The following MSS. have
been accepted and will be published in the New York Wrskty;
“At Last,’ “Some Cherished Hopes,” “Dunscomb Farm,”
“Spring,” “The Heart’s Jewels,” “Nellie’s Punishment,” ‘The
Curse ot the Rolands,” and ‘All in Vain,”......The following
are respectfully declined: “Hones,” “To Lillie,’ “A : Few
Thoughts,” ‘Woman's Rights,” “Bread Upon the Waters,” “To
a Lady Friend,” “Two Unhonored Graves,” and “The Curse of
toe Earth.”

 

 

THE UNION AVENUE BAPTIST CHURCH, GREENPOINT
was unanimously recognized by the Council; held there
on Thursday, April 14.

 

 

 

 

 

TO NEWS AGENTS.

News Agents, who have never received
EXTRA SHEETS from us, containing their
PRINTED CARDS, will please send their
Addresses to this Office. Weare now print-
ing another edition of the Shoo Fly, for all
the News Agents throughout the country ;
and we hope to be able to give every Agent
a chance to benefit himself and us at the same
time.

 

 

~

2a. We .

 

 

af

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4
}

ee a
 

 

 

 

 

 

eo”

 

 

 

BY EMMA ALICE BROWNE.

 

Where the rustling palm-sroves feather
All the:r silvery trondsin air,

Shining breadths of flowering aloe
Gird a mansion broad and fair;

Over vales of bowering citron
Madre’s solemn peaks aspize—

Wild Liianas, sumptuous blossomed,
Braid the cliffs with startling fire.

Stately lime-trees, interwoven,
Wreathe the dim placita round,
And the fountain wartles-tangied
In a mesh of bloom and sound.
Over gleaming walis of adobe
Gorgeous orchids droop and swig,
Steeped in spice the purple brisia
Round the low-browed portals cling.

Over-roofed with dancing shadows, -
Walled by verdure and perfume,
Sways the donna’s silken hammock

In a niche of tropic bicoom—
Likea dimpling sea of summer,
Fiushed with tw lights rosy beams,
Flows the “Dolce far niente
Through the fervor of her dreams.

       

She is radiant as the visions
Poets ee? . an . af
Slender asthe palm BO
Lighter-footed than a fairy——

~~ Graceful as an antelope, —

Ankie-deep in dew and fragrance
On Los Vega’s flowery slope!

Slumbex ous wells of midnight splendor
Are her great, unfathomed eye:,
And a spirit, wild, yet tender,
In their dewy darkness lies;
But the smouidering fire of jewels
Braided in her tresses bright,
Pales beside the somber glory
Of those passionate eyes to-mght!

' All-in clinging mist of laces
Whiter than the torrent’s foam,
Glows her supple, lissome beauty,
-Neath her couch’s flowery dome;
And the amorous Night wind sofuy
Drops his kisses on her mouth,
Rosy as the gates of Morning,
Nectarous as the ardent Senth!

O’er her droop the pendant garlands
Of the tropic’s tender gloom,
* Lit by shining, torch-like blossoms
Redolent of rich perfume;
But her very soul is weary
Or their lavish wealth of bleom—
Welcome, rather, the ch?ll silence
And the refuge of the tomb!
Far away the green Sierra ‘
Wallsthe land of frost and snow,,
Where her blue-eyed, Northern lover
Tracks the stealthy-footed doe;
And the fiery heart within her
- Hungers in the husn alone,
For the voice * hose Magic niusic a3
Thrilis her with its bghtest tone; :
And her wild, untrammeled spirit
Pines, his lowlier lot to share, a
With the tever-parg of passion,
Nourished by a Jong despair;
High and haughty Don Alfonse
Holds ber troth with iron hand,
And of all the proud hidaigos
He is proudest in the land.

Vainly hath the weeping maider
_ Sought to bend the tyrant will
Of astern, imperious father,
' Kueeling at his feet, until
Grief and passion on her pale lips,
Froze¢ bedeath his glances chill,
And Alfouso’s hated fetter
Gleams upon her white band stilt
Where the lispiug fountain warbies,
And the brooding darkness fal s,
Kneels the swarthy-browed duenna,
By the citren-shaded walls;
Stealtby as the crouching puma
In the tangled chapparel,
Where tle +by fawn slips the covert
By some sheliercd forest well—
Teling o’er her muttered “Aves,”
In the shadow lingers she,
While ber shrunken fingers wander
Down the golden rosary; :
From her sable-hued mantilla
Furtive gleams her jealous glance,
‘Till the bells of Dolorosa
All the starry hush eptrance—
An articulate silver rhyme,
Urtered in melodious chime
Wich the sweet, iambic chorals
Chanted at the midnight time.
Hark! The ger-hawk’s.gusty whistie
Cleaves the silence, faint and shrill,
Far-off hoof-strokes, rising, falling,
Echo trom the windy hil—
In the dusky cheek of Inez
Flames a sudden crimson glow,
As the signal of her lover
Thrills the answering heart below!

Noiseless, as the crested serpent,
Swifter than the arrow’s flight,
Giides the dark eyed senorita
Through the vailing gloom of n‘ght—
Nearer rings the ger-hawk’s whistle,
Close the flying hootstrcKes fall,
Strong bands, armed with Fnife and hatchet
Burst the eacti’s thorny wall!

Then, a low, ecstatic murmur—
Lip to lip, and hesrt to heart,
Breathless the impassioned lovers
Clasp and cling, no more to part!
Drowsily, the grim duenna
Lets her sleepy “Aves”? fall—
Nodding in the + ultry silence,
By the citron-shaded wall.
Leagues away, the bright Catiente
Clasps her torrent-branded zone
Round the towering hights of Frijas,
And E} Paso, gray and lone;
Far below, the yawning canon
Frets the cataract’s headlong flood;
Searped and rent, the dizzy cliff-walls
Lift a glorious altitude.
Through the frowning mountain gorges
Winds the rude trail, high, and higher,
Ti athwart their daring pathway
Leaps the Morning’s purple fire!
Far away, their goal of promise,
‘Madre’s solemn swimit shines,
Clothed in sun-born mists of dawning,
And a gleaming belt of pines,
Nestled in asmi'ing valley,
Where the green Sierras rise,
Fountain-iulled, and rose-embowered,
Waits their hidden paradise !
* * * *
Well-a-day, the rout and c’amor,
And the sudden tempest born,
When the mansion rings with ramor
Of fair Inez flight, at morn]
Many a fiery cavalada
Secours the blossom-spangled plain—
Many a keen, unerring traiier
Scans the cragged hights in vain!
Never, while the grim duenna
Mutters o’er her beads—and wine—
And the furious Don Loyola
Swears by every sainted shrine;
Never, while the rolling seasons
Bring their mingled joys and woes,
Shall Alfonso’s jeweled fetter
Bind Loyola’s banished rose!
> @ + --
Attention All!

We wich our friends would send us the addresses of such of
their acquaintances as the former think would be pleased with
the New York WEEKLY. Specimen copies w ill be sent to those
persons gratuitously, as we are confident that by this means we
ean greatly extend our circuldtion, The New York Wrerexiy
contains such 2 variety of reading and illustrative matter that
every }erson will be sure to find in it something which will be
deemed especially interesting. By speaking to their friends of
the merits of our journal, our subscribers wili do us a grateful
service, and itis but a reasonable request on our part, consid
ering what we bave done, and will continue to do, to receiv-
the approbation of the public.

=

 

~,

OR,
EDNA’S DEBT,
AND HOW SHE PAID IT.

BY MES. MARY J. HOLMES,

Author of “Marian Grey,” “Hugh Worthimgton,” “Rose Ma-
ther.? “Darkness and Daylight,’ “Lena Rivers,’ ‘*“Home-
stead on the Hillside,” “Tempest and Sunshine,” “Cousin
Maude,” “Ethelyn’s Mistake,” “Cameron Pride,” “Meadow
Brook,” “English Orphans,” “Dora Deane,” etc., etc.

“The Leighton Homestead’ was commenced in No. 17. Back
numbers inay be obtained from any News Agent in the United

States, CHAPTER XXI.—(Continued.)

There was no Christmas tree at Rocky Point that winter.
The Unitarians did talk of having one, but gave it up on
account of the vast amount of labor which must neces-
sarily fall upon a few, and contented themselves with a
ball nm the long ball-room at the hotel, while the orthodox
portion of the community, whodid not believe in danc-
ing, got up a sleigh-ride to Millville, with a hot supper at
the hotel, followed bya game of blind man’s baff, in
which Marcia Belknap bruised her nose until it bled, and
had the back breadth of her dress torn entirely from the
i waist, in her frantic endeavors to escape from Uncle Phil.
|For Uncle Phil, though a Unitarian to his very marrow,
had cast in his lot for once with the other side, and hired
a fancy team, and gone to the sleigh-ride, and taken Edna
with bim, and astonished the young people with his fun
land wonderful feats of agility. .

{ Butif there was no Christmas tree at Rocky Point,
i Santa Claus came tothe old farm-house and deposited
| various packages marked for ‘Miss Overton.” There was
la pretty little muff, and the box which contained it had
i “Chicago” marked upon it; and Hana felt a keen pang of
; regret, as she thought how much of self-denial this pres-
‘ent musthave cost the generous Jack, ana low poorly
{she could repay it. Another package from Aunt Jerry,
| containing the promised book of sermons, and a pair of
|lambs’-wool stockins— ‘knit every stitch myself and
|} shaped to my own legs,’ Aunt Jerry wrote; adding, in
| reference toa small square box which the package also
| contained: “The jimeracks in the box, which to my mind
} are more iitting ior a Soutn Sea Islander to wear, than a
' widow, who has been confirmed, was sent to me by Roy
| Leighton, who deigned to say they was for his sister,
| Mrs. Cnarles Churchill—a Christmas gift from himself;
and he wanted me to give them to you, if 1 knew where
| you was, as he supposed of course I did by this time; and
| wanted me, too, to give him your address. Maybe you’ll
think I did wrong, very likely you will, but 1 just wrote
to him that I’d got the toggery, and would see that you
had it—that you was taking care of yourself and earning
money to pay your debts, and inasmuch as you did not
write to him, it was fair to suppose that you wanted to
stay incog., and I should let you. You can write to him
yourself if you want to.”

This was what Ednaread; and then, in a trice, she tore
| open the box, which contained a full set of beautiful jets
| —bracelets, ear-rings, pin, chain, and ali—with a_ note

from Roy, whocalied her ‘My dear little. sister,” and

asked her to accept the ornaments as a Christmas gift

from her “‘brotner Roy.”? There was a warm, happy spot
in Edna’s heart for the remainder of that day, and more
then once she found herself repeating the words: **my
‘dear. little sister..? They were constantly in her mind,
both at home and on the wayto Millville, where the
sleigh-bells seemed to chant tuem, and the soft wind,
which told of rain pot far away, whispered them in ber
ears as it brushed her hair in passing. But as her heart
grew warmer with the memory of those words written by
Roy Leigh’ on, so the little hands clasped together mside
Jack Heyford's mut! grew colder and colder as Kuna
wished be had not sent it, and thought of the something
he was to say when he came to Rocky Point.

CHAPTER XXII
MAUDE’S VISIT.

Maude Somerton was coming to Rocky Point, so said a
letter received by Uncle Phil two weeks or more aftershe
ride to. Miliville. 16 was vacation with ler now, und as
she wished to see.one of her former puplis who was sick
and lived in the neighborhood of Rocky Pvint, she was
‘about to. Kill two birds witli one stone, visit poor little
Aggie, who cannot live, they say, and stop for a few days
4 at the farm house, the pleaSantest home | ever had. So,
dear Mr. Overton, give Bobtail an extra supply of oats,
for ifit chances to be sleighing, which the god of the
weather grant, I mean 10 Make you IDlo @ gay Cavalier, a
second Sir Launcelot, of whom ull the Guinevres and
Elaines of Astolat shall be jealous as we go Uriving
througn the country. Tell dear Aupt Becky to get out her
warming pan and hold her fattest chicken iu readiness.
She knows my taste. Aunt Burton bas sent for me to
the parlor, se, dear, darling Mr. Overtov, au revotr till
next Thursday night. 1 canscarecly wait for Winking of
that north room with the wood fire on the hearth, and
Becky waiting upon me asif | were a queen lstead of a
j poor Yankee scnooimistress. Yours, forever, Muude.”
j=«6This was Maude’s letter, written ou Madison square,

and read by Uncle Phil with an immense amount Of satis-
faction. Not read once, but three times to himself, and then
three times to Becky, until she alinost Knew it by heart,
and wondered who that clap was with the queer name
Miss Maude done talked about so f Edna might
haye told her the story of the hap)
guuty lover, but heart was too ul

he expected event which caused so
and Uncle Phil, only filled her with
4 and a desire to go away, at least while
She had no wish at present to be recog

of the Leightons. ane Hise.Gy eran, ole suited her nov

that she had been 4 med to it, and began to see that
it was forthe best. Sumetime she meant to see Roy
Leighton and his mother, and if sie could doso without
their knowing who slie was it would add greatly to the
interest and excitement of the meeting. If Muude should
discover who she was, her pretty projeci Would be spoiled,
ana hence the cause of her dreading to meet Miss Somer-
ton, But the more she reflected upon it the more she
saw how improbuble it was tuat Maude should suspect
gher of being otuer than Miss Overton, and the terrur
gradually gave way unt] at last she was almost as anx-
ious as Becky herself for the arrival of their guest, who
came 2 train earlier than she Was expected and tosk
them by surprise.

Evna found her coiled up in the large easy chairin the
north chamber wien she came from school at night. She
had walked home that aay, and secing no one as she eti-
tered the house, went directly to her chamber, where
Maude wassitting in her blue flannel dressing-gown, with
j her bright, beautiful hair rippling over her shoulders, and
athe brush lying lorgotten on the floor, while she was
pee up wholly to Mrs. Bruwuing, who together with

ennyson was one of ber pet autlurs. As Edna entered
upanuounced, she Started to her ieet, and shedding back
pea ee tresses, exclaimed with a merry, winning
ugh:

“Oh, you must be Miss Overton, I know; my rival in
old Becky’s heart, and Mr, Overtun’s tuo; but you see l
am not to be vanquisied, and havecomeright back into
my old quarters, trusting to your generosity to divide
with me the towels and the hooks for my dresses. Let
me help you, please. You look tired.’? :

And she walked straight up vo Edna, who was vainly
trying to undo her waterproof. At signt of Maude, who
bad known Charlie so well, and who knew Roy aud every-
jthing pertaining to him, there had swept over Edna a

faint, dizzy feeling, which made lier Jor a moment very
i pale and weak; then the liot blood came surging back to

her cheeks, Which were bright as Carnations by tle time
the troublesome knot had been untied by Maude Somer-
ton’s skillful fingers.

“What a little dot of a girl youare,’? Maude said, when
at last Edua was disrobed aud stood before tne fire.

“And you areso much taller than I had supposed,”
Edna replied, looking up into the suuny blue eyes which
were regurdivg her so intently.

“Yes; 1 must seem a perfect amazon to one as petite as
yourself. I used to want to step growing, and once, a
few years ago, actually thought of tying a sicne to my
head, as Churlie Churcuril teasingly suggested,’

There was a great heart torob at tne mention of that
name, and then Edna said, as indifferently as she could:

“A friend of yours ?”’

“Yes; thalis, ie was @ friend. Heis dead now; died
dreadfully, too, the very day he Was mwurried. Vl tell

ou about it -ometime. Now I must dress for dinner.

ky tells methut ou ‘Miss Louise’s’ account, they have

dinner afier your scvool hours, by which I see that your

ition with Uncle Phil is in all respects comme tt fait,’

ut you must have commenced on the lower round. Did

you iry the little buck chamber?’ and Maude’s eyes brim-
med with mischief as she asked the question.

“Yes, I tried it, and pearly froze fur half an hour or so.
Were you put in there, tuo?”

“Yes, uud nearly melted. Of course then you were
promoted to the porth- west room next.”

Edna, whe Knew nothing of the gradation by which
she bad reached her present comfortable apartment,
pleaded not guilty to the wortn-west room, whereat
Maude professed to feeling terribly aggrieved at the par-
tiality shown.

“It must be because you are a little dot,” she said;
“and because—,”? she hesitated a moment, and then ad-
ded, sofily, “because of your deep mourning aud trouble.
That always opens one’s heart. Mr. Overton told ive all
about you,”

Maude’s face was turned away from Edna, and so she
did not see the violent start, a8 Edna asked:

“What did he tell vou about me?”

“Oli, nothing improper,*? and Maudecrammed a part of
her front hair in her mouth, while she twisted her back
locks into a massive coil, ‘tHe said you had lost your
father and mother, and that made me feel for you at once,
forlam an orphan, too; he said too that since their
death, you had had a hard time generally, and had come
to him for a home, and was obliged toteach school, every
item of which will apply to me, except the depending
upon Mr. Overton fora home. I am poor—a poor school
Ina’am—which, in New York society, don’t pass for much;
andif Uncie Burton should close his doors upon me, 1
spould have nowhere to lay my head, and so you see we
ougit to be friends. I wish you would hold that lock ot
hair, please, it bothers me to get the last new kink. Can
you do it?” a

She looked up suddenty at Edna, who was curionsly
studying this giv], who mixed things so indiscriminately,
poverty, orphanage, friendiessness, and the last style of
dressipg the hair.

“TI don’t try. Leurl my hair, and thatisall. I don’t
know a thing about fashion,’ she said, While Maude, who

 

 

 
 

 
 

 

 

 

  
 
    
 

 

had succeeded in winding her satin braids, coil after coil,
about her head, until the last one Gume almost to ler
forehead, said, “Your curls arelovely. I would not med-
die with them. Fashion is an exacting dame, but Aunt
Burton aud Georgie make such a fuss if ] do nottry to be
decent.”?

“Is Georgie your brother 2” Edna asked, feeling guilty
at the deception she was practicing.

“Brother, no. Georgie is a girl; Aunt Burton’s adopted
danghter and niece, wnlle [ am Uncle Burton’s relation,
which makes a vast difference. Georgie 1s a belle and a
beauty, and an heiress, willie I, as Itola you, am poor,
anda schoolma’am, and nobody but “that young girl who
lives with Mrs. Burton.”

Edna had made no attempt at arranging herown toilet,
but completely fascinated with her visitor, steod leaning
on the bureau, watching the young girl who rattled on so
fast, and who, while pleading poverty, arrayed herself in
a Soft, flowing dress of shining biue silk, which harmon-
ized so admurably with her fair creamy complexion.

“One of Georgie’s Cast-oits,” sie explained to Edna
“Most of my wardrobe comes to 1 it way. Ia
tunate in one respect; fortunate i hi
for everybody is kind tome. Loo
fal Christmas present, the very th
I coveted but never expected toh

She took from the little box on f
and chain, and passed it to Edna,
and with a face as pale as ashes,
as if to see it better, while only the most superhuman ef-
fort at contro} on her part kept her from crying outright,
for there lying in her hand, with the old famuar ticking
sounding in her ear, was her watch, the one Charlie had
given to her, and which she had leftin Albany. There
could be no mistake. It was the very same, and through
it she seemed again to grasp the dead hand of her hus-
band, just as she nad grasped it that awful night when he
Jay beneath the wreck, with the rain on his lifeless face.
Edna thought she was going tofaint, and was glad of
Maude’s absorption in a box of collars and bows as that
gave her a little time in which to recover herself. When
she felt that she could speak, she laid the watch back
upon the bureau, carefully, tenderly, as if it had been the
dead body of a Iriend, and said:

“lt is a charming Christmas gift. Your aunt’s, I sup-
pose ?”?

She knew she ran therisk of seeming inquisitive by the
last remark, but sue wanted somuch to know how that
watch of allothers came into Maide Somerton’s posses-
sion.

“No, you don’t catch her making meas costly a present
as that. She selected it, but Roy Leighton paid for it.”

“Roy Leighton!’ and surprised out of herself, Hdna’s
voice was so strongly indicative of excitement, Maude
stopped short and glanced quickly at Eona, saying,
“What makes you say ‘Roy Leighton’ in that tragic Kind
of way? Do you know him?’

The wintry light had nearly faded from the north room
by this time, and under cover of the gathering Garkness,
Edna forced down the emotion which had lade every
nerve quiver, and managed to answer indifferently:

“] have heara Uncle Phil speak ef him. He owns the
hotel here in town, I believe. He must be a very dear
friend to make you So Costly a present.”

Edna could not define the nature of the pang which had
shot through her heart when she heard that to Roy
Leighton Maude owed the watch she had once called hers,
and surrendered with so manytears. It certainly was
not jealousy, for why should she be jealous of one who
dad never evinced any interest ia her save such as was
expressed in the ornaments of jet, and the words “My
dear littie sister.’??. Edua did not know how ciusely those
four words had brought Roy Leigitton to her until she
Saw bis costly gift to anotier.

“That's just what 1 told Aunt Burton that people woulda
say,’? Maude replied; “und 1 expect Georgie will be high-
ly scandalized, lor she itis who expects to be Mrs. Roy
Leighton, ef Leighton Place, soine day, and aot poor,
humble I, When Charlie was killed—he was Mr. Leigh-
ton's halfbrother—l was with poor Mrs. Churcuill a few
days; waSthere when they brought the bouy home. Roy
had a brvken leg, and could not sit up, and man-lke,
greatly overrated my services, aud resolved to make me
a present. He bad heard mesay once or twice that 1
wanted 3 Watch which wasa watch, instead of the great
big masculive thing of Uncle Burton’s, and so he conciua-
ed to give me Ove, and asked Auut Burton Who was go-
ing up to Albany to pick itout. Il suppyuse fi should be
deceiving you if I did not tellyou, as Aunt Burton told
me, that the waten was second-hand, that is, the jeweler
sold it a ttle less becauSe he saidit was one he bougbpt
ofa lady whe had seen better days. Auntie bad admired
ib very uiuch berore he told hey that, and she took it just
the same. I was perfecily deligpted of Course, though I
have built all sorts of custles with iegurd to its first
owner, Who she was and how she looked, aad I’ve even
found myself pityipg ner for the misturtune which com-
pelled ner to part With that wateh.”?

“Did tne Jeweler know anything of her?” Edna asked;
and Maude replied: :

“j don’t know, Aunt Burton did not ask him; to her it
was the most natural thing im the world for a lady to pe
obliged tO part with ber jewelry; that is, sucn things are
constantly pappenmgin New York, you know.”

Maude’s toilet Wax finished by tus time, and as Unele
Phil’s veice was heard in the south rouic below, she ask-
eu if they should not go down,

“Yes, you go, please. Don’t wait for me, I have my
hair to brush yet,”? Edna said, feeling that sne ust be
alone for a lew moments, and give vent to the emotion
she had so lopg been trying to repress,

She epened tue do M

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 

} 1 COs y Rey, whom Maude es-
‘teemeaBo highly, and had culled her his “dear little
sister.’ It waS tie memory of these words which quicted
Edna atlast. He hau had ber in lis mimd; perheps he
would think ofheragain and sometiwe she might see
bim and Kuow just bow good he was. He was young yet,
she could wait, ald as Becky called to say supper was
waiting, she bastily batved her face,and giving a few
broses to ber bait Went down to the room where Maude,
fall of Jife anad-spirits, was cnatling gayly with Uncle
Piil, and showing lim the watch which Roy Leighton
bad given her. ;

As Euna came in, Uncle Phil glanced anxiously at ber,
detecting at once the traces of agitation upon her face,
and as Maude suddenly remembered leaving her pocket-
handkerchief up stairs, and darted away after it before
sulting downto the tuble, ie. improved her absence by
saying, soluy:

“What Is it, little Zw? Was Maude brought the past all
back again? Yes, yes, [ was airaid she would.”

*Not tbat exactly,” Edna said, with aquivering lip and
smothered sob; “but, Uncle Pail, that was my waich,
once—Cuarlie gave it to ime, andU—and—TI[ sold il, you re-
member, in Albany. 1l Kkpew it in a moment.”

“Yes, yes. Lord bless my soul! things does work curis,

Your watch, and Roy Leighton bought it for Maude! Yes,
yes. There couldn't alikelier person have it, but that
don’t help its hurtipg. Pvor little Lu! don’t fret; lil buy
you one, handsemer than that, when I sell my wool. You
bet | will. Yes, yes,”?
- He toek a large pinch of snuff, and adroi ly threw some
of 1t1n Edna's eyes, 80 that their redness, and the tears
sireumipg from them, were accounted for to Maude, who
came tripping 10, all anxiety to Know What was the mat
ter with “Little Dot—tuut’s what I call her, she is so very
small,’ she salu, to Uncie Phil. as she tock her seat at tne
table, talking ail toe time—vow of her school. nuw ot
Aunt Burton, apd Georgie, who was in Chicago. and now
of Charlie Churcull’s tragical death, und the effect it nad
on his mother.

When she reached this point Uncle Phil tried to stop
ber, but Maude was not tobe repressed. Uncle Pui
Knew Ciarlle, and of course he must be interested to hear
the particulars of his death. Aud soshetolu them, as
she jad heard them from Gevurgie, and said how she
pitied the poor girl, for wnom nonedy seemed to care—
nniess it was Roy, who could then dO nothing for any
one. Abd Edna peard it all, with an wgony in ber heart
which threatened to vdetray self every moment, until
“tie poor young Wife, for whom: nobody seemed to cure
but Roy,”? was reached. Then there came a revulsion;
Ube terrible throbbing ceased; ber pdlse became more
even, and though she was a shade paler than usual, she
seemed perfec ly natural, and her voice was firm and
steady a8 she asked:

‘Did the wile come to Leighton at all?”

“Lord bless me! That is curts,’”? Uncle Phil muttered to
himseil, as, havivg finished his dinner, he walked hastily
Bey Window, While Maude, without heeding him, re-
plied:

“No, she never came—and I wasso sorry. I had her
room ready for her, too—Charlie’s oid room, because I
thought sne would like it best. You see, Mrs. Churchill
was sick, and I nad it all my own way, except as I con-
sulted Roy, who evinced a good deaiof interest, and |
think Was really disappointed tuat Hdna did not come.”

“Her name was Edna, then?” caiwe very quietly from
Edna’s lips, and again Uncle Phil started asif a bomb-
shell had exploded.

He did not understand how his piece could be so com-
posed, and ask these questions concerning herself. And
£dna could not understand it either. Sne only knew the
fact; and after Uncle Phil, who remembered an errand
he bad at one of the neighbors, had gone, and she was
alone with Maude, she asked ber numberless questions
about the inmates of Leighton Place, and learned nearly
all Maude had te tell of them. ;

“‘And they don’t know where Charlie’s wife is?’ Edna
asked; but this was after Uncie Phil had returned, and
cracked his butternuts and drank his cider, and said good
night to the two girls who were now upinthe norti-
chamber before the blazing fire, Maude in a chair and
Edna on a iittle stool at her feet, with her elbow resting
on Maude’s knee and her head supported by her hand.

Their acquaintance had_ progressed rapidly, and girl-
like they sat down before the fire for a good long talk be-
fore going to bed. Mauge had passed her fingers through
Edna’s flowing curls apd made some remark about
Georgie’s hair, and that brought Edna to asking for Char-
lie’s wife. There was to her a wonderful fascination in
hearing herself talked about so freely, and she was anx-
1ovs to renew the conversation.

“No, they don’t know where she is, only that she is
ewes workibg to pay the debt she fancies she o ves
Oo Roy.

“T almost wonder Roy told anybody abont that; seems
to me he should have keptitto himself,” Edna said, feel-
ing a very litle burt that her affairs should be so gener-
ally known to strangers

“Roy Was not to blame,’’ Maudesaid. “He didn’t tell
of it. Mrs. Churchill did thyt—first to auntie, and then to
Georgie. She telis them everythibg, and against Poy’s

   
   

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

wishes, too, I am sure, for he is not a gossip. Roy Leigh-
| ton is splendid everyway—the best man I ever knew.”

Edna looked up at her with a peculiar smile which
ie de readily understood, and shaking her head, she
Said:

“No, little dot, lam not inlove with him. I would as
soon think of aspiring to the moon, but I admire him
greatly, and so doesevery one. He is very different from
Charlie, with whom I used to flirt a little.”

Edna did not care to hear Charlie’s short-comings dis-
cussed. She would rather stick to Roy, and so she asked:

“Do you think he cares apything about his sister-in-
law; feels any interest in her, I mean.”

“Of course he does. He wrote her a letter to Chicago,
but she had left before it reached there, and once in speak-
ing of her to Georgie he called her ‘a brave little woman,’
and if you believe me, I think Georgie didn’t quite like
it.’

There were little throbs of joy quivering all along
through Edna’s veins, anu softly to herself she repeated:
“Brave litthe woman,” trying tc imagine how Roy looked
wiien he said that of her, and how bis voice sounded. She
did not care for Georgie Burton’s liking or disliking what
Roy said. She did not care even if Georgie became his
wite, as Maude said she probably would. If only he gave
her a place in his heart as his sister, and esteemed her “a
brave littic woman,’? she was more than content, and in
Edna’s eyes there was a soft brightness, not borrowed
irom the tire-light, as, long after Maude was in bed, she
sat upon the hearth combing out her curls and thinking
of Roy Leighton, who had called her “a brave little wo-
man,’ and owned her for his sister.

Maude’s visit did Edna a world of good, for it brought
her glimpses of a life widely different from any she had
known, and stirred her up to higher aims by inspiring
her with a desire to make herself something of which
Roy should not be ashamed, if ever she chanced to meet
tim., And she should meet him sometime, she was sure
of that, and Maude would be the medium, perhaps;
Maude, to whom, if necessary, she would tell everything,
knowing she could trust her as her own sister. They
grew to liking each ether very much during the few days
Maude stayed at the farm-house, and under Maude’s in-
fluence Edna roused herself from a certain morbid list-
lessness into which she had fallen, with regard to herself
and her personal appearance, thinking it did not matter
how she looked er what she wore, as black was black
anyway. But Maude did not think so.

ee look like a Guy, if you do wear black,’? she
said.

And so she coaxed Edna into white collars and cuffs,
and spying the jet which Edna had never worn, mude
her put it on, and screamed with delightto see how it
brightened her up and relieved the sumberness of her
attire.

“if you were a widow, you could not go into deeper
mourning than you have,” she Said, as she was trying the
effect of arranging Eudna’s curls 2 little more fashionably,
and twisted ina bit of lavender ribbon taken from her
own box.

“Oh, no, not that, not yet, I can’t wear a ribbon,’ Kdna
cried, as she looked at herself in the glass, and thought
of the roaring wind, the driving rain, the terrible wreck,
and white, drenched face beneath.

Bat Maude who knew nothing of this as connected with
Edna, insisted upon the ribbon just for that evening, and
munaged to have Uncle Puil praise the effect, and say he
liked bright, pretty things on bright, pretty girls, and
wisved Edna weuld wear ribbons and jet all the time.

Toe next day was Sunday, and Maude suggested that
Uncle Ppiisnould drive herself and Edna over vw St Jude’s,
at Millville.

“Dot tells me she has never been there, and I think it’s
a shame,” she said.

“Yes, yes, maybe ’tis; but she never came right out os
you do rough-snod ona feller, Spe reaus her prayer-book
at home, auc adorns her profession that way. Yes, yes,
you want to go to the true church,’ Uncle Phil said, ad-
ding that ©he didn’t thipk no great of that persuasion,
or leastwise never had till he kvew Louise and Maude.
They were the rignt stripe, if they were ’Piscopals, wnd
maybe for once he’d go tothe ugin’s, but they mustu’t
expect him to jine in the performance, por beb his head
duwn when be went in, bor Keep juippiw up like a danc-
ing jack.
sleep it out,’? he said. :

And Maude gave nim full permission to do as he liked,
anu so. just as the bell of St. Jude’s was pesliug forth its
last Sumivons, 0o)d Bobtwil drew up 30 iront of the church
abd deposited bis load upon the steps. Whether it was
from a wisp to surprise his young ladies, or because of the
softening Influence vroubd nim, Uncle Phil did pot lounge
or sleep in one corner of the pew. but greatly to Euna’s
astonishment took of bis Own accord a prayer-book from
tue rack In front, apd followed the service tvlerabiy well
furra siranger. Only in tue Creed be was slenut,*and in
the first response to the Litovy, “The Trinity part,” ve
couldiv’t ge, und he took a pinch of snuff on the sly and
glanced furtively ab the two young muidens Kueeling su
devoutly at his sige. ; :

“They act Kinuer as if they did mean it, and were not
puttin’ op, aud toipsin’ of their belghbors’ bunpels,” he
thovgbt, as be listened to the services, wiieh he thought
“contoundecly lopg und a very trifle tedious.”

It was many a year sipce Uncie Piul had heard our
church service, and somethiug in its silgular beauty and
fitness nupressed him aS be never was lupressed before.
Ali these kneeling people around lim were not “pulting
on.” Some of them surely were earnest abd siicere,
and were actually talking to somebody who heard, and

hese presence even he could almost feel us he sat there
the sermon, Wluch was from the text, “For
war dution, aud hath buildeu us a synugogue.”
W Was 2 plain, straightforward one, aud, as
yan took the grouhud, a8 an inducement for
hat the building of a synagogue was the vi-
f commenuing the Sen Nitils to the Suvivur's
ercie Poil, who welteve more in works tian in
faith, began to prick up his ears, and wovder if ie hadn't
betier do something which would be put to his credit in
Heaven's great book of record.

“J can’t spivel and say I’m sorry when I ain’t, but I
should like to have a balance sheet in my fuvor when I
get ou other side,” he thought, and then he began to
wonder if “it wouldn’t please the gals and the Lord,
too,”? if he was to build a chape) at Rocky Point.

If that synagogue lad really been a help to.the ceptu-
rion, and’ Jee the Saviour to deal mercifally with him,
what might not the buiidiug of a chapel do for Uncle Pail?
He did not believe in the divinity of Cprist, but he had a
warm feeling ip his heart fur the man who hau lived on
earth thirty-tpree years, apd known all the sorrows
which could be crowded into a human life. He believed,
too, in Heaven, and, ina kind of inystical half-way, he
believed 1n hell, or in purgatory, at least, and deemed it
well enougi, if there Was a route which led away from
that place, to take it. That chupel might be tne very
gate to the road of safety; and when, duripg the last
prayer, he put his nead down with the rest, his thoughts
were oh a little Knoll, half way between his bouse and
the village proper, and he was wondering how much
lumber it would take, and if Carson would cheat his eye-
teeth out if he gave bim tne job. As irom little streams
mighty torrents sometimes flow, so jroin that Sunday at Sr.
Jude's sprang the beautiful little Gothic structure, whose
spire you may see just behind a jump of trees as you whirl
along in the cars through the mountain passes between
Albany and Pittsfield. ‘St. Philip’s’” they call 1t, thougn
the old man who planned it, avd paid for it, and run it,
as the people said, would have liked it better if “they had
called it St. Maude or St. Louise, he didn’t care which.”
Both girls were perfect in his estimation, though fora
time he gave the preference to Maude, as haviuy been
the first wie had torn the thick coating away from pis
heart, and made it vibrate with a human interest. He
liked Maude wonderfully well, and when, on the Monday
follewing the ride to St. Jude’s, she said good-by to them
all, and went buck to ber school en the Hudson, he stole
out behind the smoke-house, and, after several powerful
sueezes, Wiped his‘eyes suspiciously upoo his butternot-
colored cout-sleeve, and wondered to himself why the
plague he wanted to be a snivelin’? when he didu’t care
shucks lor the neatest womanin the land.”

{To be Continued.]}

Jehial Slab’s Remarks.

Here's tew Nasby.

May free licker allus be within his reach.

Also, may Petroleum never be allowed tew cum so nee
Vesuvius as to make the old man uncumt{urtable, «;

Why is man like a river? Because he never bas a deep
spot without revealing a shallow one a little further down
streain.

Men go in flocks, and display a good deal of sheep wis-
dom. Whenever the bell weather jumps over, even an
imaginary ovstacie, the rest of the crowd are pretty sure
to follow.

There are people all around us who started years ago
to become Christians, but got stuck in the pollywag stage.
Signs of religion about tracks of such folks are just
about a8 plenty, at this, time of life, as snow in huckle-
berry time.

Conservatism started to mill, when a boy, with a big
stone in one end of bis bag to balance the grist in tne
other, and has never been able to see how he could get
along without it since.

No matter how unsbapely apd crooked the man, there
are plenty of is in God’s world that will fit him witn-
out cbinking. But ke will never find any of them by ly-
lng on }is back, gaping at the stars, and—wishing,

Approach doubtful pleasures as you would get. into a
birch-bark canoe. Step carefully, balauce evenly, or be
prepared to go under ip a hurry.

Some of us pick up this golden rule and use it Sundays:

«“Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye
even so to them.’’

But Sunday night we sometimes lay it aside, with onr
nice clothes, and supply its place with this iron rule for
the week days:

“No matter how or what ye do, so long as ye win.””

Wife was undressing our four-year-old Charlie, the
other evening. He silently felt of his chubby arms a little
While, and then, looking up into his mother’s face, he
said:

“Mamma, who made me?’’

“The Good Man up in the sky,”’ answered mamma.

Charly turned a steady, soner, searching look through
the tree-tops, up into the clear, beautiful, star-lit sky for
a moment, and then innocently capped the climax with
the important question:

But, Mam-mu, who took me down?”

—_—__ 4+

£a> The latest notion of a Paris paper is to offer wed-

ding ripgs to all pew subscribers.

&a> The Emperor of Austria is said to be the mest pro-
faue monarch in Europe,

 
     
  
  
  
  
   
  
            
  
  

    

 

 

 

 

He should jest snuggle down in tne pew and:

 

 

APRIL!

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER,

 

Oh, April tears! oh, fruitful rain!
Beating on the window-pane;
Playing now a merry tune

With your swift and nimble fingers—.
In your drops no sorrow lingers—-
They are sweet as dews in June!

Early violets love the sound,

Waking from their sleep profound;
While, through melting snowdrifts, see
How the crocus, sofily creeping,

And the pretty daisies peeping,
Drink‘the crystal drops with glee!

How the rills and streamlets run
Glancing, dancing in the sun;
While the deluged river-banks
Show how: gratefully the river
Rises up toward the Great Giver—
Every billow throbbing thanks!

Faithful Narearet:

Sleuth-Hound of Castle Srand

BY ANNIE ASHMORE,
Author of “The Bride Elect; or, the Doom of the Double
Roses;” “Beautiful Rienzi; or, tle Secret Ven-
detta,’’ etc.

 

 

“Faithful Margaret”? was commenced in No. 11. Back numbers

Ce be obtained from any News Agent throughout the United

ates. nro
CHAPTER XXXII,

The next morning St. Udo Brand lay impatiently wait-
ing for his dear young nurse, anu scowling at the stupid
negress, Who Was puttipg bis room to rights, when a vis-
itor entered, aud made his way up to tne sick man.

A haggard-looking old gentleman, with pale, yellow
ebeeks, pendulous and flaccid—eyenrows whicn bristied
like furze on the brow ol a beetling crag, and lack-luster
a Which glistened like the dull waters at the foot
of it.

“My service to you, sir,’? said he, with an old-fashioned
bow; ‘I am Andrew Davenport, 1f you remember.”

“I do remember Andrew Davenport, if you are he; you
are 80 Changed that I need scarcely beg pardon for not
recoiulecting you sooner.”?

“Same to you, sir; gad, sir, yellow fever is no joke, and
you took it worse than me by a long cpalk.”?

“How comes it that you have had yeilow fever? When
did you come here?”

“About amenth ego. Came here with a face as red as
a lobsterjand aS broud aS that. Look at it now. I don’t be-
gradge it though, when i see you looking so much better
than ever I thought to see you when first 1 looked at you
in this bed. We have much to be toanktul fer, Colonel
Brand.”’

“| fuil to understand. What brought you to Key West,
and what buve you to do with me?”

“A good deal, my young sir; 1 have to esecrt you home
to your castle, for One thing.”

“I aim astopisned that you should come all this way to
waste words ppon such a subject. I thongbt that by this
time Miss Walsiogham would be married, and that I could
go my way rejoicing.”

“Married to tbat impostor, that boped to fll your shoes?
Pho! what do you tuke us all for? Well, after all, I
needn’f take any shore of the glory. It was Miss Marga-
ret herself, who teund out toe whole conspiracy, and set
off like a brave youpg Woman 4s she is, taking me for
company, to find yon, sir.”

“Heavens! Whot did she want of me??

“Gud! sir, if you really don’t know, ali I can say is that
she’sthe first woman Lever saw whocould hold her
tongue! Jt was to fipd you out and give yuu the property
of Seven-Oak Waaste, the lands, houses, efc., altached,
that she Came willie the plagne was literally raging, to
this confounded rat-trup, wuere, if one gets in they can’t
get opt.”

“Is Margaret Walsingham in Key West ?’

“She 1s."* ‘ ?

“Tnen itis she who has been troubling my poor darling
With this wretched sfory.”

“In Key West, and I leave you to judge whether she
makes @ goou sick nurse or no.”

“Hes she been my nurse 7?

“To be sure! Nice place you've got here, sir! Every-
thing as daloty as a lady's boudoir; and what a maguifi-
cent bopcn of flowers! Think of that in March??

‘Miss Wulsingham—my Perdita! The girl who risked
her life for me!’?

“Even so. Precious short were her visits to my bed-
side, for Watching al yours; and between us she’s had a
Wearing time of 1, the dear Kindly girly?

“Good Heaven—is my owh darling, that Miss Walsing-
hau???

“Yes, and I thank Heaven to hear that from you. You
love her, so it’s aj right.” :

Tne luwyer here dropped bis jocund air, pressed the
hand which had pervously clutched his, anu retired to
the wincow fora while.

. Asilence feh upon tie pair; the rescued man was turn-
ed face downward to his pillow, with his hands clasped
tightly.

Her bravery, her generosity, her devotion came up: to
gilu her gentle worth; and he couid well judge now how
great had been that bravery, that generesity, that devo-
tion.

Taking in by slow degrees, the greatness of this wo-
man’s soul, Whom falsely and bitterly he had maligned;
comprehending the grandeur of humility in one whose
geurments. he im bis nigh-nanded pride felt unworthy te
touch, the time bad come when St. Udo Brand could pray;
when be could plead that Heaven would bless him with
Margaret Walsipgbam’s love, and bestow on him her
hend, as the richest gift of earth.

Presently Davenport resumed the conference by re-
counting all tue particulars of the Castle-Brand plot, and
you may be sure he lost no opportunity of adding luster
to his adinired Miss Margaret’s laurels, by unstinted
praise, whicl: brought tears, one by one, into the eyes of
young Brand.

“Ang here’s the formal relinquishing of every rood of
Seven-Oak Waaste, drawn upand signed,’ said the law-
yer, unfolding a parchment and spreading if out trium-
phantly op his knee; “and she has even made prevision
agalnst your refusing to acceptit. In inat ease, it is all
to go, onthe 28th of March, (one year from the date of
the will), toward ‘building a Charitable Insstitation for
sick sevinen, ({ suppose from her father having been a
Sea-captain,) and she is goipg as governess into Mr.
Stanbope’s family here. What do yeu think of all this,
eh??? chuckled the old gentleman, with tne air of being
vastly umused.

“She will do it,” said St. Udo, gazing with consterna-
tion at the purchiment,

“But will you allow ber todo it?”

A Keen pang struck to the heart of St. Udo; his merci-
less scorn of her came back to him as expressed only the
day before; her mournful words: “She wiil never marry
you,’ recurred like a death-knell to bis memory.

Now he understood the cause of her gentle tears—of
her clinging wistfulness, of her sweet and humble timid-
ity; he comprehended all, and covered his eyes with a
remorseful moan.

“T have ruined all, and lost her!’ he thought. “Where
is the novle girl?”

“Gad! J thought you'd soon be asking that! It’s likely
she’s taking a rest, peor dear; but I'll send her to you.’”

“No—let her bave her rest; I would never be so selfish
as to disturb her, while I can wait. But, Davenport, I will
be candid with you, and say that I bave no hope of win-
ning her. I have insulted her too deeply.’’

“Pid she think of your former insults when she came
here at the risk of her life to find you, and to nurse you
out of the fever?”

“No, bless ber—all that was forgiven 1}?

“And will she think of your turmerinsuits when you
say, ‘Margaret, I won't accept one penny piece of the

3rand property, unless you be my wife’ ?””

“Herown werdvs—tbat, in that contingency, Margaret
Walsingbam would never marry me—her own words.”’

“You believe in your Perdita’s love?” cried the lawyer,
throwing his last ball with triumph straight at the bull’s
eye.
writ noble tenderness, and devotion such as hers, is
love, I do. most solemnly.”

“Then she’ll do as your. Perdita, what she wouldn't. do
as your enemy, Margaret Walsingham. She’lleven lower
her pride to marry you, if she thinks it necessary to your
happiness.”

But Mr. Davenport was forced to modify his satisfac-
tion, when, on seeking an audience with his ward, the
old negress who had that morning taken Margaret’s
place in the colonel’s sick room, brought from her cham-
ber anote from the young lady.

“She’s been and gone,”? sdid the woman; “and this is
for Massa Davenport.”

It said to the staring lawyer:

“Dear Mr. Davenrport:—I have thought it best at once to
proceed to the Stanhopes, as the situation might become filled
6 and all danger of infection has passed from me by this
ime,

“You will see that the colonel is taken excellent eare of until
the English steamer arrives, when ET am sure he will be able to
travel; and you will accompany him to Sevyen-Oak Waaste,
and be as useful to him and as faithful as you have been to me.

“Tam going without bidding vou good-by. Perhaps you will
be a litth: angry: but, dear Mr. Davenport, it was far better
than it Tbed. 1 have been a great bother to you from first to
last, haven’t Ll? But you will forgive me, now that our ways
lie so widely apart.

“Tell Colonel Brand that I wish him to fergive the deception
I have practiced upon him; but that I shall never regret the
four’ weeks in which 1 watched him from the brink of the
grave, and that if he can accept a message from Margaret Wal-
singham, it is that he may always think kindly of his Perdita,
and try to keep her apart from his remembrance of a presumed
adventuress, Your affectionate ward, M. W.”?

“Here's a pretty to do |? cried Davenport, bustling in-
to the invalia’s room with the little double sheet of note
paper fluttering in his hand. ‘“Of,all queer dodges, this
is the last. She's gone, sir, this morning to her situation
at the Stanhope’s, and bere’s the note tyat she’s obliging
enough to write by way of good-by to you.”

St. Udo took the note and scanned eaci pretty charac-
ter, While bis cheeks becume bloodless as snow. lt was
blistered with tears, and it seemed to breathe in every

 

 

Qin

 

 

 
 

 

 

s

ie

 

 

line its quiet and patient sorrow, and to have become re-
signed to it, as if there was no remedy. :
What the colonel’s emotions were, to read this little
note of his Perdita’s, no one may know. He sat up in
bed, and looked wildly round him, while the lawyer
glared, and dumbly bit his nails.
“Let us drive instantly to Stanhope’s.” at
“You? Humph! You look like a man going driving!’
“T tell you that I will drive there if I shoutd faint every
mile of the way.” : : :
Hesprang from bed, and signified the sincerity of his
intention by fainting on the spot.

Three days afterward, Colonel Brand was lying quite
alone on his sofa—his first day up—reading, or rather
talling himself that he was reading. Every sound startled
him, causing him to relinquish his book and listen with
deepening eyes; and sometimes a fancied voice in the
street below would send flames of excitement shooting
across his palltd face.

Three days since the lawyer had left him; three days
of doubt, and hope, and despair. :

Had she loved him? Was that calm good-by to him
from a heart indifferent? or did it hide beneath its cold
exterior the smoldering passion which sometimes her
eyes had seemed to express?

Dear Margaret! Generous girl! :

And memory took up her virtues one by one, and fond-
ly turned them over, and the man lay breathing not,
while fancy told him what his life might be with sucha
wife as she.

And even while he mourned with fading hopes over
the memory of. her whom he had passionately loved as
his Perdita, his chamber-door was briskly opened, and in
walked Lawyer Davenport.

“Good morning, sir! Glad to see you up!
the day, eh ?”?

“Tlave you seen her?”

‘Ha! first question. Nothing about how I enjoyed my
trip, or stood it after my illness; only ‘Have you segn
her?) No thanks to you for your polite inquiries after
me—I have seen her.’?

“And—what have you to tell me?”

“Come, now—what do you expect? You, who have
such a poor opinion of the fair sex, shouldn’t look for
mucn from ’em.”?

“Little enough would I expect from any other woman
under tne sun, but from Margaret Walsingham, ail that
makes a woman pure, rich in heart, grand in spirit.”

“] found her at Mr. Stanhope’s, ill and sorrowful——”

“My poor child!’

“Quite prostrated, and unfit for her duties—Mrs, Stan-
hope full of concern, the culluren out on the beach with
their black nurse. You should have seen her, when they
sent her down from her room to me.’’

“J wish I had.”’

“Her eyes couldn’t have been fuller of love and pleas-
ureif it had been you, instead of me; 1 never received
such a beauty-glance in all my days! And her first words
were twice as polite as yours, sir—they expressed her de-
light in seeing *ne, not inquiries about a third party: ‘Oh,
Mr. Davenport, 1 never thought of this kindness, Have
you come to did me good-by ” Not a word, you see, about
you, colonel; nor a thought either, ’ll be bound. Ten to
one if she would have brought you in at all to the conyer-
gation, if 1 hadn’t asked her, plump and plain, if she
didn’t mean to give the colonel his property, after all.

“ Why, says she, flashing a glance at me, to seeif I
meant it, and then turning her face away, ‘have I not in-
trusted you wiil it, tov give over tohim? What obstacle
can there be?

*¢*You don't do his fine cnaracter much justice in this
transaction, though you always vaunted it upto Gay and
me,’ I said; “if he had been a paltry money-hunter, you
couldn’t have served him much worse.’

‘* *He is satisfied, is he not?’ cries.she.

“Then I drew a horrible picture’ of your despair upon
finding that she had gone, and how you fainted in trying
to prepare to follow her, and—trust me for making up a
case! The last of it was her hanging on my shoulder,
and crying over my broadcloth, and sobbing:

‘-Take me back to him, dear Mr. Davenport; how could
I have been so cruel as to leave him in his weakness, un-
cared for! Take me back again.’”’

“And so 3h

“Well, now, [ rather enjoy the mighty interest with
which you survey me! And so Mrs. Stanhope granted
me an interview, in which I told her to look out for an-
other governess, aS Miss Walsingham had been sent for
on very particular business, to go home to England, and
Miss Margaret and I had avery nice little trip back. I
have, you may be sure, spared no eloquence in keeping
Miss Margaret’s alarms up about you, and she is waiting
beiow, doubtless with her heart in her mouth, to know
whether you're dead or alive.”

oe Isshe here? Let me go for my dear girl
this “3

“Fair and softly, my young sir.
to make, before L let you out of my power.
the month is this ?”’

“Twenty-fifth.””

“And what must be done before the twenty-eighth?
Eh? Don’t you know? Miss Margaret must be wooed
and won before the twenty-eighth. And why? Because
Madam Brand’s wiil was written on the twenty-eighth of
last March, and the year in which you were to marry
your co-heir passes in three days, and after that, accord-
ing to the will, you can’t have one inch of Seven-Oak
Waaste. What does that necessitate, then? (Oh, young
peopke, What would you do without me!) Why, you must
marry her, colonel—by Heaven! you must—before the
twenty-eiguth! What do you think of that for a little ro-
mance ?”” ’

“Too much of Heaven’s brightness—too little of earth’s
shadows. Yousee I don’t deserve that she should love me.”

“Humph ! no, I can’t say that you do. But that’s no-
body’s business if the lady’s pleased. Now, having given
your memory a jog about the flight of time, I'll send her
up to you.”

“Let me go to her.”

“Stay where you are, sir; don’t stir, beg. 1 don’t
profess to know much about women’s curious littie
idiosyncrasies, but l’ll bet a dozen of claret, that this
humdrum chamber of yours where she nursed you: day
after day for four weeks, is the dearest place to her of

In honor of

 

 

I have a proposition
What day of

-all the world, and I’ll go farther and say that so long as

she lives, the memory of this same room, sir, will have
power io send the rush of fond tears up to hereyes, be
she happy or miserable. You see she found you here, and
got your life from Heaven, as it were,by dint of unwearied
prayer, and it’s hallowed to her like a littie sanctuary.
Women arestrange creatures, sir, and I advise you, if you
want to sway her heart to your wishes, to see her here.’

Lying face downward and alone, with his hands clasped
in grateful thanksgiving, all the wicked recklessness and
the unbelief and the cynical fatalism slipped forever from
St. Udo's soul, and he turned after long years to the idol
of his youth~hope crowned with heavenly faith; and in
that seveet hour of supreme humility the sheath dropped
from the fruit, and the noble works of Heaven's hand turn-
e.l to adore its Creator.

So it came to pass that when Margaret Walsingham,
standing at the doorway. too timid to approach—too wo-
manly soit to go away, now that the man was dying for
her—heard the low entreaty,

“Bless me with her love—ennoble me with her love, O
Heaven |?

dier whole face became transfigured with joy, and she
stood there a vreathless and a lovely vision, listening to
what she dared not believe before.

“Ig that my darling, standing on the threshold? Come.”

Folded heart to heart, her head upon its place for the
first time, nis arms about herin a band of love—her hour
of sweet recompense has come at last.

Folded heart to heart, his exquisite face a mirror of that
bliss which his tongue is dumb to express, Faithful Mar-
garet meets his bending lips, and with unutterable thrills
shooting through her tremulous frame, whispers smiling,
“J have won my own dear lord of Castle Brand.”

(To be Continued.)
>-O—4

7 Fe
From the National (Elgin) Watch Co.

OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL WATCH Co.,
: Chicago, March, 1870.

An advertisement, replete with false statements, which
has recently appeared in various newspapers in the guise
of acommunication over the signature of “HoOwarD &
Co.,”? a concern in New York, nominally engaged in sell-
ing watches “‘C. O. D.,’? would be passed unnoticed, but
for the fact, that they are generally vnderstood to be in
the interest of, and their advertising biils paid for bya
rival American Watch Company of respectable preten-
sions, for the purpose of injuring the reputation of the
genuine Elgin watches.

In the recent injunction suit, decided against those par-
ties in favor of the National (Elgin) Watch Company, by
Jadge Yan Brunt, in the WV. ¥ Common Pleas, Special
feria, March 14, 1870; it appeared in evidence that said
“Howard & Co., {nominally the agents of the Waltham
watches) never had in their possession but six GENUINE
Elgin watches, ALL TOLD, aud yet they had expended
large sums of money in advertising ‘Elgin Watcnes’’ to
be sent upon the *C.0.D.”’ plan!—( Vide reports of the case
publisned.)

In view of these pertinent facts, and the odium attach-
ed to the “O.D.” watch business, the public may safely
de left te determine the character of the trafic ‘‘Howard
& Co.” are engaged in, or whether they are the ‘‘agents”
used by the envious Watch Company referred to, to de-
grade the standing of the genuine ELGIN WATEHES to the
medium level of their ewn, oreven of loreign made
watehes offered at approximate prices.

The National Watch Co., of Elgin, lilinois, for the com-
mon protection of distant watch buyers, as well as them-
selves, ONCE MORE caution the public, that they do not
now, nor ever have furnished watches to any party what-
ever to be advertised and sold upon the “C, O. D.” plan,
wiuek has been made the medium of so much swindling,
and whieh would naturally be made tne screen for traflic¢
in the worthless imitations of Elgin watches known to be
in the market. ‘The prudent course for those desirous of
purchasing the genuine Elgin watches, is, to apply to any
respectable jeweler in your own locality or elsewnere.

The rveai Eigin watches, elegant,accarate,durable,in many
styles and at various prices,each accompanied by tlre spe-
clal warranty certificate of this Company, and usually also
guaranteed by the local dealer or watchmaker, can be had
of most jewelers in all towns throughout the United
States. Call and ask to see them. As an additional pro-
tection, look for “National Watcn Co.’’ on the dial, and
one cf the following TRADH MARKS, Viz., “B. W. Ray-
mond,’ aT, Z. Culver,” “HH. H. Taylor,” «GM. Wheeler,”
“WW, H. Ferry,” “Matt. Lajtin,” “/. 7. Ryerson,” ‘Lady
Elgin,” or “Frances Rubie,” together with the words
MELGIN, ILLS.”? engraved upon the gilt plate inside,

6 seca
tT oe are

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iets ies 2 ipa eal Santi teal

These are the trade marks to denote the various grades
and styles, but as even these have been pirated, require
also the special warranty certificate, duly signed by T. M.
Avery, the President of the Company, and mwnbered to
correspond with the watch.
THE NATIONAL WATCH CO.

Factory at Elgin, Ils.

Business Office, 159 Lake St., Chicago.
—_—_>-@~<-__—

The Rose of Kendale.

By the Author of ‘Peerless Cathleen,’’ and
“Lady of Grand Court.’?

 

 

 

{The Rose of Kendale” was commenced in No. 20. Back num-
bers can be had from News Agents throughout the country.}

CHAPTER XIII. ¢

No, I cannot praise the fire _

Of your eyes, nor yet your life;
Much the more do I admire,
Joints of cunning workmanship.

Claribel did not relapse into utter unconsciousness; she
was aware that strong arms, nerved by maddened rage,
were lifting her up, and bearing her down the gilded
staircases,—down, down, down!—where was this mad-
man bearing her?

A large cloak mufiied her face and head. She knew
that in the bouquet which ornamented the coat of her
partner must have been inserted some stupifying drug,
the odor of which had stolen her senses.

Presently she felt the keen rush of frosty air, and with
the cold came a species of strength.

She struggled faintly, and even gasped out a word or
so, but the cloak was muffled doubly over her head, She
felt herself lifted into a carriage; her assailant was beside
her. The wheels bowled smoothly over the snow.

She was driven along for some time, her breath coming
in stifled sobs, her spirit fainting with fear.

She found it now utterly impossible to speak. The drug
was violent—overwhelming in its effects.

Lady Chesterton sank at length into a total dull stupor.
She knew nothing more for hours. When she opened her
eyes it was with the amazement,awe, wonder of one who
has come up to iife from the gates of the grave.

“Where was she???

The air was damp. A lamp burnt dimly, with a blurred
and misty light, in a dark place,

She was sitting against a wall—a damp stone-wall it
seemed. The cruel, thick mantle which had enveloped
her and stifled her cries while she was borne away from
the Russian ball, was still wrapped about her form; only
her face was left free.

it was some moments before she could collect her
thoughts, or understand where she was, or what were the
objects set before her eyes.

Soon the full horror of her situation became apparent
to the selfish, pampered, luxurious, lovely Countess of
Chesterton, She wasin a damp, vast vault—a vault
which extends for weary miles on weary iniles under the
gay, restless, splendid French capital.

With all that whirl of magnificence, wealth, pleasure
going on overhead, this city of the dead remains grim!—
silent!—dark!—waiting for the last trump which shall call
the dead to life!

Anove, the boulevards, the cafes, the theatres, the rest-
less crowds, the rolling carriages, the exquisite toilettes,
the pretty women, the pleasure-seeking men, the merry,
shabby students, the busy cab-drivers, the sharp-eyed
shopkeepers, the voices and clamors which make the
music, the mourning, the pathos, the comedy, the tragic
burlesque of eager, short-enduring human life.

Below, the grim heads of those who had been long
dead, the denizens of darkness and the grave,met the eyes
of Lady Chesterton. Before her was a wall of bones, human
bones, neatly and artistically arranged. From the top of
this wall twelve skulls grinned down upon the fastidious,
proud, beautiful lady. A moment’s thought told her
where she was, for she had descended witha large gay
company into the catacombs of Paris only the week past.
The vast vaults are only open twicea month. But then
there had been numbers of lights, a large company of ac-
quaintances, a troop of attendant guardians of the public
safety.

When the Parisian burying-grounds become too full,
the bones of those who have been buried years and years
before are carriedinto the vast vaults of the catacombs,
and-¢here arranged with a scrupulous and awful neat-
ness. There are verses from Scripture and from some of
the first French poets engraven on the walls in black iet-
ters, verses treating of the shortness of life, the certainty
of death, and the hope of immortality. The verse which
caught the eye of Claribel was one she well remembered
to lave noticed last week, it forbade the living to speak
against the dead.

Lady Chesterton remembered that the descent to the
catacombs is long and steep, that it is difficult to gain ad-
mittance; then she bethought her of stories she had heard
of robbers who had found a secret way into these dreary
caves of the dead, and there hidden their ill-gotten boun-
ty, and held unholy carousals. Had she fallen into the
hands of such as these? Nay, the diamonds still glittered
upon her neck and arms in the dim-blurred light of the
lamp. No, she had not been robbed; but why was slie
there? Ah, horror! she remembered then stories of per-
sons who had lost their way in the endless labyrinths of
winding passages, and had wandered about for days, and
at last perished of cold and hunger in the darkness,

As she thought of this she raised her voice in a great
agonized cry. The cry rang through the vaults like the
utterance of alostsoul. But at first there was no re-
spouse. Before her, ata little distance on the ground, a
lump was piaced. Had some foe brought her there to
die, and left her? Oh! texror of terrors! the thought of
which curdled her blood and made her heart sink. She
cried out again, louder this time, and then she heard
footsteps. Another moment, and the Domino stood be-
fore her!

“You monster!’? she exclaimed, in a wild, agonized
tone. ‘You cruel, inhuman wretch, have you brought
me here, then, to die?’ é

He threw down his domino when she asked that ques-
tion, threw it down and disclosed the savage face of Wil-
liam Eustace, savage and yet grand in the classic outlines
of its severe beauty. The dim light of the lamp fell upon
the raven hair, the noble brow, the faultless profile; the
wild eyes looked cavernous, so deep were the hollows be-
neath them that passion, reckless suffering, and ‘nad dis-
sipation had plowed. :

“You.” she exclaimed, almost fiercely; ‘‘you wretch,
mean Villain, troubler of my repose, you—how dare you
persecute me thus?’

“}] dare more,” he answered. “I dare keep you here,
proud coquette, pampered countess, gay woman of fash-
ion, and { dare compel love kisses from your cold lips,
and 1 dare force.you to take up your abode with me here
—here in this city of the dead—ha, ha! You think I am
mad, perhaps? I am not, Countess Claribel, ] am only a
man witha heart which you have so tortured that it burns
in the midst of me like molten lead. The agonies which I
have sutfered through loss’of your love are not to be com-
pared to any human suffering that I have ever read of,
and I said to myself when you cameto Paris and took
up your abode in a mansion more gorgeous than a palace,
aud when you made the world talk of your beauty as if it
had run wild, I said to myself, ‘while this gay, beautiful,
wicked French capital rings with the sound of her name,
while her beauty and herluxury are the talk of the world,
1 will bear her away—I—lI the despised lover, the laughed-
at, trodden-down siave, I will take her with me to spend
ashort honeymoon in the city ofthe dead. She shall
live with me up tothe time of her second bridal, she
shall lie close to my heart, I will strain my lips to bers—
that second bridal. Death shall be the high priest who
joins our hands. We willlay our bones down to whiten
in this goodly company.’ Oh, bride of an Earl, with rose-
leaf cheek and liquid eyesi Oh, dancer in kings’ palaces!
Oh, you have feasted at the table of an emperor, those
large priceless diamonds glittering on your white throat,
could not buy you one crust of bread, one draught of
water, here in this gloomy, stern society. Cry and pray
for mercy of yonder grinning skulls, they will only be
silent and grin still, Thus you mocked my anguish and
my love, beautiful Clarivel, at Stanly Hall. Now you un-
derstand what it is to suffer in fear and gloom and hope-
less darkness.”?

“William! cried Claribel, in a loud voice of anguish;
‘‘you are insane, cruel, fiendish! Love me?’ she added,
with an hysterical, bitterlaugh. ‘It 1s not love, but sel-
fish, Sensual ferocity. Because I did not choose to marry
you, you seek my life and load me with curses, Cruel
coward, who refuses to endure one disappointment. like
aman, who vents his fiendish rage upon a defenceless
woman, Wlo disguises himself, creeps by a stratagem in-
to a great house, carries a villianous drug in his hand,
steals away the senses of his hapless victim, and bears
her while insensible to thedark and dreadful catacombs
of Paris; then when the effects of the drug have passed
away, he stands before her, shows her the ghastly ves-
tiges of mortality with which the place abounds, tells her
she has come there to die, and mocks at-her despair and
her misery!’

“True, ‘true! Most true!?? echoed Eustace, wildly.
“Most true! O, 1 Know my conduct is the conduct ofa

fiend, but what would you have, Countess Chesterton ?
Wholesome fruit never yet grew out of a nightshade bush.
If your cruelty has converted William Eustace into a fiend,
he will bear fruit accordingly, his actions will be decided-
ly those of a fiend. J am happier to-night than | have
been ever since that night when I had you out in that
open boat on the tempestuous bay which washes tle
shores of Earnscliife; then I prayed that we might botii
go down together. [ had not the strength of mind to
thrust you into the seething water, but J had seen tne
storm coming before we put out to sea, and | prayed that
it might drewn us both, split up the frail boat into frag-
ments, throw us out, and fling us into the boiling giant’s
cauNiron, and then ] would have clasped you to my heart,
and we would have died togetner like true lovers; but the
storm spared us, we reached the shore alive, and now
you are herladyship of Chesterton; now,’ added the
maddened and furious young man, and Claribel heard
him gnash his teeth, **you are the Countess Claribel; now
you own a jordiy castle in an English shire, so old that it
dates back to the Wars of the Roses; and there, amid the
ancient golden plate and the ancient steelarmor, and the
pictures and the jewels, there you thought to reign a
queen among your vassals; you would have worn lhigh-
heeled shoes, Claribel, with diamond buckles, and skirts
of rich Genoa velvet, with over-skirts of satin, and the
Queen and the Prince of Wales would have gone to visit
you at Castle Chesterton, because itis such a fine histor-
cal old place.”

 

TENNISON.

_the very outmost limits of the law.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Here his voice assumed a mocking, mincing tone.

“You would have been the Queen of Feudalism.in Eng-
land, the Queen of Fashion in France, the Queen of
Hearts every where, breaking them night and day for your
pastime—and now whata sad changef what a fall from
towering hights! You come here to starve with cold and
hunger, to die in these melancholy charnel vaults, with
your tricked and wretched lover. I could not save you if
I would, Countess Claribel, because, although I discov-
ered a means of entering these vauits, through a hole in
the ground in a back street in Paris, 1do not know my
way again to that point. Ihave purposely lost it! I en-
tered there with you in your insensible state; I supplied
myself with a flask of oil, with matches, and alamp; then
I wandered about here, there, and everywhere, in this
tortuous labyrinth of Janes, the human skulls grinning
down upon me from the walls, my lifeless burden in my
arms, her head resting against my shoulder, where I never
thought to pillow it again! Oh, it is a moment of triumph,
Countess Claribel! We are here alone—you and I, once
lovers, now deadly foes, I have brought you here to die,
yet I love you still, with a love surpassing the love of all
other mer the heat and blaze of the sun surpasses in
i old rays of the moon’s chaste beams.”?

t her arms wildly when he spoke thus,
she said; “how dare you cover your
nurderous act with such a word?”

“Because it is true,’? he answered, leaning against the
damp wall as he spoke, and folding his arms. ‘It istrue,
Countess Claribel. I have hungered for the sound of
your voice asI never thought to hunger again. 1 ban-
ished myself from your sweet society, I declared open
war against youand your kith and kin, I gave up my
position as unliveried servant in your family, and I found
that the separation was more than Icould bear. Clari-
bel, I had lived within sound of your voice, within sight
of your face, ever since I was ten yearsold, I could not
continne this, /must have you; and the only way to man-
age this was to bring you here, where nobody can take
you from me. Now it is life to me for a few short hours—
life while I gaze on your beauty, listen to your reproaches
—life, when your strength begins to fail, andin your
faintness and weakness you will gladly pillow your head
upon that breast where you have kindled the flames of
Tophet by your witcheries, your falsehoods, your cruel-
ties.”?

Lady Chesterton clasped her hands, and stared about
her with an expressienof eager, anxious, agonized fear.

“What a fearful position!’ she said, ‘Oh, be merciful!
Take up the lamp—give me yourarm, and let ustry to
find the outlet by which you entered, and place me safely
in the street, and I will forgive you everything. I know,
alas! how much you must have suffered to have been
tempted to this wild step. I will be your friend, William
—your warm, kind friend, if you will help me_ to escape.
You say that banishment from my presence has been
more than you could endure. Well, you shall have a
place in the house; you shall be my husband’s secretary,
at five hundreda year. I will manage it, trust me. You
shall be my confidant. When I have sons, they shall
learn to honor you as their tutor. Nay, nay,’’ she added,
flinging herself at his feet, ‘can you not see thatI love
you still—that though ambition prompted me to become a
countess, still that my love—my love was yours? Listen to
me. All Frenchwomen have a lover, as well as a hus-
band. You shall be that lover.”

He bounded to her side as she spoke, and caught herin
a passionate embrace to his heart, for the first time since
their tryst beneath the elm-trees, in the golden sunset
eve, years and years ago, when they were youth and
maiden. * ;

Their lips met in a close, clinging kiss. The grim skulls
looked duwn on them; the heavy, noisome air of the vault
made the lightof the lamp burn dimly; darkness, aud
silence, and awful labyrinths of mystery lay around and
about them, terrible paths, leading off into eternal black-
ness, so it seemed, and yet, in that wild moment the mad-
dened Eustace was happier than he had been for long
years—happy, although the love which seemed to be
offered to him was the love rightly belonging to another.

She suffered his kisses—nay, she returned them. Those
lips which had been like the cold, carven lips of a marble
statue toward him, pressed what seemed like kisses, light
and warm as spring sunshine, on his dark prow and
sunken cheek.

“And now, come, como,’? sne said, extricating herself
from his arm, and pointing toward the lamp; ‘twe must
not stand here any longer; we must try to free ourselves
from this terrible prison-vault. Come, come.”’

She thrust her arm through his as she spoke.

He took up the lamp, and their wanderings began. On,
on, on—darkness always before them, walls of bones and
rows of skulls on either side! No outlet, no glimmer of
the light they both sought came to shine like a star on
their road. They paused at length, through the sheer
exhaustion of Lady Chesterton.

“We must die here, I suppose,”? she said, in a cold tone
of proud despair.

“We die together,” he answered; ‘‘and such a death is
sweet.’?

She turned away her beautiful face, that he might not
see the bitter, awful smile that curled her lip.

“Come on again, Wiiliam,’’ she said; ‘‘come on, While
we have strength, let us try to find this place.”

“] wonder,”’ he cried, ‘if we shall die here, and lie for-
gotten for two centuries, until only our bones are left?
Who can tell then what we have been? Who,’ pointing
to a skull, ‘can say whether that was the head of a beau-
oe woman or a laboring man? No fire of eye, no rose
of lip.”

“Come on, William, come on,’ she answered; ‘let us
try again.’”

They went omagain. All at once the sound of many
feet came to their ears, tramping along in irregular fash-
ion. Another moment, and a blaze of light from a num-
ber of candles burst through the thick gloom of the path
where they found themselves.

“We have beeg here all night and half aay,’ cried

 
 
 

Eustace, in a hoarse voice of emotion; ‘‘ang@ by some
chance the vaults have been thrown open a week before

the time allowed to visitors |’?

“We are saved 1”’ cried Claribel.

“One moment !—just one moment!” «

Eustace grasped her hand tightly.

“Be faithful !—swear !’’ he said.

“7 swear !’? she answered,

Then the crowd was upon them.

“Wecan mingle in with them,’’ said Eustace.

But Claribel went on. Recklessly casting off the man-
tle wherein Eustace had enveloped her, sie stood before
the astonished crowd in her velvet jupon, satin skirt, and
glancing jewels. She had thrust her hand tightly through
the arm of Eustace,and now she raised her yoice in a
wild, excited cry:

“Seize this rascal and traitor, good people!’ she said,
and she repeated the words in English and in French. ‘1
am the Countess of Chesterton, and he has attempted my
life, drugged me, and carried me olf. Unless | had used
a stratagem, and promised to return his loathsome love,
he would have kept me here to die in this noisome vault;
he was a dependant, @ menial in my father’s house, and
he presumed upon his position of upper servant.”

She uttered the words with alaugn, which not all the
fatigue which she had suffered could rob of its triumph-
ant cruelty.

“Seize him, good people; and may he be sent to the
galleys for life.”

A dozen hands were stretched out.

Eustace was seized, pinioned, even kicked by one bru-
tal-looking man,as he lay bound and helpless on the
ground. His eyes sought those of Claribe!, nor did the

sible that Fanchette would neyer have rallied from her
dangerous illness.

In their splendid apartments in the Louvre Hotel the
two girls sat one evening before their brightly glowing
fire, talking of the subjects that lay nearest their hearts.

“Tam so watched that I find it utterly impossible to
write a letter,’ said Fanchette; “and you, Evangeline,
even you, @ Visitor, have no chance of evading the pry-
ing eyes of old mademoiselle. I wonder you were not
very angry when she told you yesterday that she must
always examine your pockets whlien you had been talking
With me, and thatif you did not consent to that regula-
tion your visits must cease. Some girls would have left
the house in a desperate rage.’? .

“Ah,’? said Evangeline, pitifully, ‘I knew how that
would grieve you, and besides, they don’t in the least in-
terfere in my affairs, nor try to pry into them. No, Clari-
bel, I will net allow Miss Sclinell to driveme from you.
But now tell me, dear, does your grandmamma still in-
st you to go on into Italy, and to be placed in that con-
vent?

“She intends it,’’ replied Fanchette, with a shudder;
“and something tells me it will come to pass.” ”

She lodked out of the window into the great court of the
hotel, where the snow was falling in blinding showers.

“Something tells me I shall be installed in the convent,
anunin black vail and white band, ‘chanting faint
hymns,’ as some poet says somewhere; ol, | pray I may
die before that day comes. If 1 could but escape!”

‘Tt will not do to think of that yet,’? said Evangeline,
soothingly; ‘“‘you are not strong enough, dearest Fan-
chette; you must have plans laid, a place to go to; you
must go to your father, and to nobody else, for from any
other protector, Lady Kendale would have a right to
snatch you; trust to me; I, too, am _ seeking a lost friend,
one who is working or starving in hiding in this brilliant
city. Leave all to me, I will work for us both.”’

The old countess took Fanchette out in the carriage
every day, but she was never permitted to walk in the
streets even with attendants. Evangeline, on the con-
trary, went out shopping on foot, attended only by her
maid. She went to the English consul to make inquiries
respecting Eustace, but the unhappy young man had
baffled all research by changing his name. Evangeline
returned to the hotel pale and dispirited from her quest.

“But fear not, Fanchette,’? she said. stroking her
friend’s hair. ‘1 have written a letter to your father to-
day, and I have managed to slip out of the house with it
without exciting the suspicion of Mademoiselle Schnell.
Without doubt in a few daysthe earl and his young
friend will be here, and then, when you feel their pres-
ence near, there will be no need for fear; they will devise
a plan of escape for you. I would [had your trouble in-
stead of mine to bear, Fanchette,”? added Evangeline,
bursting into a passionate flood of tears.

“Nay, how I envy you,’’ cried Fanchette. ‘A free life,
no danger of imprisonment, and weeping and wailing all
your days; a2 home, a father, a mother, ready always to
love you.”?

“But, Fanchette, liberty, fortune, youth, beauty, all
those good gilts of agood God, fail to satisfy the aching
void in a heart which lovesand meets with no return.
oo Fanchette, may you be spared that trial of all the bit-
erest.’

Fanchette’s dark eyes gloomed, and then flashed like
the moon’s rays when they are hidden for a space by
some cloud, aud afterward shine forth again with new
effalgence. :

“I could never love where I was not loved,”’ she said.
“No. You are Lady Fanchette Germain; I am Evange-
line Stanfield,” replied the beautiful blonde, meekly. “I
have loved William Eustace better than any other being
under Heaven, ever sincel wasten years old. To love
him is as natural to me as to breathe. I cannot help it.
If he has gone mad for love of my sister, still I love him,
and continue tolove him, and I shall seek him out and
put money under his door, and even try and speak to him.
{love him so, Fanchette, thatone word from him out-
weighs all the other words under the sun,’ and then
Evangeline ‘gave vent again to passionate weeping.

Fanchette watched her in wonder.

“Ifever I entertained that feeling for anybody,’’ she
said to herself, ‘‘it would be for—tfor ”

And the: tigure and face of the stately, sun-browned
Duval rose up before her mind’s eye.

She told herself the next moment that she was an idiot.

The following day Evangeline burst into her room in a
state of wild excitement.

“Claribel is here, my sister, Lady Chesterton, and she

has sent for us, and there is to be a grand, grand ball at
their house next Monday. An invitation is come for you,
and I have actually succeeded in persuading your gramd-
mamma to ailow youto go. Your father will have had
my letter, depend uponit. Weshall meet him there; he
will have arrived.”
Fanchette’s heart beat high with pleasure at hearing
that she was to be permitted to attenu this pail. It was
the first time in her lifethat the elu countess had ever
given her consent to such an eyent.

Both the girls felt as if on the eve of some great discov-
ery. Each one believed that the bal! at Lord Chesterton‘s
was to be the epoch fromwhich would date a turning point
in both their lives. The old countess and Mademoiselle
Schnell busied themselves greatly regarding the toilette
of Lady Fanchette. s

“It is your first ball, and if will be your last,” said Lady
Kendale, when they were assembled around the table at
dessert; ‘‘and therefore you shall go splendidly attired,
Fanchette. You shall wear a white satin jupe, with gold
bullion leaves, and over-skirts of white real Brussels, and
my great ruby and diamond parure, that was made for
the Princess of Russia, originally. The world shall see
thatI am not making @ smaii sacrifice in devoting you
to a religious life; they shail all admit and admire your
beauty, Fanchette. They shall say.that if I had not de-
voted you to the Church, that the flower of the aristocracy
would have been delighted to devote itself to you. No-
bles would have gladly contended for the little hand of
Fanchette Germain—that hand which will be clasped only
7 that holy wedlock which must render you the bride of

eaven. :

The old countess, in her rich brocade, her golden chain,
her high-heeled shoes, her blue satin head-dress, was an
imposing personage, despite the slight crookedness of her
wiry frame, and the harshness of her withered face. In-
deed, that same peculiar crook in her gait, gave a cer-
tain weird and witch-like majesty to herform. Her ugli-
ness was grotesque, almost attractive, by the sheer force
of its originality !

Before the fire sat Fanchette. She was occupied—at
least, her hands were occupied—in picking Walnuts, her
long white fingers went on with the task, like delicate,
beautiful machinery, while the’soul, tlie mind, the heart,
were filled with a great dread, an eager protest, and
brooded over by at least the shadow, if not the reality, of
a great despair. The long, black lashes rested on her
downy cheek, which her late illness had robbed of its bril-
hancy, leaving only the faintest tinge of pink, like the dy-
ing vermil ofa sky from which the sun has departed at
eventide. Fanchette wore black velvet. <A golden chain
and medallion round her throat were her only ornaments.
Inexpressibly lovely she looked! Butsadis too tame and
chill a word to express the Intense sorrow of her face.

The two old ladies looked on the sorrow and the pallor
with a complacent smile. And yet neither of these per-
sons believed herself cruel.

“You look sad, Fanchette,” said Mademoiselle Schnell.

Fanchette did not answer. Lately sne liad given up the
contest, so far as words were concerned, only she had

 

 

the bitterness of the weather, longed to escape with a

|
| sick longing.

The dangers of the streets, the perils of cold, famine,
houselessness, all of these she was willing to brave, if
only she might escape the doom which loomed in her near

horizon. The carriage bowled on noiselessly, then it
stopped in that avenue of the Champs Elyses, where
stood the mansion of the Earl of Chesterton. All the
windows were ablaze with light, and the sound of mili-
tary music came to the ears of the arriving guests. Fan-
chette's heart beat wildly.

What if the surmise of Evangeline were true—what if
the earl and Duval had heard of this ball—were anxious
to avoid trusting: letters to the Post Restante, and now
would meet her here? Under the covered awning, ana
along the carpeted way she stepped in her satin boots,
walking like one ina dream who knows not what will
happen next. The hall, all white marble arches, hot-
house flowers, and statues. Then the ball-room—light,
color, music, perfumes, dancing.measured and stately, as
becomes the high and mighty of theearth. She walked on,
followed by the exultant and weird old countess, The
buzz of amazed admiration which burst from the lips of
all present, the whispers, the comments, came to her ears
in disjointed sentences.

“Splendid eyes! loveliest creature I ever beheld! Rich?
All Ler fortune goes to enrich St. Annunciata. The coun-
tess will place her there in three months; the young
beauty’s fate is sealed. Did you eversee an old woman
more witch-like? The other girl is the sister of our
lovely hostess.’?

A few moments more, and Fanchette was seated by the
side of her grandmother, and a bowing crowd of gentle-
men, eager to be introduced, were pressing round her.
Then she was led off to join the dancers. Seldom has a
beautiful girl danced at her first ball with less of a girl’s
feelings. She hae beet partner's remarks;
she was lookinga t everywhere for Duval, and search-
ing the face of every. / man, in the hope that
she should find her father,

Blank, blank, everywhere
glance of continued une
man and woman present,
balm of Gilead. a

She could not throw herself upon the mercy of stran-
gers. Then she feared that if she applied to any present,
os would be betrayed, and her heart sank lower and

ower.

Evangeline, meanwhile, stood up in a quadrille, near
to her beautiful sister, who aivided the palm of beauty
with Fanchette.

Imagine her feelings when she overheard the following
questions and answers:

“Then you do not feel any ill eifects from a night and
day spent in the cataeombs 7”?

“Hush! I don’t wish the affair spoken of until the trial
comes on. I assure you, Lord Chesterton and myself are
determined to prosecute the wretch to the very death.
The odd thing is, that I was not missed until about an
hour before I returned home, and that was yesterday af-
ternoon. Lord Chesterton fancied I had gone in the ¢ar-
riage of a friend, to spend the vight with my sister, whe
is staying at the Louvre with the Countess of Kendale.
The wretch gave me some drng to inhale, which stole my
senses, and then he took me in a cab to a certain opening
near a cellar, in a street in the Latin quarter, and he took
me in, stillin a state of insensibility; when I recovered,
the villain stood beside me. They say he is mad, but 1
am quite determined he shall not get off on that plea; he

  
   
 

—only that ever-recurring
ised admiration from every
these looks there was no

 

 

 

 

 

made up her mind to one line of action, and that resolved
itself into the one word—-escape! Buthow? She never

 

scornful countess attempt to evade that burning and re-
proachful glance.

She looked at him, and the lightning scorn of her eyes
was loaded with the shafts of death for the wretched
Eustace.

Only one sentence he murmured:

“Fool, fool, to have believed you !””

“Yes,” she answered. ‘I was surprised at it myself,”
and wiping her dainty lips with her cambric handker-
chief. “When shall I feel purified from those hateful
kisses, ever or never???

Eustace was too fierce to groan or complain, he did not
utter any other reproach, Save thus one:

“TI find [ have notloved a woman, but a fiend.”

“Qh, you shall suffer, you shall suffer!’ sne said, ‘to
I will prosecute you;
you shall be a galley slave for life !””

Amid the execrations of the crowd, Eustace was car-
ried up the steps,.and soon, when he felt the cold airupon
his face, his excitement, his struggles, his fatigues, all
overwhelmed him as it were, at once, and he fainted com-
pletely away.

A snow-storm was beginning to sprinkle the streets and
lanes of the great city.

A carriage was quickly provided for the Countess of
Chesterton, who was borne away amid the pity, the ad-
miration, even the tears of those assembled. Bat Eus-
tace—that soul lost for the love of a woman !—Kustace
was bound hand and foot and taken to the prison of the
Conciergerie.

CHAPTER XIV.

Fanchette had passed through a terrible tria), her ill-
ness seemed to have tamed down her high spirit, and
without robbing her of her pride of bearing, to have 1m-
parted to it an air of melancholy which was at once
touching and grand.

There 1s always for those who have fine and elevated
feelings, a certain majesty in suffering of any kind. and
now, in her grief and anxiety, Lady Fanchette moved
along like a sorrowing young queen,

Evangeline Stanfield had a warm and enthusiastic af-
fection for the girl Whom she had thought at first so tri-
fling and so heartless. AS was most natural, confidences
were exchanged between these young creatures; Fan-
chette knew tne deep grief of Evangeline, and awarded
her with the deepest pity, the tenderest sympathy.

Tne reader must remember that the little scheme of
Fanchette for letting Duval know her address, had been
baffled by the snow-storm. For the white letter had, in
fact, mingled with the white snow,and so Duval hada
passed it by unseen. She was awareof this, for Fan-
chette had watched him through the window, and had
seen him running after the carriage long after she had
thrown down the letter. Therefore, when she arrived
with her grandmother, old Mademoiselle, Evangeline,
and all their suite of servants in Paris, she told her friend
that her only hope of bringing her father within reach of
her must lie in the chance of getting a letter conveyed to
him through the post. Never was gentle prisoner more
watched. Old Lady Kendale took up her abode in a very
splendid suite of reoms in the Louvre Hotel, and estab-
lished her family there in a style befitting their rank. She
had conceived a fancy to gentle Evangeline, and it was
well for beautiful Fanchette that she had, because, had
the poor young creature been left only to the tender mer-
cies of Miss Schnell and the countess, had no ray of girl-

 

Ish Sympathy and youthful hope been permitted to pene-
trate tne thick horizon of her clouded prospects, it 1s pos-

 

was out of hergrandmother’s sight or that of Miss
Schnell for ten minutes together, Still, she was resolved
—moneyless and friendless—she would cast herself upon
the world, if before the time of the departure for Italy her
father and Duval had not found means to extricate her.

The preparations for the ball went on. Since the ar-
rival of Lady Chesterton, Evangeline divided her time be-
tween the mansion of her sister and the apartments of
Lady Kendale. When Evangeline wrote to the earl, the
address she gave him was at the Poste Restante, in the
Rue de Pont Neuf. She managed, somehow or other, to
get there every day, but always she met with one result to
her inquiries—disappoimtment,

‘He could not have received your letter, Evangeline,”
cried Fanchette, wildly, on the evening before the ball,
while she wus under the hands of her English maid pre-
paring for dinner.

She young ladies spoke French, therefore the girl was no
wiser for their discourse.

“Tf he has received it, he has abandoned me. He thinks
{am not worth the struggle. Heisafraid of grandmam-
ma, aslam, Hehas gone back to Australia to wait for
news of her death, if she dies-first. He will return and
take what property she bas not left tothe convent. Ifhe
thinks of me, he will only say, ‘Poor girl, I hope she is
happy in her convent!’ but I shall be dead, Evungeline.
The green turf will grow like emerald velvet over my
head, and in the spring the white daisies will come and
peep outone by one upon;the hillock. I shalllie below,
asleep and cold, and with asad frown on my brow.”

Fanchette here burst into violent weeping, and tossed
up her arms with a gesture of despair.

“J will escape; oh, I will escape, if I have to go disguis-
ed all my life as a servant. I am afraid if my father avan-
dons me the law won’thelp me. They cannot make me
take the vail, but they can shut me up in tne Italian con-
vent for four years, until I am of age, and one year of the
life will kill me, I have conceived such a sudden and vio-
lent aversion to it. I wonder Captain Duval has not
written,” she added, after a pause. ‘He did not seem
like one who would lightly lay down any enterprise that
he had undertaken. Something is wrong.”

Evangeline tried to soothe her.

The time passed on until they came to the eventful
night ef the great ball. Fanchette, in white satin and
Brussels lace, with real fresh snowdrops in her auburn
hair, and the glowing parure of diamonds and rubies,
looked like some painting of a crowned Madonna, a bride
of Heaven, aiter one of the old masters. Evangeline
had relieved her pale, blonde beauty with a dress of tur-
quoise-colored satin, and turquoise ornaments, set with
diamonds. The countess was in ablaze of diamonds
and ruby-coiored velvet; nor was quaint old Mademoi-
selle Schnell left out of the catalogue. She whose life
was passed in preparing young girls for their novitiate,
and preaching to them against the follies of the wicked
world, was to attend the grandest ball in Paris, dressed
in black velvet, and her black lace bertha was fastened
by a large amethyst brooch, the gift of the countess,

The four ladies stepped into the luxurious carriage, the
foot-warmers were placed for the satin-slippered feet.
Paris lay sheeted that night under acarpet of hushing
snow. It seemed, as the carriage rolled dumbly on, that
all the noise of the giant foreign capitai was stilled. Even
tne voices of the drivers and the venders of various goods
were silent that night. The air was so bitterly cold that
it was not likeiy any would stir abroad but those who
had wraps and rugs, carriages and foot-warmers, and
such luxuries; and yet Lady Fanchette, looking out upon

shall be condemned to the galleys for life. He lies now
in the prison of the Conciergerie.”’

“Hush! my sister is near; she might overhear. She is
a peculiar girl, and always had a strange, morbid sympa-
thy with that rascal. Here or in England alike, he will
certainly be condemned to penal servitude for life, and I
shall evem exaggerate every circumstance on the triai.
He will have no pity fromme,’’ and Claribel laughed a
merciless laugh. ‘His name—oh, bis name is Eustace,
William Eustace, a poor hanger-on of the family.”

Evangeline, blanched to the lips, had yet enough pres-
ence of mind to finish the quadrille, and even to returp
pleasant and polite answers to the remarks of ber part-
ner, but when she found herself seated, all her soul
surged within her like an angry sea. Love like Evange-
line’s is rare, but it is strong as death, and she felt that
she must, with her slender girl hands, pull down the crue?
stone walls of the prison, but she must get him out. She
must set William Eustace free. If Claribel was merciless,
and sent him to his trial, she, Evangeline, would go inte
the law court and proclaim the cruel perfidy of her count-
ess sister; nay, she would speak of her own love for the
prisoner—a love rejected by the proud, ragged, and
starving artist. She would not spare her own pride, nor
the pride of herfamily. She would sacrifice all, every-
thing, for the love of William Eustace. And herein lay
the fault of beautiful and pure-souled Evangeline, even
that she made to herself a human idol, and such is
against the law of Scripture and of sense.

She thought no more of poor Fanchette, and her im-
pending nun’s vail, that nignt. She went to old Lady
Kendale, and told her that she was ill, and would sleep
that night at her sister’s, and then she told Ciaribel the
same tale.

The beautiful countess ordered a room to be prepared
for Evangeline, and Fanchette saw no more of her
friend.

Fanchette had entered the ball like one ina dream, and
like one in a dream she had listened to the compliments
of those who danced with her, and she gaye evasive an-
swers, and looked about her with fever mantling on her
cheek, and fire blazing in her eye.

When one of her partners left her fora moment in 2
small room, filled with flowering shrubs, while he went
to procure an ice, she walked to the French window,
which opened upon a snow-laden balcony, looking into
the front garden.

“Escape! escape !? she whispered to herself. “But
how? In ball costume—diamonds, rubies, satin and lace
—bare arms arid throat?”

She looked about.

Tnere was a dark cloak, thrown by some prudent
person over a very nude piece of statuary. Perhaps
Mademoiselle Schnell had done this? Anyhow, to
envelope herself in the cloak, to step out upon the balco-
ny, to rush, in her satin boots, across the snow, to reach
the front gate, and take her way along the ayenue, was
only the work of three minutes with Fanchette.

““Escape—I must escape !”? she said to herself. “I must
leave Paris !”?

It was twelve o’clock at night, but she found a cab up-
on a cab-stand. She nad about fifty francs in her purse
—no more. :

“The railway for England!” she said, quickly.

The thought flashed into her mind that unless she got
to England she should be discovered, because a foreigner
would be easily found in France.

Fanchette, it will be borne in mind, had only just recov-
ered from a dangerous illness, and, therefore, the wild
scheme which now formed itself in her mind partook a
little of the extravagance of a fever fancy. She was un-
der the 1mpression that her father had abandoned her,
and that Duval was ill. It seemed to her that she must
live a life of disguise until she reached the age of freedom
—twenty-one. Upto that period she feit she wuld be
haunted by the morbid dread of that fate which helu such
terrors for her—the life of a nun.

The man drove her to the station. It happened thatshe
was just in time to start by the Service, which would take
her to England by way of Newhaven and Dieppe.

Wrapping the mantle closely over her giistening robes
and priceless jewels, she took her ticket, too her place
in the carriage, and was whirled on through the night.

Early in the morning she embarked at Dieppe. Not
once during the voyage did she unfasten the mantle, and
when she reached Newhaven she still kept herself envel-
oped within its folds.

It was dusk, and a heavy fog hung over London when
she at length stood upon its paving-stones. Her money
was gone, but she had priceless jewels. She wandered
on in the fog, her satin boots soaked, the hood of the
cloak over her head. Presently she stood before the
lights of a pawnbroker’s window. MHastily unclasping a
golden locket, set in a cypher, with diamonds and rubies,
from her neck, she entered the shop, and looked up tim-
idly into the face of the pawnbroker.

“TI want to sell that,?? she said, coming af once to the
point. :

{To be Continued.]

Lp gg ee
New Publications.

E.LocuTionN AND Oratory. By Charles A. Wiley. Publishers,
Clark & Maynard.. This is a fine treatise on the artof reading
und speaking with clearness, grace, elegance, and force, and
could be studied with much profit by speakers and readers, who
often spo.l very fine-compositions by poor delivery and careless
reading. The selections of both prose and poetry evince rare
good taste on the part of thecompiler. Occasionally the selec-
tions are marred by errors m the text. For instance: in Ham-
let’s soliloquy. after the withdrawal of the players, we find the
following errors:

“O, whata rogue and peasantslave am I;
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own counsel,
‘That, trom her working, all his visage warmed,
Tears in his eyes, distraction m his aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With torms to his conceit;” ete.

In all the editions of Shakespeare that we have met the above

lines are printed thus:
“O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous, that this plxyer here,

But in a fiction, ina dream of passion, |

Could force his soul so to his own conceit,

That from her working, all his visage wann'd;

Tears in his eyes, distraction in’saspect,

A broken voice, and his whele function suiting

With forms to his conceit f*
And in Bryant’s “Thanatopsis,” “dark musings” is given instead
of “darker musings,” and “the pale realms of shade’ for “that mys-
terious realm.’ ‘There are many such errors af c@elessness in
the book. They are the more inexcusable that they occur ina
work intended “for the use of teachers and siudents in our
colleges and schools.”
most excellent in contents, and very well adapted to the’pur-
pose for which it is intended.

RENA; oR, Tar SNow Birp, By Caroline Lee Hentz. Publish-
ers: T. B. Peterson & Bros., PhiladeJphia. This isthe third
volume of the new and beautiful edition of the works of Caro-
line Lee Hentz, which the Petersons are now issuing in semi-
monthly volumes. The story is one of the most interesting of

the series. Its pictures of good women are deliciously drawn,
and the plot, though not intricate nor full of mystery, is none
the less interesting in conseqnence thereof. Like all Mrs,
Hentz’s stories, it is written in graceful, elegant English, and

 

the moral tone is unexceptionable,

 

7

These errors, also, mara book which is_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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BY LU BILLINGS SPALDING.

 

A mist-cloud of crimson hangs over the clover,
Swinging and shimmering on the young dawn;

A tog-cloud of crimson puffs up from the daisies—
Up from the daisies, so fresh andso warm.

Out from the hedge where the busy blue spider
Hasspun o’er the roses with tidies so bright—

Has spun o’er the roses, so sweet and refreshing,
Ani pioned them with dew-drops, gathered at night.

Deep through the meadows the brown cows are wading
Knee-deep in clover, and’cowslips, and dew,
Frighting the butterflies, slowly coquetting,
Up from the traii of the long grass So bire.

Then, the mist-cloud of crimson swings up from the clover,
And is puffed'by the breezes, so murky and low;

Like small jets a-flaming both under and over,
They flit in the sunlignt with quaver and glow.

Deepin the foam of the ghost-faced lily bel's,
As white as the woof of the moonbeams so thin,
Rising the-wax of her lips with a fervor
Layished on all, both brilliant and dim,

O, how many loves has a butterfly, pray?
Conquesting morning and night,

Burning with ardors the whole summer day,

Loving all things that are pretty and gay,
Loving from morn antil night.

Deep in the mesh of the amber-haired lilies,
Probing their hearts tul their sweetness is gone,
Kissing the tears from the balmy-eyed forget-me-nots,
Draining their souis till their essence is gene.

T e round-cheeked clover has frizzed her red tresses,
And holds up her pretty mouth, jaunty and gay;
iler conquest is sure, but its surety is feeting—
The easiest Won is the soontst to stray!

O, silly yourg beauties! O, daisies and clover!
O, roses and lilics so faultlessand fair!

Why will you unlace your pure souls to a wanton,
‘And spill your soft sweetness on nothing but air?

But the fickle young butterflies burn on the meadows—
The fickle young butterflies flash on the world:

The heart of the maid is as slow as the clover,
And the ruined young flower is the fate of the girl!

 

Locksmith of Lyons:

E WEAVERS’ WAR.

By HOWARD W. MACY,
AUTHOR OF “THE BANKER OF CHICAGO.”

TH

 

“Lechsmith of Lyons’ was commenced in No. 18. Back num-
bers cin be obtained from any News Agent throughout the
United States. ae ee

* CHAPTER XVII.
THE LITTLE PLOT OF DR, PLANCHE.

Weeks had passed after the prostration of the artisan
irom the thrust of Le Scorpion’s poisoned dagger, when
Dr. Planche deemed it prudent to resume the conversa-
tion so abruptly terminated in chapter xv.

By that time the artisan had recovered from his |

wounds, and was able to leave his room—ihe room he oc-
cupied in the house of Dr. Pianche.

Those in La Croix Rousse who were familiar with the
appearance of the artisan in his character of a locksmith,
and under the name of Robert Lackville, would have fail-
ed to recognized him as George Herbert, artist and de-
signer in the scnools of art of Lyons.

As Robert Lackyille, locksmith, he was known as a
bluff, frank, brenaed-faced, young man, whose work-
man’s garb, loose and light at the throat, open over the
breast, rolied up to the shouider at the arms, and worn
careless, though ever neat, served to display his well-
made and powerful frame, simply as an artisan, a man of
the people. ;

-AS George Herbert, artist and designer, he was known
among the schools of art as a man of genius, silent and
reserved, haugnty and distant, ever clad asa gentleman
of taste and wealth. 5

To himself he was known asa man who had been a
galirien ; as one who, whether he wore the coarse blouse
of an artisan, or the rich broadcloth of a distinguished
artist, bore upon nis shouider a scar of infamy, from
which the honst poor would recoil as suddenly as the
haugiity rich.

To Dr. Planche he was known, or firmly believed to be,
a young man of noble nature, of splendid talents, of lion-
like courage, of Sterling mtegrity, most cruelly wronged
by the malice of Esark -Hasserbrek, How and why thus
wronged we shalt Soon relate, ©

Weeks after he had received his wounds from the dag-
ger of Le Scorpion, then, and at an early hour of the
morning, he entered the oftice of Dr. Planche, attended
by Antoine, who had scarcely left his side since the de-
lirtum seized upon him,

The artisan was pale, and the bronzed hue of his com-
plexion and hands had disappeared. He was thinner than
when we introduced him to the reader in his locksmith’s
shop of La Croix Rousse, but his step was firm and elas-
tic, and the fire of restored health in his steady glance.

“I am ready, my friend,” lie said to the doctor,

“Oh, then you are determined to visit General La
Mothier’ Sit down, aad let us reason over what you are
to tell him.”

*} Know What lam totell him. He already Knows that
lam «a galerien.”

+My faith !? exclaimed the doctor, starting. ‘And here
{ have been arraying a host of reasons why you should
not speak of that to him!’

‘“‘[ did not inform you of all that passed between
General La Mothier and myself at the single interview we
hada,” replied tne artisan. ‘Had I done so, I would have
told you that 1 bared my shoulder to his gaze, pointing
out to him the scar.” :

“And why did you dothat? My faith! and you had
never seen him before! What folly | 1see—you chanced
to be in one of those morbid moods you sometimes have,
and you were ready to strip off your shirt, rush into the
street, and shout: ‘Ho! every body! Iwas a galerien J’
There are such maniacs 1n this world, and 1 fear you are
one of them.”’

“] was, atthe time, in sucha mood, my friend,” re-
pled the artisan, calmly. ‘In truth, having just excited
myself in chastising that rascal, Hasserbrek, and expect-
ing that he would proclaim to aj] Lyons that Robert Lack-
ville, locksmith, was Robert Lackville, galerien, I felt
desperate.”

“Oh, well, considered in that light, the act was excus-
able in one who wo often gives way to rash impulses.

When you Siliall have jived to my age you will be very far
from showing scars to the world.’

“It does not matter now, my friend.
told him, I would now tell him.’

“Not if Blanche were not his child—and that we cannot
proye. In truth, weonly suspect that, and 1 am not sure
that we shall not do very wrong in creating the same sus-
picion in his mind.”

“You will not, then, go with me to the general’s?’

“Certainly. But listen: He has no doubt that his child
is dead. We have no firm and positive proof that the
child was not destroyed. And besides, we have no posi-
tive proof that Blanche is that child, if the child still
lives.”

‘Doctor, I perfectly understand you,’’ said the artisan,
gravely.

“You do?”

Even had I not

“Yes. You firmly believe Blanche to be the child of

Henri La Mothier.”’
“My faith! Do 1?"
“And Know that she and I love each other devotedly.”
“Yes.

love each other.”

‘Yes; and as youand your good wile still love each

other, doctor.”’

“l admit we still have a respectable affection for so

many years of married life,’? replied the doctor, laugh-
ing. *But you suid you perfectly understood me. Go
on.”

“Yes, my dear friend, I perfectly understand you. You
firmly believe Blancne to be the daughter of Henri and
Leola LaMothier. You know that Blanche and I are de-

.yotedly attached to each other. You are also sure that
La Mothier, a noble, and of great pride, will never permit
his daughter to marry a galerien,”

“Ha |’? snapped the old physician, staring at the arti-
san.

“And you desire that I should make Blanche my wife,
before a word is said to the man Whom you believe to be
her father.”

“Good! <All youstate is perfectly true, George,” said
Dr. Planche.

You are as deur to me, George Herbert,” he continued,

as lie grasped the hands of the artisan warmly in fis

own, ‘“‘aSif you were Myown son. God has never given

me a child, yet J think no father could loye a son more
than J do you, my boy. 1knew you before you fell under

the terrible hate of that wretch, Esark Hasserbrek, and
loved you ten, | would have adopted you then as my
Son, yoader in England, hadinot seen that.you yearned
feverislily to discover the mysteries of your birth, and to
find your real father. You came to me after you had fall-
enunder the power of Hasserbrek—came to me desperate,
despondent, ready almost to end your blighted life with
your own hund—no longer desiring to fina your kindred,
because you believed the brand ef the galerien had dis-

graced your blood, whether you sprang from peer or
persuaded you to accept me as your
You desired to
penetrate the secrets of these formidable organizations

peasant, Then I
father, to live with me ag a beloved son.

of the Weavers, which threaten to repeat in Lyons the
bloody seenes of 1831, and so assumed two characters
and two names, I have only advised. I only do that
now, my son, You will be miserable all your life if you
-ose Blanche, Your happiness is as dear to me as my

1 am very sure that you and she love each other
like two mad fools—just as 1 and my good wife used to

“I do not say my desire is generous to-
ward La Mothier, but 1 do declare it is just toward you.

own: nay, more dear—since I am old, and can live buta
tew years longer. 1t is no dishonorable thing that I would
advise you todo. Wedonot know that Blanche is the
child of La Mothier. We donct know that she is not the
niece of Lisette Rousseau. We know that your future
happiness, and hers, depends upon your union—a union
that cannot be set aside by any discovery we may here-
after make of her parentage. See—since you led her into
this house you and she have not met. Such was yeur de-
sire, and I have not opposed it. She pines and droops,
being cut off from you. Nothing thatJl, or my wife, can
think of to divert her mind from you, is of any avail.
Yet, she is patient, and bears up well against this separa-
tion, because she has no suspicion that it may be final.”

“Were Ito wed her, and it afterward be proved that
she, the daughter of a noble family, was the wife of a
branded criminal,” said the artisan, trembling with emo-
tion, “she would despise me.” :

“Never. She loves you too purely. too devotedly.”

“Yet—I should despise myself. I should go mad in re-
flecting that I had blindfolded her into a marriage which
the honest part of the world would justly call infamous. I
have not yet toid her that she has bestowed all her wealth
of love upon a galerien. I could not wed her, and she ig-
norant of that. Let me tell you, my noble-hearted bene-
factor, that though my frame writhed with agony the
other night, when she thrust the red-hot iron into my
bleeding wounds, my soul writhed with a greater agony
of dread, lest she should see the accursed brand upon my
snoulder!’’ :

» “Come forth, and tell him: you did see the brand, and
have heard his story.”

But before all this had been spoken, the curtained glass
doors of the great book-case had flown wide apart, a
‘glorious form of ravishing beauty had. leaped into sight,
and two arms, as wiilte as snow and as soft asdown, had
encircled the neck of the artisan.

“Blanche—dear Blanche!’ he cried,.as he pressed the
ardent girl fondly to his breast, and rained down a storm
‘of kisses upon her brow, cheeks and lips.

« “My Robert! I know all, and 1 love you all the more,”

she replied, gazing devotedly into his face, which, to her
‘loving heart, seemed to have been hidden from her an
age. “Oh,1 saw that scar, that dreadful evening in La
Croix Reusse, but I knew nothing of its meaning—and if
I had,I had already given my heart to you, forever.
Since then, Dr. Planche hastold me all, and you, dear,
wronged, noble Robert, are a thousand times dearer to
me than before.”’

“Do you see!’ cried the doctor. “This is the happiness
now in your arms, easily and quickly made yours forever
—aud which a few words from you to La Mothier may
cut off from your heart forever. Are you still resolute to
visit the general, and reveal to him what you suspect ?”’

“1 am resolute never to commit an act which may after-
ward cause me to despise myself,” replied the artisan.

“Oh, my Robert, you do not love me as I love you!” ex-
claimed Blanche, disturbed by the cloud upon her lover's
brow, and the proud sadness in his tone.

“Dr. Planche,” he said, calmly, “she is a woman in
growth and form. Sheis but a child inexperience. I
love her too well to take advantage of her love and inno-
cence. You have tempted me sorely; but, suspecting—
almost knowing—as I do, I am still resolute to see Henri
La Mothier.”

“Good Heavens!’ exclaimed the doctor, taking snuff
violently, and staring at the artisan, who was pale and
trembling, but whose superbly handsome features were
firm and resolute. “Who taught you to have such princi-
ples—such scruples of honor ?’?

“This man,’ replied the artisan, placing his right hand
upon Antoine’s shoulder. ‘All principles or scruples of
honor and honesty, of right and manhood, that I possess,
or that prompt any action of mine were taught me by An-
toine, who received me, an infant, from the hands of
those who deserted me.’ Am 1 right, Antoine, in being
resolute to speak with Henri La Mothier before I wed one

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
MAMMA GRIMO PREPARES SOME FISHHOOKS.

It is necessary to return for a short time to Mamma
Grimo, in her prison, with Le Scorpion, Papa Canton,
and Barbe Rousseau, her jailors, in order to explain her
sudden presence in the house of Dr. Planche.

It will be remembered that the infuriated old woman,
on being told that sustenance was only to be had by low-
ering a cord into the room of her jailors, vowed she would
starve before she would do it.

And hard-headed old Mamma Grimo really meant to
execute the threat against herself when she screamed it
through the trap-door. But death by starvation is almost
impossible when the means of satisfying hunger are with-
in easy reach. It is very seldom.indeed that the most de-
termined and desperate would-be suicide lias the nerve to
starve himself, or herself, to death... aan

Mamma Grimo was very resolut
and for three days permitted the
thirst to gnaw at her vitals. She
sire to put an end to her life, und
especially, if by doing so she was
and Barbe Rousseau triumphant.
she could have hung herself, or us
upon herself, or any of the many e
she had in her chest, or have brok
ing herself through the trap-door.

But she had no desire to kill herself, no
ed in any way by anybody. She ad her obstinacy
would so alarm her jailers, that they would yieid to their
fears of losing her evidence, and bring her food-at her
door. Once that door should be opened even an inch,
she believed she could get out. Once out, she believed
not all the power on earth could hold her.

~ But atthe end ofthree days she found herself becom-
ing very weak, and furiously famished. The odor of hot
and enticing food often ascended into her prison through
the trap-door, and this odor weakened her obstinacy,
while it increased her hunger.

Peering at times through the trap, she always saw one
or more of her jailers below, feasting, or drinking, or
smoking.

At the end of the third day, the old woman, unable
longer to resist, lowered a stout cord, and one end dan-
gled suddenly before the nose Le Scorpion, who was at
the time smoking, while Pana anton slept.

“Oh! we are hungry up there!” said Le Scorpion, flash-
ing up his single eye.

Mamma Grimo replied with a curse, at which he
laughed.

“You shall have something,’’ he said; and soon after he
fastened a small basket to the cord.

“Pall up, and feast my beloved.”

Mamma Grimo drew up the basket, eagerly. She found
the basket fullof bottles, but the bottles were empty,
and in the bottom of the basket was the stocking whica
had once contained her hoardings.

“Fiend, you mock mel’? screamed Mamma Grimo,

who then pelted Le Scorpion with the empty bottles. Le
Scorpion was not easy to nit. He wasas expert at dodg-
ing as a base ball-player. He danced around the floor,
screaming with laughter at the furious failures of the old
woman. The bottles crashed en his right and left, on the
floorand against the wall, but none lit him.
- Finally, Mamma Grimo had thrown all but one of the
bottles, and finding it vain to try to hit the dancing jug-
gler, sne hurled it at the bald head of the grinning old
sot, Papa Canton, who had waked up, and was enjoying
the sport.

True to its aim, the bottle struck the bald-head. and was
shivered intoa thousand pieces. Mamma Grimo littie

    
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
   
    
   

suspected this feat was eventually to set her free. So
she only t phed at thetime in having battered the
pate of one of her jailors, and clapped her withered

hands for mt as she saw the blood streaming from the
b head of Papa Canton.

 

who may be his daughter 27 ad
“Monsieur is right,” replied the gray-haired Swiss, with
glistening eyes. iy
| “Oh,?? said the doctor, impatiently, and advancing to-
ward an alcove before which hung a heavy curcain of
green and gold damask, “you are a pair of absurdly hon-
orable fellows. Is notthat your opinion, General Henri
La Mothier ?? ae
As he pronounced t
aside, and from the
name. a.
“General La Mothier !? exclaimed the artisan, in amaze-
ment, and instantly recognizing the siately personage
who had visited hin iis Shop in La Croix Rousse.
“He whom father !’ cried Blanciie, pale and
in) clinging to the arm of the ar-

is name, the curtain was swept
@ advanced the owner of the

  
 
  
      
   
      
       
  

 

iso very pale, from many con-
1 ed to advance toward the be-
wildered pair, but his eyes were fixed upon the face of
the artisan, and botu hands extended.

“| am Henri La Morthier,’’ he said, and at the request
of Dr. Planche I have been a concealed witness of all that
lias passed since you entered this room, for which I owe
you an apology—until I heard the conversation between
you and the doctor 1 had no suspicion that a child of
mine was living. As regards that, all isa mystery to me,
but this [know, young man—you are worthy to be the
husband of any woman in France.”

So saying, he grasped the right hand of the artisan in
both of his, pressing it warmly.

As the general advanced toward the artisan, Blanche
had retreated to thesideof the doctor, to whose arm she

tending emoti

    

 

now clung, trembling, and gazing feartally at the tall. and :

military-looking pemangt who, if he were indeed her
h right and pow er

father, Was a man wit wer todep or

her lover. © akg Ee ‘ .
“Ali, my Heaven I she thought, I may gain a very
great and rich man fora father, aud lose my Robert, oh,
doctor !’? she whipered to the physician, *it was cruel and
treacherous in you to do this.” ; —

“Wait, my dove of beauty and innocence,” the
doctor, in the same tone. ‘it may be tnat I understand
the character of General Le Morthier better than you or
your lover! My faith!in a worldly light, Henri La
Mothier is as lienest and impulsively honorable a simple-
ton as my friend George Hervert. 1 am almost sorry that
1 did not also entrap the countess at the same time with
her husband—but iuen she, being 4 woman, and there-
fore weak, would have screamed the instant she con-
ceived a suspicion that her infant-was living. It is well
as it is,

“Yes, monsieur,”’ continued the general, smiling, and
still holding the hand of the artisan, ‘‘ycu are worthy to
be the husband of any woman iu France, even of the
blood-royal. Nobility of heart and not nobility of birth
makes true worth. That young lady may or may not be
my daughter, but in either case remember and regard me
only as your friend.”

“Good !’? whispered the delighted doctor to Blanche.
“That pledge from the lips of Henri La Mothier was all I
desired. My faith! heisararity! He isa man that has
never forfeited his word !?

The artisan was about to reply, scarcely knowing what
reply to make, when the general continued, rapidly:

“Before saying @ word upon any other subject, permit
me to explain my presence in the character of a spy. For
that character I am indebted to Dr. Planche. Yesterday
he called upon me, introducing himsel!, and gave me your
history, as itis known to him, as it was told by you to
him. I was already greatly interested in you; in fact,
since our interview in the locksmith shop in La Cruix
Rousse, you have been in my mind. I desired to explain
to you how I obtained an lmpression of a key, not know-
ing that the key unlocked the bed-chamber of the maiden
you loved, and to explain, also, why I desired sucha key.
You did not come to see me as you had promised, and,
on inquiry, | was pained to learn that your shop was
closed, and that you had disappeared.

‘Since then, I have been daily endeavoring to find you,
and in vain, until the conversation of Dr. Planche in-
formed me that you were in his house—my next-door
neighbor, There are reasons, of which I shall hereafter
speak, that lead me to feel adeep interestin you.and your
welfare, and therefore I gladly agcepted an invitation from
the doctor to meet you this morning, here in his office, at
a certain hour, Let me assure you, young lady,’ said
the general, bowing to Blanche, *that I had notthe slight-
est suspicion of your presence in the book-case.”’

“Come !? exclaimed Dr, Planche; ‘the tacts, briefly,
are these. It was all my plot. Assured that the general
would be prompt and punctual, 1 persuaded my little
Blanche to remain hidden in the book-case until 1 shouid
call out ‘Come fortn |’ Soon after she was hidden, the
general entered, and at the same moment, I heard the
approacli of George and Antoine.

** ‘Oblige me, general,’ said I, ‘by remaining concealed
behind the curtain of tuat alcove, Iwill not detain you
there very long.’

“He complied at once, and all was done so quickly and
quietly, that lam sare Blanche knew nothing of it.”

“Indeed,” said Blanche, blushing, ‘I had no suspicion
that any one was playing spy except myself.”

“T have no doubt of that,’? remarked the general.
“Imagine my amazement when I heard the doctor say to
Monsieur Herbert, immediately upon his entrance, ‘Oh,
then, you are determined to visit General La Mothier.
Sit down, and let us reason over what you are to tell him.’
Imagine my wonder in listening to the rapid conversa-
tion that followed, in which, for the first time, I learned
that it was supposed by any one that the maiden loved
by Monsieur Herbert was my child—a child that I have
never doubted—no, not for an instant—was drowned in
the Seine, fifteen years ago, by Barbe Rousseau. And
now, Dr. Planche, and Monsieur Herbert, in Heaven's
name, tell me why you suspect thatthe child hurled from
the Pont Neuf by the accursed Barbe Rousseau, is this
young lady.”

The voice, the features, the stately person of General
La Mothier, quivered with excitement beyond his con-
trol, and the doctor was about to reply, when a shrill, un-
earthly yell was heard in the hall, evidently near the front
entrance of the mansion,

“My faith ! what does that mean? exclaimed the old
doctor, hurrying to a door of nis office which commanded
@ View of the hall.

He beheld the footman, or hall-porter, Guillot, rapidly
retreating from the furious advance and gestures of an
old woman, who brandished a Knife, and who. at the
same time yelled:

“Take care, you calf in livery !
are a dead man! I know General La Mothier is in this
house, .Out of my way, beef-eater. His servants told me
he was im here. Hoo! must 1 give youa taste of my
claw ?”?

“Let her pass, Guillot,” cried Dr. Planche to the foot-
Man, Who was brandisbing a chair as he retreated from
this wild old woman, whose very aspect was terrible.

“Ha, ha! Are you there, Dr. Alphonse Abat ?”
screamed the old woman, advancing toward tte oftice.

“Great Heaven ! exclaimed Blanche, recognizing the
voice. “It is Mamma Grimo!”

  

 

One scratch, and you

 

    
   
  

one dismal yell when he was struck, then a
an and became as if dead.

“Ho ave killed him!’ cried Le Scorpion, running
to the b nd staring at the man.

“I hopeso. lIonly wish it were you, or Barbe Rous-
seau,”? replied Mamma Grimo. “Is he dead???

a Se It seems you have not forgotten how
to crash skulls. No, he is not dead!”
“Let me shoot her! Oh, letmeshoot her!’’ roared Papa
Canton, floundering out of his bed, bloody and sne
1

 

and fumbling under the pillow for a pistol. ‘Sne }
smashed my head, the hag! Let me shoot her!’ ‘
But this did not suit Le Scorpion. Neither he n
Barbe Rousseau had any desire for the death of Mami
Grimo—at least not yet, so he wrested the weapon
the hands of the old sot, and forced him back into |
that his hurts might be dressed. yes) Bees
“DH have life? roared Papa Canton, when his
head was bandaged. . if es
“You shall have the killing of her when we have done
with her. At present, we must keep her alive. Lower

 

  
  
     

 

the cord and basket, my angel,*? said LeS 201 ) sey
shall take care not to send so many bottles agai

This time Mamma Grimo drew up the basket full of ex-}
celient food, and made a famousiy_ néarty meal {ter

    

 

i y 4 ¥
thatshe drew up her provisions regularly three times a

day.

   

 

for my broken head. Gods of wine! how it has ached,
day and night, since she smashed the bottle on it.”?

He pressed his old, bloated, bald head between his
bloated, chalky fingers and groaned. He was going mad
from continued pain in the head. In truth, the bottle
had forever distorted his wits. The thousands of full
bottles he had emptied into his head during his vile old

ten him on the outside of his head, had resulted in crear-
ing one great and all-absorbing desire—a desiré to kill
the woman who had struck him.

Mamma Grimo at once began to make a rope ladder, af-
ter examining and laying aside the fish-hooks.

In two days she had madean admirable rope ladder,
over twenty-five feet long. Then she took from her chest
astout scarf, or narrow shawl, oi black wool. ‘To one
end of this g¢arf, and even as farup as half of it, she care-
fully attached the fish-hooks—every one of them, great
and smali—using strong black sulk thread, and sewing the
hooks to the scarf strongly,

When this was done, the lower half of the scarf bristled
with keen, burbed points,

Then she took from the upper tray of her chest a small
glass jar, nearly full of some thick, greenish gum, almost
a liquid. With this gum, and using a feather she
took from. her pillow, She carefully annointed the point
and barb of every book.

She was very particular not to omit a single hook, and
not to permit the slightest particleof the gum to get on
her fingers. ;

She was two days in doing this, for after annointing
six or eight hooks, she waited until the gum had dried
upon them before annointing more.

This gum was distilled from the poison-bags of the
deadly coral snake.

When the gum had dried on the last annointed hooks,

Mamma Grimo folded over them the other halfof tne

black woolen scarf—so that the hooks were wholly
concealed. Shethen fastened one end of this infernal
machine to the foot of her rope-ladder, and to the other
end of the scarf, now folded, as we have said—an empty
bottle for a weight.

It was strange, but true, that Papa Canton’s life-long
enemy, the bottle, was to be used in the terrible and last
assault that was to be made upon him!

Mamma Grimo was now ready for active operations.

On the morning of that day, when La Mothier and the
artisan met in the office of Dr. Planche, Mamma Grimo
called out to Papa Canton:

“Come, shall 1 try it to-day ?”
“You have been a very long time in making a rope-lad-
der,’? he replied. ‘Is it done ?””

“Yes, but | fear itis too short. Only twenty feet, or less.
[fi fasten a shawl or something to it it may do—that is,
ifyou will hold the shawl so as to keep the ladder from
a swinging about.”

“I can do that very readiiy,’’ replied Papa Canton, after
sly examination of his pistol.

“You are sure we shan’t be interrupted 2?”

“Barbe Rousseau and Le Scorpion liave both gone over
to the hill of Fourviers, to be gone all day. You will never
have a better chance, my dear.”

Papa Canton was ina fever of eagerness. His intended
vengeance seemed now ready to drop into his arms. He
was ready to embrace it. He trembled and laughed, and
glared, and rubbed his great bloated face with his great
bloated palms. The carbuncles on his nose and face glow-
ed like gems of fire. 4

“Tam afraid !? whined the old woman, peering down
with her squinting cyes. ‘My nead already swims at the
bare thougnt of venturing on a rope-ladder.”

“Bah! Courage! Itis nothing!’ palpitated Papa
ton, giaring up impatiently. ‘Don’t be a fool now!”
‘But some One may come in just while I am swinging
in the air!’

“Chut! Thereis noone tocome in! Whoever comes
in here?” cried Papa Canton, in afrenzy of insane eager-
ness. Gea : :

“The peop the house may come in when I scream.
I know {shall scream when I am half way down.”

“On, you shall scream when you are down !”’ muttered
the erazy old desperado. But aloud he ed:

“You might pager ag fifty demons, and no one would
hear you. Ths house is uninhapited above the second
story. Wearein the fourth, ‘All the yelling and scream-
UL orl can make could never be heard above the

Can-

   

é

  
    
    
 

 
 
 
   

 
 

1 and clang of the looms of the weavers on the second
) a enna ie x Gita oe told never to heed
any cries they may hear in this part 0: louse.”
SOU, ee a Bs 5
“Yes. Come. Have astened anything to tle lad-
1; der for me to hold?” apa Canton, ¢xtending and
| lifting his har his desire to aid her.
“Yes. 1 or you to hold,” replied Mam-
eeve, as she began to lower

mo seat !
the si - 5 ; Wag!”

Papa Canton beheld the empty bottle slowly advancing.
With gh ing eyes he stood ready to grasp the scarf as
soon as it shou. within his eager reach.

o {To be Continued.}

=

ALL THE LEADING NEWSPAPERS pubiished in the
United States may be found on file at the Advertising
Agency of G. P. Rowell & Co., of No, 40 Park Row,

 

She saw very little of Barbe Rousseau. Each day he
ntered the room below once or twice, remained a few
’ n fact, Barbe Rousseau was

      
 
   
   

OU ibU - 4S
thought, to go far irom the house, —
Scorpion, wefe always there oe eae eneve
Canton was alone In the room below, and Mamma Grim

Téa down at Lim, he would point at his battered bald-
head and swear vengeance. ‘

“I am only waiting,’ he would say, ‘until the revolu-
ion . Then 1'1Pmake an end of you, old tigress.”

It soon begau to dawn-upon Mamma Grimo’s mind
that the old sot was gradually going mad. His head had
never been right since the bottle was smashed upon it. It
was @ marvel a, he had retained any sense at all, after
so many years of deep and continued drinking. All he
wanted was drink. and Le Scorpion or Barbe Rousseau
kept him supplied with wine and brandy, when either of
them was present. When he was left alone as sentinel
very little wine and no brandy was lefi for his use.
Otherwise Papa Canton would have been dead drunk all
the time, or Kilied himself quickly. ;

As days passed on, Mamma Grimo perceived that the old
drunkard was more and more becoming a monomaniac—
i é to kill her.
a On and pee
as well aware of it.
as he stared upward at her,
trying to get a shot at her when she peeped athim. ¢ . |

She had no fear that he could hit her with any bullet
fired by his drink-shaken hands. He seemed td know
very Well that lis shot would be Wl away, unless he
could approach within a few feet of her. lt was only when
filled with drink when Le Scorpion was present, that he
felt his hand was steady enough totake sure aim. But
then the eye of Le Scorpion, whomthe dreaded, was upon
him. Ng

Papa Canton often tried. to persuade the old woman to
make a rope of her bed ¢lothes and lower herself into his
room.

“Come, I'll be your friend,’? he would say, coaxingly.
“Tf am tired of this life; am I not as much of a prisoner as
youare? I want to goout; I have made a little money io
beipg your jailor and I desire to spend itin ‘The Golden
Loom.’ Come down; I will then let you pass out.’?

This did not deceive the old woman, Sne knew he was
lying.: She knew that were.she to trust herself to a rope,
‘ie would put a ball through her head on her way down.
Besides, sue felt anything but confidence in her power
to make a safe descent ou any rope that she could im-
agine. 4 +ha nh enw aret’) |

“Why don’t you come up the stairgoutin the hall, and
open my door,” she asked, “if you; 0 let: me out?”

“There are no stairs there. ] eau and Le
Scorpion tore them down, weeks you must have
lieard the noise they made,’’ iBleetian@) eow C04

Mamma Grimo had heard the nolbe, .but she did not
know why it was made, ; yas thawega

“And can’t you climb up?” ey ro “othe eu

“No, L tried that. I haven't much use of my limbs,”
replied the bloated old man. “Time was when I could
have scaled the place where the stairs were like a cat.
But 1 can’t now; i am old, and heavy; and somehow i
can’t lift my umpsabout. On, L tried to.climb up! Idid!”

“The old serpent has tried to get at’ me!’ thought
Mamma Grimo. “He is all tie time studying at some plot
to kill me. ‘That blow cn bis head has left but one idea
in it—the idea to hit upon a plan to make an end of me.
Come, this old fool’s hate may be of use to me. | will
study how to kill him,!) et

One day, Mamma Grimo, peeping down slyly, said:

 
 

  
 
   
   

  
   
    
 

some stout fist-books, and [ will contrive to get down
there. I ain going to trast you.”’

“Bravo ! but whatao you want with fish-hooks ?”

“On, if [tell you, you may tell Le Scorpion or Barbe
Rousseau, and thenithey| will kaow very well, what I
want with tsh-hooks.?’.

“Gods of winel
used in making a rope ladder?’ growled Papa Canton.

“If you don’t get me one hundred stonf fish-hooks, of |
all sizes, | won't trust you,’ said Mamma Grimo. “1
have anidea that youintend toshoot me in the back,
whilet amon my way down; but I am willing to risk
that. +4 ‘

“Oh, what anidea! But to prove my faith, I will get
the Gish-hooks for you—a theusand, if you like.’

“A hundred will do. —

The next day, Papa Canton, while out—and leaving Le
Scorpion on guard—procured: forty feet of half-inch line,
which he concealed by winding around bis body, under
his loose blouse; and alsoa package containing a hun-
dred and more fish-hooks, Some very small, some with
shafts two inches long. !

When again alone in his room, he fastened the rope and
package to Mamma Grimo’s string, and she soon had
them in her possession.

“Thanks, Papa Canton,” she said; her squinting eyes
glittering with savage glee. ‘Now, 1 will make mea rope
ladder.”?

“Goud! muttered the vindictive old sot. “And TI will
pop a brace of bullets into your head as you coine down
on thatladder. But what does she want with fish- hooks?’

Papa Canton studied long upon this mystery, and as
connectedly as his driak-soddea brain would permit, but
he studied in vain. ; ; .

“No matter,’ be mused, ‘the fish-hooks will be of very
little use to ner, after she comes within three feet of the

 

 

meray,

floor. I'l let her get nearly down, and then Pll pay her

New York.

 

_,., Pleasant. Paragraphs.

Most of our readers are undoubtedly,.capable of contributing
(ark making this column an erative feature of the New
Yorx WErKLY, and they will oblige ts by sending for publica-
tion anything which may be deemed of sufficient interest for
yeneral perusal. It is wot necessary that the articles should be
penned in scholarly style;so long as they are pithy and likely to
create amusement, minor defects will be remedied.i ;

RUGG DOCUMENTS.—No. 17.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

When last I writto you, I expected to soon take my pen in
hand agin, but nobody can tell what a day may bring fourth, or
what it mayn’t bring fourth! It’s jest as likely to doone as
tother. :

i guess I told you that I was agoing to set sail for Bosting, and
see the world! I was in deep sorrer, and I wanted a change. I
had anew biack gound made up, with three ruffies onto it.
Biack kinder draws the men folks round gineraly, because it
makes ’em think you’re a widder, and I allers noticed that wid
ders seem to “take”? with the men sect. A’musteverybody has
a kind of a hankering after second-hand furnitnre, because it
gineraly don’t need to be took such good Keer of.

I left home with a heavy heart in my .buzzom, and a strong
smell of burnt fat in my nose, for Ellen Sophier she undeértook
to try some doughnuts, and she burnt the tat awfully, jest as she
allers does. Gals haint of no account now-a-days!

I was kinder narvous allthe way to Bosting. I ixpected no-
thing but what the railroad would bust Be: and blow us all
higher than a kite, bat nothing of the Kind happened. Provi-
dence prospered us, and we arriv safely. All ixcept my band-
box—the green one with the bine linen. Some meen rascal of.
aman went and sot down onto it where 1 hadit onthe seat
aside of me, and bust the kiver rightin! I was dreadfal mad,’
and the man he was asskeered as ever you seed a feller, and he
left the keers afore I could hit him a dab with my umbrell, as I
sot out to.

- Two mencome along on the way, and wanted to insure my
ife {rom accidents for 25 cents, but I told *°em no—I’d trust 10
Proyidence; but when Tseed that bewtiful bandbox all smashed,
{ couldn’t hetp wishing that 'd got that insured any how—for
I’ve noticed that Previdenec don’t seem to have much care over
bandboxes, ginerally speaking. ‘ Ci

My best cap wes mity scrunched in, and the ribbins tumbled,
but I ironed ’em out all right wpen'l got to Cuzzin Sally's.

The minnit the keers stopped, I grabbed my satchel in one
hand and my bandbox in tother,and taking my umbrill und-r
iny arm, I got ont of the keers.. Sach perlite folks as there is in
Bosting I guess you never seed. As much as a dozen nice-look-
ing men invited me to ride out with ’em, and there warnta
single one of ’eim that I kKnowed fin Adam.

I thanked ’em as perlité 9s coul¢ be; ana told ’emn I'd speak a

good word for ’em to the gals up our way, when I got home.
They allsmiled right out lout, and told me to “go it.”
Mebby you've heerd it sed that Bosting is a kind of a muddled
up place? That’s the truth. There’s no gitting round it, You
start from any place there, and walk as straight as an arrer
fifteen minnits, aud you’ come right out where you started
frem. So yousee theré haint no danger of gittung lost in Bost-
i

ug. s
: fiikea to have got killed as much as half-a-dozen times by
keerless men that was driving kerridges, and once a tall man in
a blue unitorm, with astar onto his buzzom, picked me up and
sot me and my bandbox rite onto the sidewalk. I was dreadtul
decomposed, for I thought he was a-going to pop the question
right there, and sez I: mtd
“Don't, captin’, right here afore folks! if it should get back
to Pigeon Holler, where I live, it would make an awiul talk!
And La pillow of the church, too.”’ 5 :
“Tam a perliceman,” sez he; “I attend to this crossing. Don’t
be frightened, oid lady!” hel :
“Call yerselt old lady, and see how you like it!” sez I—for I
am-always mad when people make such mistakes. ‘To be sure,
I hain’t so young asl might be, but Pma Pouilfal tudividual
yet, and it’sill-bred to be allers twitting people about their age.
“Itwas a long apell'atore I could find iapain Sally’s, but ‘J
made out to, atter a while, and I found Sally amazing giad to
see me. Though she don’t want me ftocall her Sally. Her
name now, since she came to Bosting, is Sadie. People that
move to Bosting allers changes their names when they come.
It’s the fashion. th age
| She give me aginger cake to cat till dinner was reddy, and
dinner 1s sarved ap here jest afore bedtime. That’s another
Kosting fashion. !

{ told Cuzzin Sadie that I wanted to see the sights, and should

“Manage to get me agood stout rope, forty feet long, and |/like to have her go atong with me, but she'd sent her false hair

to a feller that trized it up for her, and_she saié she couldn't go
out without her waterfall, nohow. SoI concluded to go alone.

It took me ecverso long to find anything ‘to see, but at iast an
old apple woman told me to goto the Museuth, and I went. But
L didn’t hke the show. it is all full of skillinztons, and it made
my biood run cold to look at’em, 1 asked a squint-eyed teller
that was a looking at a hieap of bones in one of the cases, where

VhOs é : - ‘them Museum folks got somany skillingtons, and he sed they
va ever heard ee | killed every good-looking visor thaccome mto the place, and

suved up their skillingtons for shews.

And you'd better believe that I didn’t stop there long after
hearing that: {I grabbed my umbrill, and departed in a hurry,

As soon as I govouiside, and had drawed a long breath, and
made shure that] was alive, I begun to inquire the way to Bun-
ker Hill, Everybody told me I must take a hoss-car.

So I went up to the fust hoss-car that I seed, aud asked the
driver if I couldn’t take his hoss and kerridge to go over to see
Mr. Bunker’s Hill. Ll told him I weuldn’t be gone long, and that
Dd give him a dollar for the use of his team, when I got back.

He laffed, and sed he couldn’t let his consarn go without him,
but he'd kerry me over for ten cents. {told bim 1] didn’t Know
asit would be properous for me to ride out with him, seeimg as
I was a stranger, and he, too; and I asked him if he was a mar-
ried man ora Widower, and he sed yes~so I don’t seem to know
which he was. :

Anyhow, I got into the kerridge, and a lot of other folks got in,
too, and away we driv. We warn’t long in gitting over to Bun-
ker’s, and I got out and clime the fill. The hill itself hain’tpe
much account. "Taint nearso high as Scrabble Hill, in our
sheeps’ pastur; but the moniment is a powerfui tall chimbly,
bilt of stone, with pigeon holes all up and down in it.

I paid a quarter of a dollar for the privilege of going u into
the top of it, ant they had ort to have paid me instia—tor siled,
the bottom of ay belimoral skirt awfully, and tore the edging off
from my undersleeves, a scrambling up over them wet, slippery
steps where I kept falling down. For TI did ftalldown about
every two minnits. ‘ ’

The top of the moniment is fortified with some little cannons
that s.ineboay took from somewheres—I disremember jest
where, but it was somechere, anyhow. Isot down when I got to
the top of the consarn, and wiped my forrud and eat a turnover,
and then I took out my pocket looking-glass, and sot any fa'se
frunt rignt, for it had got Kinder skewed round with so much
climbing.

 

life, combined with the single empty bottle that had smit- |

} BuRNETT’S COCOAINE is the best hair-dressing.

It was mighty cold up there, and one of the windiest places I
ever seed. A tian that hada windmill up there might make
| his everlasting fortin, if he only stvek to his bizness.

You can see clean to nowhere from here, and not halftry.

lretty soon, though, 1 begun to feel chilly; so I started to go
down, I'ma leetle inelined to git dizzy-headed when I’m up
high, and somehow, as I wasa going down Stairs, I lost my foot-
ing, and the fust thing I knowed. down. I went, right into the
tace and eyes of an olcish, baid-headed man with spectacles on,
; that was a coming up.

i “Lord save us!’ says the man; “butthe angelsis a coming
down!”

“No they hain't,” says I; “it’s only me—Jerushy Rugg, of
Pigeon Holler—and my head is onstiddy, and Dve drabbled my
best belmoral skirt, and everything has gone Wrong ginerally.
Lhope youll excuse me for leaning onto your arm, but I can’t
seem to stand alope somehow.”

““SJast my condition!” says the bald-headed man; an held
onto my arm, and I held on to bis’n. And efore we got so that
we could support ourselves, he hugged’ me as bad.as my poor,
dear Jerrymiah did in our courting days; but don’t say nothing
about it. lt might make folks talk. And the men ‘sect is all
alike the world over, you know.

After that he told me his name, and asked me to go back up
the moniment with him. His name was Jonathan Perkins, and
he was a poor Jone widower with no chi'dren. P
; I can’t tell you any more now—it wouldn't be modest, so soon
_—but before long Vil give you some more particulars.

_ This much I will say though. Yer Aunt Jerushy has met her
fate atlast! She has found a pardner. :

No more in solitude to roeam—~
No more to idle set—
She’s got a man with clothes to mend,
Whe never will forget.
He’s tall of figger, bald of head,
And has a handsome nose,
And goes a litiie lame because
_ There’s corns upon his toes.
I've done with sorrow now forever more—
For Jonathan is mine (I hope he doesn’t snore.)
Yours traly, J. Ruee.

NOT THE EVIDENCE HE SOUGHT.

A gentleman in Fond du Lac, whose wite had left him and ap-
plied for a divorce, was’ determined to defeat ner; so, hiring a
horse and carriage, and inveigling a triend along withhim, as
witness, he made the round of her acquaintances, cross-ques-
tioning them in a way that would have done honor to a Phila-
delphia lawyer, in hopes of findmg out something against her
character. He met with nosuccess until near, the last, when
espying a gentleman who had known his wite many: years, he
drew rein and greeted him with much apparent delight and
friendship. When the evidence-seeker had announced his in-
tentions; and explained why he had aceosted him, the man
gravely surveyed the husband, and then said:

“Do I know anything against your wife? Well.:yes, Mr. T—_,
I knew her to do one thing that no one but an idiot would have
done if she had wanted to preserve her character.”

“Ah, now then,” cried the delighted cross-questioner. ‘‘Listen
Mr. Lewis; now we shall hear something; I knew somebody inust
kuow something against such a woman,” ‘and both cocked their
hats further behind their ears—the better to hear—and opened
ero the better, I suppose, to take in all that.was tozbe
neard.

“Well, Mr. T——, your wife was the biggest fool, the biggest
idiot lever knew, when—she——” >

Here the speaker purposely paused, to torment his hearers.
_‘‘Well, well, Mr. J——, when, when, what” cried.tbe impa-
tient information seeker.

“Well, Mr. T - Your wife committed a reprehensible act
when she married you.”? ’

The hats came over the ears in double auick time, the lash

 

ter cause, and the air wafted back the enraged ejaculation from
the disappointea husband.

“You were always an impudent rascal.**

A ROMANTIC MARRIAGE,

“The False Heir’ of ‘Leighton Homestead,” ‘Faithful Mar-
garet,” having been led “Out of the Dark” by “Squirrel Cap,”'
was married to the “Locksmith of Lyons,” at the “Shadowed
Altar,” the ‘Rose of Kendale” acting as bridesmaid. Then the
happy couple started on their wedding tour in the *‘Witen of
the Ocean,” of which ship the “Boy Whaler” is captain.

FRANK REED.

Nicut Hawk.

A LITERARY QUERY.
Is it true that ‘Squirrel Cup” is going to Europe, to help the
handsome ‘Locksmith of Lyons’? rescue tbe lovely ‘Rose ot
Kendale” from “Out of the Dark,’ “Shadowed Altar,” in which
she was confined by the hirelings of that perfidious wretch,
“The False Heir” of “Leighton Homestead,” to the sorrow and
indignation of “Faithiul Margaret?” WALTER NUTTALL.
A BIG WORM.

Captain D owned a large farm, and, needing laborers,
Went one day to the city, and made known his wauts to two
sturdy sons of Erin, who had not been long in this country.
They assured the captain that they were just the.men he want-
ed, and knew all aboat farm work, so he engaged them. A tew
days after, he sent them to the woods to get out some logs. Pat,
in turning over a log, found a large black snake under it, and
he said ro his companion: “See here, Jimmy! Be jabers, what
rich soil, to raise such @ worm !” Maup Carrot.

A BARKING IRISHMAN. ;

Aman blasting a rock in Newport, Luzerne county, was as-
sisted by a green Milesian, who had-never betore beeh engaged
atsuch employment. The blaster was aboutto tampa hole in
the rock with bark, after he had put in the'charge, and he said
to his new assistant: “Pat, whenever I say ‘Bark,’ just drop a
litle bark around the hole as] tamp- it.” ;As the Irishman
seemed to comprehend, the blaster went on with his work, and
soon shouted, “Bark!” The Irishman did not obey the order,
but eyed the blaster with wonder. “Bark!” again shouted the
nian; but Pat only-stretched his eyes. wider, and thought the
man must be crazy. This inattentiveness angered the man, and
he excitedly roared, “Bark! you darned fool, bark!’ Now tor
the first ‘ime realizing thal he had been remiss in some respect,
the Irishman began to dance around and imitate the barking of
adog, until the man, ten minutes afterward, told him to cease
his bow-wow-ing. I, C. Krrec.

 

ODDS AND ENDS. i

Some persons would seem, by their Sunday actions, to be very
good Christians. But alas! the remaining six days, only goes
to prove them to be yery week-ly saints.

|_A great many young people would pay but little heed to the
ehurelh-belis, if the chu.ch-belles were notso very suggestive of
the wedding-ring.

Persons inthe habit of using the Turkish bath; may be truly
Said to be trequently in hot water.

. “Charles Lever lies abed eighteen hours a day.” Bah! such

ot in the same line—viz: Authors lie—very pleasantly out of bed
about the same number of daily hours..

Penny-wise and pound foolish—Shylock.

It has been ascertained by a sagacious old bachelor, that
tamily-jars are not the very best vessels to preserve domestic hap-
pitiess in. «

Honger and contentment form the best side-dishes for an hum-
ble table.

Loose wrappers have been defined as blows indiscriminately
inflicted in a crowded, bar-rooin by an “excited”? shoulder”
hitter.

An Eyre loom of shame—the dastardly abandonment of the
Oneida. :

THE CONDUCTOR WHO “KNOCKS DOWN.”’
' A Néw York gentleman, while ina Baitimore street-car, which
was fuli of passengers, cou:plained of the slow pace at which
the car was traveling. The conductor responded in an insolent
manner, and the New Yorker threatened to knock him down.
“Look here, stranger,” retorted the conductor, “I want you to
ungderstand that I do all the ‘knocking down’ ou this car.”
Jimmy C.
A SHARP CLERK.
A merchant who had just hired.a new clerk, initiated him at
once into the mystery of the trade mark. The same afternoon
the newly-inducted knight of the yard-stick was sbowing some
goods to a lady customer, when she demurred at the price. Tie
eelings of the merchant may be imagined when the young
lerk called at the top of his voice: ‘What shall I sell this for?
pt is marked four dol.ars and a half, and cost us fifty cents ?”
. Larry O'Carr.
A PRUDENT DARKEY. ‘

An intelligent Fifteenth Amendment, residing in Charleston,
S. C., was sent by his empioyer to a friend’s house for an um-
brella. It commenced to raia heavily when he was returning,
and to protect the umbrel a he placed it under his coat, which
he buttoned overit. In this manner be made his appearance
before his employer, with a dry umbrella, and his clothes thor-
oughly drenched. . Cast Iron.
EMMA*S REPLY.

I pressed her to my beaung heart,

The darling of my life;

I vowed no power could e’er us part,

If she would be my wife.

She proualy raised her sunny head,

(I thought that rather cool),

And ina melting voice she said,

“My Moses! whata fool!”

But suill my suit I warmly pressed,

She sweetly smiled on ine;

And said—wnen I'd my fears confessed—
“Sneo Fly! Don’t bother me.”  GENtus Loc,

A WALKING CORPSE.

A droll old fellow in Southington, Conm, chanced to get
among a crowd of young sperts, who began annoying him by
prodding him with theic elbows, pulling his coat-tail, and knock-
ing his hat over his eyes. When this treatment had continued
until the old man’s ire was aroused, he sudcenly pulled off his
coat, and, taking a belligerent attitude, doubled his fists and
squared at the mischievous youngsters, say mg, “Come on, ye
durned skunks! IJ'lleither thrash the whole of ye, or Til walk
home a corpse!” buiux Devin

DINING SALOON ECONOMY.

Peter Stretch, an out-of-town chap, was in the large city of
Boston the other day,and at noon went to one of the second-class
dining saloons to get some “‘grub.”” Taking a peculiar fancy to
milk toast, he asked for this favorite dish of the waiter.

“Havem’t any to-day, sir,” was the reply.

“None? could you ake me some if I wait?’

“7 don’t know. Perhaps we can; I will see,” and away the
waiter glided, at the same time calling to one of the cooks ina
oud voice: “Jane, are there any crusts of bread in the scrap
tubisoas to make some toast!”

Peter heard, understood, and was, found missing when the
waiter reappeared. OLIVER RUNROUND.

HANDY THINGS.

“Them are handy things.” as the «greenhorn said when he
snuffea the candle with his flugers, and put the burned wick in-
to a pair of snuffers lymg on the table, SNUFF.

WHY WE HAD COLD FINGERS.

An Irishman, b!owing his, tingers to: warm them, was asked
why his tingers were always so cold, answered: “Because I
have enly one pair of drawers on.’ .

A BOSOM! PRUEND.

Some ladies adore cotton, and hug it to their hearts as a bosom

friend. . Jimmy C,

‘To P..P. Contrisutors.—Fannie F.=-Try a_ brief sketch, and
avoid tedious descriptions. ..... Capt. Garter.—Oid.. 2.2.5. . The fol-
lowing MSS. are accented: “Whitewashing the Palace,’ Boy 3
Descriptioa,” “Low Water,” “Trading with a Deaf Man ‘The
Skinned Horse,” ‘Sold.” “Didn’t Know How Many,” * Couldn't
Sing,” “The Mississippi,” “That) Fiea,” “This, That, snd the
Other,” “Steamboat roetry.” “fhe Pony,” “Western Specula,
tion,” “Dressing and Shaving,” “Might, have Soaked Them,"
“Darn. the Hog,” “Between Ten and Kieven,” “Tit for Tat,

“Little Darkey,” ‘Committing Suicide,” “Oh, Well IT Remem-
DET.” paces esses The following are FE ae foo
Biv a'Boo,’ “Why He Wouldn't Help Her,” “The word Hog,’

“An Ovate Question,” “Old Jokes,” by P. C.K, “OF ioncer’s
Story of a Grizzly Bear,” “Total,’ “Water, Water,” “Aunt
Betsy,” “Could Kiss Miss I.,” “Inverting the Globe, ¥i Speak.
ing in Meeting,” “Rough on the Trish,” “Od Pilgrim, Bug,
“Sentimental Arithmetic,”. “Tall Painter,’ “ Broken Ice,"
“That Poison,’ “Didn't know his Age,’ “The Prize Dream,

“phe Trial,’ “Seeing them Squint,” “Cotton on Sheep,” “I ish-
ing in Augusta,” “Goin’ to Meetin’,” “Our Blessed Neighbor?
hood,” “Wants,” by B. D., “Deal Man,” “Cow-Bell, Red

yine,’? “Jimmue’s Road to Heayen,”
Foard Horse,” “Holding his Button,” “How Pat Dog the W ell,”
“Countryman’s Idea of a Protest,” “E ashion,”’ ‘Lucy Turner's
Letter,” “My Friend Bob,” ‘Divine | Reverendum,’’ In the
Tree-Top.” “On April Fooling,” “Eating Porridge,’ “Learning
tne Lord's Prayer,” “Box the Compays,” “Belief,” “B:eaking
Ben of Begyving Tobacco,” “Nong tong Paw,” ‘Latest Curiosh
ties,” “Extracis trom Journal,” “On Musical Wives,” | ‘Loves
Letter {rom Hobakuk,” “White Coat and a Good Dinner, : Pork
Enough,” “I have the Receipt,” “saved his W bipping | Bury.
ing by. Pairs,’ “Sold Again,” “Searching for Milk,” | ‘Gal trom
the Country,” “Peddler’s Joke,’ “On her Chest, ? “Where he
got his Rem,” “Too Green to Burn,” “A Snug Chap,” Mickey
and the Darkey,”? “John Montgomery’s Coffee.”

nia ieee chee anptil

 

 

 

 

fell on the unoffending horse’s back, with a force worthy a bet- —

an item is hardly worth the noting, fora great many we wot .

are >
Squirrel,” “Making Pat Get Up,” 61776," “Pat and the Porcw .
tes R ) “Irishman’s Cow,” “Wash.

 

 

 

 

 
 

oe

 

   

 

iene hp EAN NIC

(pS nb Re te te =

 

&

& Os

THE SWEETHEART AND THE WIFE.
IN TWO PARTS.

 

BY JENNIE STOVIN.

Ye bachelors and single ladies,
I beg ye give he-d to my lay;
Do not mock me for what I shall show you,
Do not scoff me for what I now say.
Think not I ignore the god Cupid,
For I hope toat far distan:’s the hour
When a woman's so foolishly stupid
As to doubt love has magical power,
But I'l! read you two little epistles,
Very truthful, in spite of this heading;
One scribb'ed during a pretty girl’s courtship,
One written soon after her wedding.
Tshall make no grave comments upon them,
Each line its own “ arning must bring;
And we know, more than volumes could teach us,
That man is a changeable thing:
Farr Oaks, N Y.
Dear Maritpa:—My friend and companion,
How can youe’er pardon your Kate,
For not writing directly she came here,
And letting you know of her fate?
Such wonders I saw on my journey!
I meant to have written them all,
But forgetting to keep up my diary,
Ican’t my adventures recall
But when I arrived at Aunt Susan's,
With Bessie unpacking my box,
i heard a loud chorus of voices:
“Oh, Kate, now you'll meet Mr. Cox!
We girls are all struck by his beauty!
e's so rich, and so clever, and youngt
And he wears the most matchiess of neckties!
You'll worship the songs he has sung {""
When I heard this, my dearest Matilda,
I put on my blue grenadine
That you know is so very becoming—
I can’t teli you how praised it has beens
And I walked in the drawing-room, singing
A few bars of an opera air,
Pretending I thought ro one near me,
Yet I knew Mr. Cox wouid be there.
And he was—standing up on the hearth-rug,
With a photograph book in his hand.
They were right. He was tal!, and so handsome;
And his whiskers and necktie were grand.
His eyes were like violet blossoms,
His teeth were as orient pearls;
And I marked a large diamond glitter,
As lhe drew his white hand thro’ his curls.
Thén I heard my Aunt Susan say, gently:
“Mr. Cox, my pet niece, little Kate.
Now come, let us hasten to dinner—
Even now Iam afraid we are late.”
Dear Matilda, poets say ‘that love cometh
Unsought and remarkably soon,”
They are right—for an hour after dinner,
When we weut to ‘ook out at the moon,
You'd have thought he'd have known me for ages,
As we strolled up and down the long walk.
Tam glad that papa was n-t near us—
He'd have stared to have heard a'! his talk;
For I know how he blamed me for list‘ning
To Fred Wrighton’s few flatvring jokes.
But, Matilda, I never was flattered,
Till I waiked ’neath the moon at Fair Oaks.
He says I'm a sylph and an elfin—-
A fairy and gossamer sprite;
Mamma calls me “awfully dumpy’—
After all, Charlie Cox may be rght.
My hair, which my sisters deem reddish,
He tells me’s “‘like rich molten gold—~
Only owned by the angeis of Eden,
Only painted by artists of old”
As a proof of his love and attention,
When I sit down to sing or to play,
He turns o’er each leaf of my music,
And no power can attract him away.
There’s that musical genius, Jane Ford—
So dark, and so ugly, and tall;
I hear she would die for his smiles,
Yet he never looks at her at ail.
You know what a dunce I’m at chess, _
I can scarce tell a pawn from a queen;
Yet he’s always chellensing me to a game,
And negiccts the fine player, Anne Green.
I think it a symptom of love,
When he praises all things that I do,
And says Lam perfect, becausc-—~
IT feel that h’s judgment's untrue.
He deelares that he knows he's unworthy,
So he humbly has offered, in fear,
His heart and his hand, his devotion for life,
And asum of ten thousand a year!
We said he should die if I loved not,
So I'm wearing his diamond riosg;
Ordered my trousseau from Stewarts,
And shall marry him early in Spring.
He has left off his billiards, his beer, and cigars,
Sold his horse that he loved more than life;
Sent his dog, that once snarled at me, off toa friend,
And is building a house for his wife.
So now, when you read how emp!oyed I have begn,
My silence, dear Matty, forgive;
And pray, as I pray, that my happiness now
Will continue as long as f live.
So write to me, dearest, as soon as you can—
At Fair Oaks some iime I may stay;
And believe that thro’ life I shall ever remain
Your affectionate friend, Katey May.
P. S.—f svant your advice as to how I shall dress—
Must I wear Mecklin or Honiton vail?
I’m afraid, if I bave white satin and pearls,
dt will make me look dreadfully pale.
END OF PART I.

THE NIGRT

BEFORE MY WEDDING DAY.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.

 

“Gascon Zavistoniski |

Tne queer-sounding name thrilled me somehow with a
sensation of shuddering terror.

it was Lucile Dapres that presented the stranger. We
were at Ravenswo.d, my father’s old country seat, and to
enliven the hum-drum sameness of rustic life, Aunt Eus-
tace had given a ball. It wasa magnivcent affair, Tne
rooms in the old-fashioned. matsion were so spacious,
and Aunt Eustace, of all women in the world, was ‘the
one to plan an entertainment. She wentinto such things
with a kind of genius. And this Ravenswold ball she
deemed the one success of her life.

We had scores and scores of gnests from the city, and
the ball-room was one blaze of beauty and splender. Such
magnificent toilets I never beneld. I wore point lace
over pink satin, with diamonds on my neck and in my
hair. I had intended to wear white tulle, and rose-buds.
Harry liked that best, but Aunt Eustace would not hear
ofit. She ordered the pink satin expressly, and of course
Ihad to submit. I don’t think Harry was greatly disap-
pointed, however, for I certainly appeared very magnifi-
cent. I can remember now, just how I lookedin tne
great cheval mirror; with my raven hair, and glowing
cheeks, and Starry eyes. Allthe women of my family
were noted for their beauty, and I was not an exception.
Indeed, they teld me that the whole beauty of my race
seemed to culminate in me; and I believe it was true, at
any rate, it seemed so that night, when I wore the pink
satin and diamonds, which were wonderously becoming.
lam an old woman now, with haif-a-dozen children
hanging about my knees, and there is no vanity in telling
you these things,

“Oh, Miss Cassie, you takes one’s bref away!" ejaculat-
ed my old nurse, peeping injustas my toilet was com-
pleted. ‘I neber did set eyes on sich a dress!’?

Aunt Eustace smiled with evident satisfaction.

“Yes,’! she said, ‘“‘but she’d have made a fright of her-
self but forme. Your dress is perfect, Cassandria,” she
added, turning me round, until the diamonds filled the
roem with trails of splendor; ‘“‘and you are assuredly the
most beautiful woman I ever beheld.”

A hundred eyes told me the same thing when I entered
the bail-room, and Harry came out from a corner, ab-
solutely radiant. He was my lover, yon know; we were
ovetrothed, but L will tell you about that hereafter.

“O, Cassie,” he murmured, drawing my hand through
his arm, ‘‘you blind and dazzle me; you are the loveliest
vision that human eyes ever rested on !’?

“I wish I were ten times lovelier for your sake, dear,’
I returned.

After that we joined the dancers, and for hours our en-
joyment was perfect, We were just on the point of
filing down toward the banquet hall, when Lucile Du-
pres made her way to my side. She was a blonde, and
wore blue crape, and pearls, and white japonicas in her
hair. A pretty, pleasant enough girl was Lucile, but
something of a meddler. She never could let folks alone,
Now I detest meddling people, be their intentions ever so
good. But asI was saying, Lucile came crowding up,
just as Harry and I were filing Gown toward the banquet
room, With a great, tall, bearish-looking fellow at ier
side. b

“Wait a moment, Cassie,” she urged; “I want to make
you acquainted with a friend of reine. Miss Cassandria
Lauderdale, allow me to present Mons. Gascon Zaviston-
isk |??

As I have said, the mere sound of the man’s name
thrilled me with a sensation of terror, And his face dui
more; yet despite the heavy Russian beard, he was ex-

ey ay

    

cra

 

ceedingly handsome, and polite, and gallant to a fault.
Yet some indefinable something about the man repelled
me—a subtle antagonism that no mortal seer could
remove. Yet we became good friends, and after refresh-
ments I actually accepted his invitation to waltz. What
a dancer he was! Every movement of his monstrous,
weighty body was the very poetry of music. He whirle
me down the long halls, until my cheeks were on fire, and
my breath came in gasps, then we sailed off into the con-
servatory, Harry dancing with a lovely little blonde,
and looking after us with fury in his eyes,

He sat me down, Mons. Zavistoniski,I mean, at the foot
of an old aloe, that stood hke a weird magician amid
myriads of blossoming plants.

“The century will be capped to-night.’ he murmured
intensely, his great gray-green eyes burning on my face;
“the aloe will burst into bloom, for one of Heaven’s
angels sits beneath it.”

‘Monsieur flatters poor me,” I laughed.

“On my soul, no,’? he retorted, warmly. “I beg your
pardon, mademoiselle, but you are the fairest being ever
my eyes beheld. I have seen lovely women in my time,
but I never worshiped before.”

The man’s presence began to stifle me, like the breath
of ahot simoon. 1 arese hastily:

“Hark to the music,’’ I said; “they are forming for a
new set; let us return.”

“And mademoiselle dances with me,’
taking possession of my hand.

The touch of his fingers made me shiver, yet I had no
power toresist. He whirled me back into the dancing
room, and we were swimming down the long ball, before
{ knew what I was doing. Harry had stopped dancing,
and stood offin a recess, looking moody ani insulted.
And we hsd been so happy, only for Lucile, and her
fussy meddling.

At the close of the evening she came crowding up to
my side.

SOW; don’t you like him?’ she questioned. ‘I think
he’s magnificent, and it just struck me that, of all the

he asserted,

menin the world, he’s just the one for you. So distin-
guished, and worth millions; he’s a count, too, I believe.
Your Aunt Eustace is charmed; she says you have done
something like to-nignt. I shouldn’t be so generous,”
she added, putting up her finger significantly, upon
which gleamed an engagement ring; ‘only I'm out or the
market, you know. But I thought of you first, dear!
Au revoir!”

I could have stapped ier pretty face, as sne bent to Kiss
my cheek, Of course she meant kindly, and all that, but
why could not she let me alone, when I was. so happy!
And now there was trouble ahead! Icould feel its ap-
ae id Shadow. A moment later, Aunt Eustace cross-
ed me.

“Well, Beauty,’ she nodded, smoothing her Lyons’ vel-
vet complacently. ‘“‘You’ve done the proper thing to.
night. You may be a countess in six months, if you will.
You are just suited to a coronct,” and she sailed away,
as grandly asa born queen.

She was my mother’s sister, this Aunt Eustace, a proud
and haughty woman, with the best blood in the country,
1n her veins, Harcourt was her family name, and they
were the wealthiest and most aristocratic people any-
where to be found. When my mother was seventeen, so
purse told me the story, her friends betrothed her to a
distinguish’d and weaithy man, but mother having met
a young poet, Ralph Lauderdale by name, who owned
nothing 1n the world; ‘but a rambling old country-place,
called Ravenswold, defied their authority, and married
him. As a matter of course they disowned her, the Har-
courts had never been known to tolerate a misalliance.
But mother cared little enough for this.. She loved her
poet-husband too well. They went downto Ravenswold,
and lived as happy and contented as a pair of doves, for
about five years, I believe. Then poor papa died, and
mother was so shecked and grieved that she soon iollow-
ed nim, and they slept side by side in the old Ravenswold
graveyard. Iwas left all alone, a wee little orphan, only
three summers old. Then, Aunt Eustace, repenting per-
haps of her severity toward my poor mother, wno was
ber only. sister, came down and adopted me, and I have
lived with her ever since. She has no children of her
own, and she is immensely wealthy, and I shall be her
heir, if 1 marry to piease her. But I am sure I never shall.
She doesn’t like Harry, and he is my betrothed lover,
you know. And I promised to tell you about it. We be-
came acquainted in the most delightfully remantic man-
ner. Every summer Aunt Eustace and I go down to Ra-
venswold, but a couple of summers ago, auntie was kept
in town, something «about Settling up her estate. Her
husband is dead, you know. Weil, Il went down by my-
self. At first | was enraptured. I spent the long days in
the garden, beneath the cool shadow of the lindens, list-
ening to the song ef the birds, and the murmur of the
bees; and of evenings, when the moon shone, and the
whippowiils sang, 1 sat in the old library, where papa and
mamma's pictures hang, and where they used to sit to-
gether, while he read to her what he had written daring
the day. How happy they must have been.

But in a little while I grew tired and lonely, so I made

the old groom bring out my black pony, and morning and
evening I went galloping over the hills, like a crazy thing.
I was a glorious rider, and my peny was as fleet as an
antelope.
One June morning, cloudless and breezy, the air sweet
with the breath of blossoms, and every hill and dell,
about my old home, vocai with the sweet music of birds,
Iset out for a long, long ride. Old Bertram, the groom,
begged to send one of the stable-boyvs with me, but I
Wouid not listen to it. Those hill roads were loneiy ana
intricate, he urged, and it was not prudent, to say the
least, for a young girl to ride so far alone. But I laughed
at his fears. I snould not get Jost, 1 was certain of that;
and as to fear, I did not understand the word. If there
were highwaymen, let them come, I should be rather
pleased to make their acquaintance. I might find a
Claude Duval in their numver; and even, supposing the
worst came to pass, I carried a small revolver in my belt,
which I knew well enougn how to use.

Thus armed, I set forth, and the flying motion, together
with the exhilarating influence of tne morning, threw me
into @ kind of madness. I galloped for hours, through
the long hill ranges, past the endless leagues of forest,
out into the low salt marshes that bordered on the sea.
Here I paused, breathless; my horse quivering in every
nerve with fatigue. I could hear the thundering beat of
the waves, and just catch the glimmering silver of the
dashing spray. The sea always possessed a kind of fasci-
nation over me, and my desire to cross the marshes, and
stand upon its sandy shores, was irresistible. But there
was no thought of taking such a wild thing as the black
pony, the very sight of the waves threw herinto an ec-
stasy of terror.

But I had decided to go. and it wasa silly way of mine,
never to give over adecision When once made. Accora-
ingly, I dismounted, and fastening my pony where she
could feed on some tender grass, | made my Way down
to the shore. Rather an umdertaking it proved, as in
many places the lush meadows were wet and spongy, but
the brilliant flowers I gathered, more than compensated
me for my wet feet, and dragged skirts.

The sea was in its glory that day. The tide came roll-
ing in, throwing the spray arotnd me in great, frothy
sheets, and the sun suming down with fervid, yellow
glow, transmuted the distant waves into palaces otf
gold and silver. I gathered my apron fullof shells, and
bits of coral, and scraps of sea-weed, and then I clamber-
ed to the top of a great reck, that commended a most de-
lightful view. I could see the long, long leagues of silver
sand, the dark coast lines, aud away out at sea, little
specks of saii skimming along in the sunlight; and at in-
tervais, 2 fleck of gulls, or a heron, wheeling away in the

 

 

distance.

 

THE NIGHT BEFORE MY WEDDING.—I BEHELD, sI

<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

For hours I sat thus, unconscious of everything in life
but the prospect before me and my own wild day dreams.
I fancied myself waiting and watching for the return of
an absent lover, sailivg on foreign seas, and followed
every motion of the outward-bound sails, with an inter-
est as vivid and thrilling as if my dreams were real. But
in the midst of all this, a sudden consciousness of change
brought me to my senses. ss

The brilliant June sky had darkened, and all along the
west, the horizon was belted with a wide strip of green-
ish yellow. The breeze was rising to a gale, and the
thunder of the surf had deepened into a kind of moan, A
sense of terrible awe came overme. I Knew wellenough
what was coming. Once or twice in my life, I had _ wit-
nessed the rising of these sudden, southern storms, down
on the gulf coast. I clambered down from my perch,
spilling my shells and corals, conscious for the first time
of my folly and imprudence. {[ did not feel afraid, but I
started across the marsh on arun; if { could get on my
pony’s back, I would soon fly away, leaving the storm
and danger behind me. Butto my utter consternation,
when I rea hespot where I had left my pony, she
was gone. 4

Here was mma in truth. I scarcely knew whether
it would be possible for me to find the way back to Rav-
enswold or not, and even if I could, it would take me far
into the night, to make the distance on foot. I looked
around me utterly ata loss what course to pursue. Be-
yond was the great sea, rising up like a fierce beast from
its lair, and shaking its foamy main in anger; on either
band the low, lush marshes, and behind me the forest,
and the black lines of hills. I must seek the forest, there
I could find a covert from the storm, if nothing more.

I tied on my hat and ran on as fast as I could, the thun-

 

 

the time I had fairly reached the woods, the sky had dark-
ened ominously, and the wind was risivg furiously.
These southern tornadoes come on so swiftly. The
branches creaked and clashed above my head, and at in-
tervals I caught the lurid giare of, lightning. Unable to

 

 

elt Gi cal

ae = gi
ihe AT ag

proceed further, snd utterly worn out, I dropped dow
beneath the overhanging boughs of an immense ced
and burst into tears, It was terrible to be in tnat wild
place, all alone, and sacha tempest comiugf ‘I thought
of Ravenswold, and my own cosy little chamber,
wondered that I could have been so rash and foolish.
then the first big drops began to patter down, and I co
near the distant rush of the storm, like the sound of a
hundred chariots. Bat above allthis, there was a qnck
thud. That must be the hoof beat of a flying horse. ¥ lis-
tened breathlessly. Was my ‘black pony coming hack?
Nearer and nearer, and presently fying along the edge of,
the wood, not my pony, but a roan mare, mounted by a
stalwart rider. I sprang to my feet, waving my hat,.
whicb I snatcbed from my head, and shouting with all
my might. He reined in his flying steed, glanced sharply
around, and the pext moment vaulted from the saddle,’
and came running to my side. :

“ft am lost, sir,’’ I faltered; ‘“‘and my pony has run off.
Will you please to help me?”

“Why, to be sure, you poor, drowned little bird,” and
before I could draw my breath, I was lifted in his arms,
and placed before him on the roan mare. ©

What a gallop we had. It makes ite rah tingle to

ie

 
  
 

this day to think of it. The gallant little roan went like
the wind, and Aire e had made rhe the hills,
and reached he rathbling, old country house, I was ciz-
zy and out of breath. He lifted me from my seat, and
ran up to the long, low porch, carrying me as lightly as if
I had been a babe. ita” wis) 3: re
 *Here, mother,” pe said.as | he door opened, “take this
poor little bird, and try to bring back the life the storm
has beat out of fier. EF must get Jennie in, we shall liave
it hot and heavy presently,” | . . re

Wherevpon a pleasant-faced woman, and a sweet girl,
about my own uve, called Lisette, bore me away to an
old-fashioned chamber, ahd proceeded to remove my
dripping clothes, and then to put me to bed and to ad-
minister warm beverages. The consequence was, that I
soon fell asleep, and arose the next morning whelly un-
harmed, and went Gown to breakfast, wearing one of
Lisette’s w: ite wrappers. And there and then 1 met my
he.o fuce to face—Harry Headly, Esq.

(To be concluded next week.)

PUSHED T0 THE WALL.

BY HERO STRONG.

 

 

 

Helen Clare was in sore trouble.

When you near how it was, some of you will pity her;
others who know nothing of the terribie straits some of
us are required to passthrough will judge her relent-
lessly. I have nothing to say—lI only tell her story.

She was twenty-eight years old—oid enough surely to
have got wisdom. .

She had been a fashionable woman ever since she
“came out,” ten years before. Or, perhaps,J had better
say nine years before, for the first year that she was in
society she was a sweet, pure-hearted, innocent girl.
She thought no wicked thought—she put coniiaence in
life, andin the world; and so she believed Ross Van-
cover, When he told her that he loved her, and swore to
be true through time and eternity.

How beautiful these first love-dreams are! Laugh at
them as we may, when we get older and learn a thing or
two; there is a certain delicious something about a first
love which remains always in memory, but which never
comes In a second love, no matter how pure and true that
love may be. ;

Some girls love lightly and easily, and forget quite as
readily, but for Helen, it was a serious thing. She en-
tered into her engagement with Ross Vancover with sol-
emn earnestness, and after she had promised herself to
him she deemed it wrong to permit another man to touch
the hand he had clasped. The lips he had kissed were
held sacred to him alone—ske said to herself that no oth-
er man should ever kiss her.” She sang only for him; she
read the looks he praised—she yielded to him in every-
thing—in short, sne made herself a slave to his Caprices
and gloried in the thralldom. Perhaps fate saw things
clearer than she did, for it made Ross Vancover false.

His nature was a false, fickle one—he was unstable as
water. Selfish and cross-grained—caring only for his
own gratification, he soon wearied of Helen’s purity, and
sought a woman more like himself. He grew cold to
Helen, and she, instead of scorning him as he desired,
tried to win him back by Kindness and love. Not until
his engagement with Miss Flora Stuyvesant was an-
nounced, did she cast him> off, and then she came near
dying. For months she hovered between life and death,
but rallied at last, and rose from her sick bed a changed
being. Ali tenderness and feeling were crushed out of
her. If she had any heart left, she did not Know it from
any Manifestation it made.

she developed into a most Skillful an@ unscrupulous
flirt—a woman who deliberately laid her plans to win
men’s hearts, and then cruelly trampled on tleni, and
tried to think she was happy 1n doing so.

Perhaps she was, but in the silent hours of night, when
no eye but that of the Creator was upon her,she paced her
chamber frequently until day dawn, weeping with tears,
that scalded and seared instead of relieving. And inher
breast there rose ever a wild longing for the sweetness of
yonth and innocence fled forever.

She had no relatives but an aunt—a middle-aged
woman, who had been for years dying of consumption.
Aunt Margaret was her father's sister, and when Mr.
Ciare died he lefs the whole of his property to her, ex-

 

 

der of the waves increasing momentarily behind me. By.

        

 

 

TIING QUIETLY IN A CHAIR, ZAVISTONISKI, WITH A DAGGER IN HIS RIGHT HAND

d_| the more determined.

 

 

cept a yearly annuity to his daughter. At Aunt Marga-

 

ret’s death, everything belonged to Helen, but until then
she had only this yearly stipend. It was a rather pecu-
liar will, but Mr. Clare was a singular person, and there
had been always a very strong tie of affection between
him and his sister.

The whole thing fretted Helen exceedingly. It looked
as if her father lacked confidence in her, and besides, in
the life she was leading, it was extremely difficult to
keep her expenses within her income.

She ran indebt, Spuringly at first, but urged on by
the rivalry of her fashionuble friends, she grew bolder,
and borrowed larger sums. At her aunt’s deatn, she
would be possessed of a cool hundred thousand, and. it
seemed rather hard, she thought, that she should have
to calculate tne cost of a dress before purchasing, or to
look timid at a twenty dollar brooch before making up
her mind if she could afford it,

Aunt Margaret might have helped her, but she was a
‘stern, uncompromising woman, who had long ago re-
nounced the sins and vanities of this world, and believed
in sackcloth and ashes most thoroughly. An error she
could not forgive. Heaven knows how she would have
dealt with a sinner.

Helen never went to her—she would as soon have died
as asked Aunt Margaret to help her out of the difficulty
her extravagance had led her into, and indeed it is not
at all likely that the old lady would have done anything
of the kind if she had been solicited.

creditor.

Looking back upon it now, she could not understand
how it was that she had ever consented to become George
Legrange’s debtor.

He was a flourishing broker; a man of property, and
good standivg financially—but utterly destitute of moral
principle. He was a widower, and when he first became
acquainted with Helen, he decided that she shvuld be nis
wife. In his fierce, passionate way he loved her, and she
Suited well his idea of wbata woman should be. She
was beautiful, graceful, accomplished and sharp-witted—

 

 

:

just the sort of woman he wanted to preside over his
costly up-town mansion, and queen it in society. —

_ He had never wanted anything in his life without ob-
taining it, consequently Helen’s coldness only made him

Sne was in debt to him about three thousand dollars.
He began his game carefully, for he had studied the
grovnd well, and knew just how to place his forces. She
could not pay himuntil her aunt’s death, and the old
jady, though she had been at the door of death for so long.
a time, seemed in no wise inclined toenterin thereat.

Helen had been most unfortunate in her selection of a | &:

~if

eer A ag $e

 

 

ming. Mr. Archibald's money! It was lying therein
his desk idle, and a part of it would save her from a fate
worse than death. She could replace it long vefore he
would return, for a consultation of physicians had decided
that Aunt Margaret could live but a few days longer,
The last fatalsymptoms had appeared and there would
be no reore dallying with the destroyer.

Helen was in that state when the power of judging be-
tween right and wrong is lost. Tue starving man does
not stop to ask if itis wrong to steal bread tostay the
cravings of hunger; the convict when he flees from his
prison cell does not question his conscience to tell him if
his flight is right.

To get out of George Legrange’s power was all that
Helen thought of. For that she would have sacrificed
her hopes of heaven. God help her.

She rose and fistened. No sound in Archibald’s room,
and then she remembered that Markley Wasaway. He
had ann advantage of his partner’s absenee to visit his
mother,

Stealing along the corridor, Helen tried the door of the
study. It was fast, but her key fitted the door, She
enews it,and with trembling hands put itinto the
Ock.

She entered the room—there lay the keys of the desk
ina box on thetable. Markley had forgotten them,
Surely the devil was making it easy for her.

She unlocked the desk and sought for the secret draw-
The package of bank notes lay before her. With
eyes burning like fire and cheeks blood-red with excite-
ment, she counted out the notes until she heid the sum
which would secure her salvation from that man’s power
in her hand. She closed and locked desk aud door, and
fled like a guilty wretch to ner chamber. If she had al-
lowed herself one moment for retiection she would have
returned the money and sabmitted to her fate, but she
took no time to think 1 over,

As quickly as possible she drove to Legrange's office,
pe the money, anc received the papers which bound
aer.

Legrange was angry snd disappointed, and would bave
put her off on some pretext, but ne suw teut it would be
dangerous trifling with her m that mood, so he was fain
to do the square thing.

“The devil take her {” ejaculated he angrily, as she
closéd the door between lium and her,
given ascore of thousands ior the privilege of tammy
that hsugbty spirir” :

Helen went home inadelirium of excitement. She
gave herse.f not a moment forrest or thought, There
was @ ball that night, avd she was there—splendialy at-
tired—and never before hulf se radianty beawuful. Bue
she said and did the strangest thipgs, and people whis-
pered together, and wouvered what made her eyes so
bright aud her cheeks so red, and ail the women were
jealous of her, and all the men went raving avout her.

But later ia the evening, pale and huggard, and cold as
ice, she staggered to wher Carriage and fell heiplessly
down amid tue cushions.

For on being led to a geat by Col. Angier the lion of
the evening, with whom she hud been Gancigy, she had
seen Clyde Archibald at the upper end Oithe room tulk-
ing with the hostess. f

He had returned—tor some reason he had not taken the
journey he had intended tukipng—and she was lest! The
tueft would be discovered—it would be traced to her! |
L we theft? Yes, she was a thie/—a felon in the eyesof

‘He might put her in prison if he chose, and he wasa
just man—no doubt he would let the law take its course.

She paced her cha.nber til day dawn, and then she re-
memered that she must keep up appearances to the last,
Sue dressed berself carefaliy—shaduering at sight of the
et circles beneath her eyes, aud the cle - ks white as

death which last night had been red aS roses. -
The sun rose—it was breakfast time and shee went dow
and passed through with the farce of trying to eat.

Ou the anguish that Helen Ciare euuured | Sue won-

aiterward »ow she suffered it and yet lived,

 

| This terible calm—this suilness of saspense—she could
ai bear it ! she must have excitement of some kind, or

, hould gomad. She haduan Arabian mare sadaled
which sue had never yet mouuted because it wus deemed
unsafe—but now sne gioried in the prospect of danger.
If the horse would only manpage to throw wer and break.
her néck, it would be the best thing that coald happen. It
would Save SO much trouble. and settle the wnole aiiair
much better than it could ever be settled otherwise,
_ She chose the most dauge:ous ruads—she goaded the
mare tu desperation, but at sundown she returned home
safe.

Mrs. Greer, the housekeeper, met her in the hal.

“Such a strange thing nas happened, Miss Helen,”
ssid she, “Mr. Archibald did not have to go South alter
all, and when he went to his room this moraing he found
that three thousand doliars had been stoleu from his
desk |! And nobody but Mr. Joun knew that it was there,
and he had the keys! Strange that he should doit. We
ali thought him such a nice young mun. But Mr. Archi-
bald talks like a Cnristian aboutif. He says that be did
wrong to leave it in that way, and that it was a great
temptation to a poor young man.”

The room swam before Heleu’s vision, but she managed
to answer Mrs. Greer somehow, and to escape to her

 

room. .

A half hour of stern, self-communing, of wild, passion-
ate prayer to Heaven for direction, and her reselution
was taken. Tne innocent should not suffer jor the guilty.
She would go to Mr. Archibuid and give herself up.

She took off her riding-habit and tuen threw a wrapper
around her. Her long, sun-vright hair had escaped irom
its fastenings and hung in a mass of half curling tresses
over her shoulders. She did not stop to gather it up—in
fact, she never tucught of her appearance, and when a
woman is sufficiently excited to furget ber looks you may
know that there is a tumult within,

She went direct to Mr. Archibald’s study—entered with-
out rapping, and closed and locked the door behind ter.

 

The physician said daily that sne could live until an-
other sunrise, and yet she lingered—and seemed likely to.

“In the first place, Legecange asked Helenif she could
not pay him part of what she owed him. He needed it
for an investment he was about making. He wis so sor-
ry—indeed, nothing would have tempted him to mention
it but sheer necessity. ,

Helen ‘told him frankly that she had not the means. He
must wait. After that be grew importunate, and declared
that unless he was paid by the first of December, he would
go to Aunt Margaret and, telling her the whole story, de-
mand payment. , aw

As I said before, Helen would have died sooner than
have her aunt Know of her indiscretion, 4nd she humbled
herseif to ask mercy of the man she loathed,

Wus there no other way? Nothing that she could do to
induce him to wait? Yes, he said, chere was one thing.
lf she would be his wife, the debt was canceled.

Helen started up in disgust, out he put the case plainly
before her, and in her uesperation sbe promised him that
if she could not pay the sum due by the firstof December,
she would become his.

Oh, how she detested herself for the promise! How she
wished that she might die, and end it all before the fatal
time arrived! :

The kiss he had pressed upon her hand burnt like fire—
she dashed the hand angrily agamst the panels of her

Mr. Archibald sat before the fire, and rose when sie en-
tered to advance toward her, but somettiumg in the mis-
erable, haggard face she turned upon tim arrested his
steps.

“Good Heaven, Miss Clare,’ he exclaimed, ‘what has
happened ?” ae

She pat her two hands on the back of the chair from
Which he had risen, and without pausing for thought, she
told him the whole wretched story from beginning to end,
She leit nothing hidden. She went back to her very
childhood. She told him the episode with Ross Vauco-
ver, which had soured and warped ner whole nature, and
then, step by step, she went on until! he knew the secret
workings of her heurt better than she knew them her-
self. Nota word did he utter Guring the narrative—in-
uveed, she spoke so rapidly that there Wus no chance jor
interruption.

**] ask for no mercy,” she said, in conclusion, ‘‘only for
the time Aunt Marguret lives. it would embitter her iast
hours to Know th tthe relative she has so loved and
trusted wasa miserable criminal. Only be silent until
She is at rest, and then do with me as you will.” —

Archibald put out his hand aud laid it on her shonider,

“Helen,” said he, hoursely, «‘£ will consent to no Te-
prieve—I can give you none. I shall do with a
will 20w.” Aen

Aud vefore she comprehended him he had drawn ler”
into his arms and Was kissing her icy che

  

 

carriage as she rode home, as if it had committed an
offense against her. rin i

Ob, how long, and eagerly, and wearily, she thought
over expedients for obtaining the money! If her whole
prospective fortune could have brought her three thou-
sand dollars, she would have sold it gladly.

She could doubtless have raised money on her property,
with her aunt’s probable decease so near, but that ste
would not do, and so the days went on and the last week
in November was slipping away. ;

Of all her friends there was not one to whom she could
go. Shesatdown oneevening and thought them all
over,

Strangely enough, the wish came into her heart that
she might dare to go to Clyde Archibald, and, confessing
everything, throw herself on his mercy.

And who was he? A proud, grave-faced man of thirty-
four or five, who scarcely ever deigned to notice a silly
coquette like her; but he was a power in himself, and his
strength was always equal to all occasions.

His character was bright and spotless—his name a syn-
onym for all that was noble and true:

He had a suite of rooms at Aunt Margaret’s; and he
boarded at the American House.

Heien met him of necessity frequently, but there was
little sociality between them. He did not seem drawn to
her, and Helen was too proud to try her arts on a man
like him. Once she had dreamed of him. She saw his
dark eyes full of tenderness for her—she thought that his
lips touched her cheek, and then she awoke ina thrill of
ecstasy for which she was at a loss to account.

Mr. Archibald was not a society man, and he had few
intimate friends. John Markley was his most trusted
companion. Markley was his confidential clerk, The
son ofa poor widow and her sole dependence, and a
nobler-hearted young fellow there was notin the world.
It was a credit to Mr. Archibald that he loved and appre-
ciated the young man.

Even while Helen satin her room thinking of Mr.
Archibald, he entered his cnamber, jast a few doors fur-
ther down the corridor. The weather was warm for the
season, and hoth her door and hisstood open. She heard
distinetly what he was saying to young Markley, never
dreaming whata terrible significance his words would
yet have for her.

“Business calls me to Savannah, John; I shall be ab-
sent six weeks, probably. I leave everything in your
hands. And, by the way, there is a package of five thou-
sand dollarsin the secret drawer of my desk. I have
neglected investing it, but shall attend to it on my re-
turn.

Archibald, after some further conversation of no mo-
ment to us, went away, but before he left town he came
into Heien’s sitting-room.

“TI have so few friends,” said he, “that it takes little of
my time to say good-by toe them.”’

“lam yery sorry you are going,” she replied, “but
then you will evjoy the journey.”

“I certainiy shali—that is, if you are in earnest in ex-
pressing yourself regretful,” he said, meaningly, and held
out bis band.

She placed hers within it.

“Good-by,”’ he said softly, looking into her eyes—
“good-by, Helen.”” ,

 

There were three days of grace yet, and then she must
redeem her promise to George Legrange.

He came to the house the day before that set for the
settiement, and told her plainly that nothing should in-
duce him to show her any pity. Eithér the money or the
sacrifice.

Suddenly, after he had left, after she had wept herself
half mad, and hardly kKnewif she were inthe body or

“I love you,’ he went on rapidly. “It has been a longs
long time siuce 1 Knew how dear you were to me, but
Saw you surrounded by crowds of admirers—most of them +
younger, bandsomer, more attractive, and 1 knew my.
chance would besmall. But when you tell me that in’
this strait your impulses led you to come to me—that you
longed to ask meto help you—I take courage. Helen, -
my darling, tell me that I have not misunderstood you—
tell me that you do love me!’

She tried to free herself from his embrace, but he Meld
her fast. {

“Sir,”’ said she, ‘do you realize what yon are saying?
Do you remember that I am, inthe eye ofthe law, @.
felon ?”? ,

“I realize that you bave been sorely tried, and that we
are all liable to fail into error. Aud Helen, a wife’s faults:
are safe in the keeping of her husband. Be mine, and I:
will teach you to forget that you-ever jived until you came’
to me to be loved and cherishea °?

He stopped suddenly, tor he saw that she did not hear
him.

Her cheek that rested against his was cold as death—
and the parted lips he kissed were stirred by no breath.
She layin nis arms a dead weight.

Weeks and weeks rolled on, uud Helen Clare was con-
scious of nothing that passed. Her Aunt Margaret died
and was buried, but no sound of if could penetrate tothe
deafened ear in that darkened chamber where Clyde
Archibald watched the struggle between life and death.

He'seidom left her, and soit. pappened that when at
last sense and life returned to Helen, lis was the first face
she Saw.

“Heaven be thanked!” he cried, fervently, seeing the
gleam of intelligence in her eyes. ‘Helen, Geurest, speak
to me!”?

She put one feeble arm around his neck.

“Dear Clyde,” she whispered, faintly, “I have dreamed
of you every night, and | thought you had forgiven me.*’

“And you thought right. Helen, as soon as you can sit .
up youare going tobe my wife. I will pever let you go
into the world again until I have you for myown. I
should lose you, and ?

“No, you could never lose me, because you are my
world,’ she said, softly—and this was their petrothal.

 

 

 

 

TO NEWS AGENTS REMOVING.

News Agents changing their places of business will
confer a great favor on the proprietors of the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, by forwarding notice of the change of location
at the earliest moment after such change has been deci-
ded on. We make this request in the interest of News
Agents as well as for our own benefit. It is nothing un-
usual for us to receive letters from News Agents com-
plaining that in their cards, published in our Sepplement
Sheets, their old places of business are advertised and

News Agents do not keep us posted as to their move-
ments, they alone are to blame for not being properly ad-
yertised in the NEW YorkK WEEKLY Supplement Sheets. —
News Agents starting business, or going out.of busi-
ness, will, also, confer a favor by notifying us of the fact.
The former, by so doing, will receive Supplements for dis-
tribution in which their. business cards will be promi-
nently inserted; and the latter will avoid the trouble con-
sequent on receivig packages. sent by us under the im-
pression that they are still in the News Agency business.
Will not News Agents give the above requests a littie
attention, thereby saving the proprictors of the NEw

 

 

 

out of it, anew thought leaped. like lightning into her

YORK WEEKLY and themselves loss and trouble?

 

bearer Perey:

“lL would have “

thecard does them no good, as they have removed. If *

~niilheneiiallh Ee

 

 

 

 

one ii Ragen

 

7 ame