2 RR ARE gil aie OE

eT ei

Stennis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—

 

ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEA

 

 

“Vou. XXVL

 

 

THE KERNEL AND THE NUT.

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

““HWewould eat the kernel must not complain because he is
obliged to crack the nut.”—Old Saying.
Ye who in this changeful life
Not a ray of joy can see—
Ye whe foster care and strife—
Never from excitement free—
Ye who never seek for peace—
Hoping it willseek for you— -
Daily will your woes increase,
And you'll find this maxim true?
Earthly joys and joys supernal
From the sluggard mind are shut—
If you wish to taste the kernel,
First you'll have to crack the nuf.

Life’s stveam seldom smoothly flows,
And at times we’re forced to mourn—
But who would reject the rose
Even though it has its thorns?
By hard labor we may seize
Pleasure from the lap of pain—
if we idly take our ease
We will look for joy m vain.
Earthly joys and joys supernad
From the sluggard mind are shut—
If you wish to taste the kernel,
First you'll have to crack the nut.

Should misfortune weigh you down
Never yield to dark despair—
Take the cross and win the crewn—
Toil for good and laugh at care.
Resolutely strive and plan—
Inactivity is vain—
What would pleasure be j man
if he neyer tasted-pain?
Earthly joys and joys supernal
From the sluggard mind are shut—
If you wish to taste the kernel,
First you’) have to crack the nut.

 

Strangely Won;
THE BARONETS SECRET.

By Margaret Biount,
Author of BEAUTY BRIDE, THE HEIR OF
BALFOUR HALL, BURNT-MILL
FARM, etc., ete.

 

,“Seraagely Won was commenced last week. Ask any News
Agent for NO. 31, and you WIN get thé jirst part of the story.|

CHAPTER Y.

In three days’ time the traveling carriages stood packed
and ready before the door of the baronet’s house in the
old court suburb. :

Monica oecupied one of these carriages, in company
with Mrs. Caryl. Another was filled with servants, going
from the town house to the Moat. In the third, Sir
Stephen Powis smoked his after-breakfast cigar, in com-
pany with his great St. Bernard mastiff, Star. In this
order they drove from the door.

Sir Stephen seemed both restless and excited, as that
journey commenced. - He patted the mastiffs head, and
said to him, dreamily:

“J really believe that we are going to be happy down
there, at last, my Star.”

But for all that, it seemed, at times, as if he was ill at
ease. And Mrs. Caryl, watching him furtively from under
her black brows, whenever they stopped for rest and re-
freshment, smiled to herself, and compressed her thin lips
er and more viciously, as they drew nearer and nearer

ome.

The journey might have been made easily in one day,
by rail, but Sir Stephen chose to travel by coach, on ac-
count of the shock Monica had lately received.

On the evening of the second day after their departure
from London, Mrs. Caryl called Monica’s attention to the
sign that hung before a small inn, in the vilMige through
which they were then just passing.

“‘The Powis Arms,’’ said Monica, glancing out just in
time to receive the salutation of the bowing landlord at
the open door. ‘‘What does it mean, Mrs. Caryl?”

‘Tt means, Miss Monica, that we are now on Sir Ste-
phen’s land, and very nearhome. Ali that you see now,
on every side, belongs to him. And in half-an-hour more
we shall enter the gates of the Moat.”’

‘Is ita very old place?’? asked Monica.
think so, from its name.”

“The Moat is many hundred years old,’’ replied Mrs.
Caryl. “It belonged to Sir Stephen’s ancestors in the
time of the Crusades. And even in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, it was very different from what you will see it
pe The old drawbridge and portcullis were standing
then,’?

“And are they gone now ?””

“Yes, miss.*’

“Oh, what a pity!”’

“So Sir Stephen thinks—and says, Miss Monica. But the
former Sir Stephen thought otherwise, and had them
taken down. The Moat remains, but you cross it now
upon a modern bridge.”*

: ee is not an English name,’’ said Monica, thought-
fully.

‘No, miss. The family are Welsh, in reality. At least,

Sir Stephen’s remote ancestors were Welsh, and I believe
he is very proud of it. He says that he comes of an uncon-
quered race, You know, miss, that the English never did
cenquer the Welsh, after all.”
_ “No—it was only by stratagem that the land was made
into a principality,’ said Monica. ‘‘But the Welsh gen-
eraily have dark eyes and hair. At least, I have seen one
or two, at Norwood.”’

Mr. Caryl smiled.

‘One or two individuals would scarcely represent a
whole country, Miss Monica. However, Sir Stephen gets
his blue eyes and brown hair, and fair complexion, from
his mother’s side of the house. She was Irish by birth—
an Irish heiress, of a very ancient family, and one of the

 

2

“One would

FRANCIS S. STREET,
FRANCIS S. SMITH,

 

 

R 1871, BY STREET & SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. C.

 

 

 

 

} Proprietors.

 

NEW YORK, JUNE 2, 1871.

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She bent down and kissed the beautifut marble hand that lay, like

‘Welcome home, Sir Stephen,’? Monica heard her say, |

as the baronet’s carriage approached. And then she
heard the musical voice, which she was learning to know
(and also to love!) so well, in reply.. Her heart warmed
toward that unknown lodge-keeper, because she had bid-
den that kindly ‘“‘Welcome Home.’’

And yet, in all this, the poor child was so innocent! In
every thought, and wish, and hope, she was so free from
evil or from harm! Blindfold she walked upon the edge
of a precipice, and saw nothing of her own danger. But
Mrs. Caryl saw it for her!

If, in her lonely hours of musing, the girl woke, with a
start, to find how entirely one figure filled the foreground
of all her dreams, she excused it, even to herself, on the
score of his kindness and fatherly protection, and the
gratitude she was bound to feelin return. True, another
home was open to her if she chose to claim it, and other
friends would welcome her—but not as he had done!

It seemed to her that Einily Bateman must always be
reminded by her presence, of her great bereavement. To
Sir Stephen, on the contrary, shecame, not as the shadow
of a bitter grief, but as the morning smile of hope and
joy. She felt more and more assured of this, as every day
went by. His reserve’ had melted before the magic of her
smile, and he spoke to, and looked at her, as a man al-
Ways speaks to, and looks at, whatever is most dear and
precious in his eyes. It needed no words to convince the
girl that the baronet was fond of her, and that, if she left
him now, she would take with her, the sunshine and hap-
piness of his heart and home. On her part, she thought
of such a parting as the direst: misfortune that a cruel
fate could have in store for her.

And with the knowledge of all this affection in her heart
she was yet so unlearned and unpractised: as to set it
down to the score of reverent gratitude, never to that of
love! But, as I have already suggested, Mrs. Caryl was
wiser. Where Sir Stephen was concerned she was re-
markably far-sighted, for certain weighty reasons of her
own. It did not take her long to ascertain that the girl’s
fancy was won by the classic beauty of the baronet’s face
and form, and that her heart was touched by his courtesy
and gentleness, in spite of the difference in their ages and
their rank. As for the baronet himself, Mrs. Caryl had
watched him long and well, during the years she had
spent beneath his roof. She had often seen him beleagured
by damsels of certain and uncertain ages, but from all
these trials he had escaped heart-whole. Now, for the
first time, she saw that he was strangely moved and
changed. She saw how his eye kindled when it met the

innocent, admiring gaze that Monica sometimes fixed up-
on him. She noticed the softened tone in which he spoke
to the girl—she marked his studied attention to her wish-
es and her comfoxt, and from these things she drew her
own sage conclusions.

“Between this young lady, and Sir Stephen, and the
CRIMSON Room, I shall not want for occupation here,’’
she thought to herself, as the carriage rolled through the
long chestnut avenue that led toward the house. ‘‘It will
take some hours of good, hard thinking, to see my way
clear through such a tangled skein of events. But [ shall
do it at the last; I have no fear. And now for my fair
young charge and her adopted father! Father, indeed!

 

 

 

most beautiful women that was ever presented at the
English court, Sir Stephen is like her. He is called a
very handsome man, I believe.”

“The handsomest man I ever saw! said Monica,
eagerly. ‘Heis more like a beautiful picture than like a
living man. His face is so stern, and calm, and proud,
till he speaks, and then his smile is so beautiful, softening
the firm lips, and lighting up the dark blue eyes, and——”’

She stopped suddenly, for the black eyes opposite had
shown their spite and malice too plainly.

Coloring deeply, the girl asked:

‘“‘Why do you look at mein that way. Have Isaid any-
thing wrong?”

‘““Me, Miss Monica ?’’ said Mrs. Caryl, with an air of in-
nocent surprise. “I was not conscious of looking in any
particular way. Iwas only thinking that it might not be
well for you to admire Sir Stephen’s beauty so openly be-
fore any one who felt inclined to make harm out of it.
That was all!’’

“But Sir Stephen is so-much older than I,’’ stammered
Monica. “Old enough to bemy sather, in fact.”’

“But he is not your father, Miss Monica,”
nificant reply.

“True. But I meant no harm.’’

“Of course not, Miss Monica,’ replied the woman, sat-
isfied that her vailed hint had been taken as she meant it.
‘Noone supposed that you did mean anything wrong.
But it does not always do for a pretty young lady like you
to speak her mind so freely about things of that kind.
You will excuse that piece of advice, from an old woman
dike me. who only wishes you well.”’

“Oertainly,’’ said the girl, gratefully. “If I say or do
anything that looks amiss, | hope you will always tell me
of it, Mrs. Caryl. Now that poor, dear dame Bateman is
dead, I have no one to tell me what I ought to do or say.’

The carriage stopped as she spoke. They were at the
gates of the Moat.

_A pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman came out of a
little rustic lodge near by, and opened the gate, dropping
a courtesy as the carriage rolled past.

was the sig-

1 wonder if Sir Stephen is really as blind as_ he pretends
to be? or if he imagines that 7 am? And I also wonder
what would be said to the farce we are now about to play,
by the Tenant of the CRIMSON Room!”’

“Are we near the Moat, Mrs. Caryl?’ said Monica,
breaking the long silence that had reigned between them.

Mrs. Caryl glanced from the window.

“You will see the gleam ef the water over the sides of
the bridge in about five minutes more, Miss Monica. And,
of course, the house will then be very near at hand.”

“Have you ever been here before?’ was the girl's next
question.

Mrs. Caryl stared.

‘|? Why, I have spent long yearsot wy life here, Miss
Monica.’

‘‘And was Sir Stephen here too?”

“Sometimes. But he never used to like the Moat, and
was unwilling to stay here when it was not necessary.
His father and mother both died here. They are buried in
a mausoleum in the park. It is a gloomy place. But Sir
Stephen spends hours there when he resides at the Moat.
He worshiped the very ground Lady Powis walked on,
Miss Monica. And she just idolized himin return. Sir
John, the father of Sir Stephen, died first, when my mas-
ter was a mere boy; but Lady Powis lived till he was five
andtwenty. Her death almost killed him. They feared
for his life at first, and then for his reason. He recovered,
as you see; but he has not yet got over her loss. No one
ever ventures to breathe her name before him, and he
never speaks of her himself.”

“Js there a picture of her here? You said she was a
very beautiful woman, did you not?”

“Her best picture is in Sir Stephen’s face, Miss Monica,
for he resembles her as muchas a man can resemble a
woman, only that she had not his stern, proud look, but
the eyes, the hair, the complexion, the Grecian profile,
and the smile, are all my lady over again. She had just
that same rounded chin, and the proud curve to the lip,
and the haughty set of the head that Sir Stephen has
now."*

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘‘After all; Mrs. Caryl, you think him handsome as well
as I,” said Monica, playfully. :

The dark face of Mrs. Cary] flushed with a deep—almost
painful flush.

“It is not forme, a servant, to speak of my master’s
good looks, Miss Monica,’? she said stiffly. “I only an-
swered your question. Lady Powis was certainly a very
beautiful woman, and he, as certainly, resembles her.
That is all.’’

“T beg your pardon. I was only jesting.
not offended you,” said Monica, anxiously.

“Oh, dear, no, Miss Monica. 1 could take no offense at
anything you might choose to say,’? was the suave reply.

But in her secret soul the woman felt, with wrath, that
her life’s mystery had well nigh escaped her jealous
guardianship just then. The consciousness of this weak-
ness made her doubly bitter against Monica, innocent of
all eyil intent though she might be, and added another
item to the long score which was aecumulating in the
mind of her secret enemy, against that day of reckoning
which was assuredly yet to cone.

‘“A and where did Sir Stephen live when he was not here ?”’
asked the girl, eager to turn the eonversation to a more
agreeable subject.

“Sometimes he-was in London, Miss Monica, at the
house you have already seen. But he traveled’ a great
deal on the Continent and in the Hast, and he staid in In-
dia, I remember, three years, jast after Lady Powis died.
He has another estate much larger then this in Wales. It
has a beautiful house -on it, quite like a castle, I have
heard, though -I was never there. It is called: ‘Powis
Land,! and is the old estate that came down in the fami-
ly from the feudal times. Lady Powis was. very fond of
the place, and Sir Stephen was there with her.a great
deal when he was a young man. But he has never visited
the place since her death. A steward lives there to. col-
lect the rents; and his wife keeps the house in order. . I
doubt if Sir Stephen ever enters it again.”’

“And whois the heir after him’? asked Monica.
he an only child?”

Mrs. Caryl hesitated a moment before answering.

“No, Miss Monica,” she said at last. ‘Sir Stephen was
a second son. His brother, Sir John, succeeded to the
title and estates when he was but fifleen years old. He
was his father’s pet and favorite, just.as Sir Stephen was
his mother’s. But he was terribly wildand dissipated and
headstrong. After his father’s death there was no one
able to control him, and he died in Paris at theage of
twenty-three, a perfect wreck in mind and body. You
will see his picture at the Moat, but you had best ask no
questions about.it, unless Sir Stephen speaks of him of
his own accord. ASTI have said to you before, there are
always secrets connected with these old families, and
there is one here, which it is not likely you will ever know
much about. I tell you this that you may be on your
guard and make no unconscious allusion to it when you
see Sir John’s picture, and ask no questions that are likely
to be annoying or indigereet.”’

“Thank you,” said Monica gravely, and then, after a
pause, she added, in alow tone:

“Mrs. Caryl, I wish you would telk me why [I am not to
go to the west wing ot the Moat, or tocross the threshoid
of the CRIMSON RooM.”

‘Hush!’ said Mrs. Caryl, turniag pale, and glancing
nervously out of the carriage window, as if she expected
to see Sir Stephen there beside it. ‘How cam you be so
imprudent and thoughtless, Miss Monica! Did I not tell
you that it was a seeret—a family secret—to which I allud-
ed? Did you not promise upon your honor, that you
would never give-evena hint of my warning to Sir Stephen,
or, in fact, to any one?”

“I know, and Lam not going to do so,” replied Monica.
“But, since you have confided. so much im me, why not
tell me more? Why not tell me ali 2”

“Because it would be useless, Miss Monica. Whem |
found that Sir Stephen was bent upon bringing you here,
(and mind you, I thought then, and I still think, that it
was an ill-advised thing to do, though Isay it out of no
want of liking or respect to you, my dear,) when I found
that you were really to come, I made upmy mind that I
would say what I thought it was my duty to say, before
you entered yonder house. To know so much, was ne-
cessary for your own comfort and happiness and safety.
To know more, would only be to make you uneasy. The
Moat would be no more of a home to you, than itis to me,
if you knew all that I know, about it. So do not try to dis-
cover any secret that may be kept from you for your own
good, while the Moat is your home. Andabove all, pro-
mise me once more, that you will say nothing of all this
to Sir Stephen. Promise me, before we reach the house,
or Ishall not know a moment’s peace or rest there. And
Heaven knows there is trouble enough awaiting me
there.”*

‘Monica!’ said a deep sweet voice just outside the car-
riage window. Mrs. Caryl started as if she had been shot.

“There is Sir Stephen!” she gasped. ‘If he has heard
what we have been saying! Oh, Miss Monica, do not even
let him guess it, unless you wish to ruin me!”’

‘Have no fear, he shalllearn nothing from me,” said
Monica, ip a low voice.

And theh she looked out, with her brightest smile, to
find Sir Stephen.

I hope I have

“Was

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a lily, on the lady’s breast.

He was standing at a little distance, looking'fixedly to-
ward the Moat.

“Do you want me, Sir Stephen?’ she asked. “I thought
J heard you speak my name.”’

He turned toward her, and-she saw that his face was
pale and sad. ;

“Yes. TI want you,” he said; ‘Come and walk with
me. ‘We are near the house, but you will not care to hear
all the noise and bustle of this arrival.”

He held out his-hand to assist her, as the footman, des-
cending from the box, opened.the carriage door.

‘“‘You will see that all is in proper order, Mrs. Caryl,’ he
said, glancing at her, as they turned away.

“All shall be as it ought to.be, when you arrive, Sir
Stephen,’’ was‘the reply.

The baronet and_ his housekeeper certainly exchanged a
peculiar glance, but Monica did not observe it.

“Dinner in an hour frommow,”’ said Sir Stephen:

Then he drew back, and the carriages and the bowing
servants passed on. He waited till the last venicle was
out of sight, and till the cloud of dust behind it had sub-
sided.

Then he turned to Monica, with a weary sigh.

“My little friend, [am like King Saul to-night, and my
dark mood is on me. You.must drive it. away with the
music of your voice, and the light of your smile. Come
with me. ‘Come too; Star.”

He drew her hand within his armas he spoke, and the
mastiff, glad.to be released from the confinement of the
carriage, wheeled in clumsy circles round them, and
barked till the distant hills sent back the: echoing sound.

“Gently—gently, Star,’’ said the baronet. ‘And now,
my child, tell me if you are glad that you are coming
-home.’’

“Fam very glad to:be with you, Sir Stephen,” said the
girl, simply. ‘Any place would be home: to me, where
you were.”’

A deep fiush rose'to the baronet’s brow, and his blue
eyes were full ofan ardent light, unseen by her—but he
controlled himself by a strong effort.

“No—no!. She is young and imnocent, and her words
mean.less than.they seem to imply,’’ he said to himself.
“She never could speak so frankly, if she loved me, as
she will one day love some better and happier man! And
Heaven forbid that I should ever betray the beautiful and
sacred trust she placesin me. A pureand innocent child,
she has fallen into my hands; and pure and innocent, she
shall pass-out of them, so help me Heaven!”’

“There lies the Moat, Monica,’’ he said, abrupthy as they
turned a corner in the winding avenue, all checkered over
now; with the wavering light and shade of the summer
sunset hour.

Monica looked. Just before her was a tranquil sheet of
water, some twenty or thirty feet in width, spanned by
an‘ornamental bridge of iron, whose gracefully wrought
arches were mirrored over again in the quiet depths be-
low.

Beyond this Moat, a green bank sloped gently upward
to a greener lawn, in the midst of whose wide and level
extent stood a gray old house, overgrown with ivy, and
built im the fashion of other years. The center of the
house was a castellated tower, pierced with loop-holes in-
stead of windows, its arched and low-browed entrance
frowning grimly, where the ancient portcullis had once
been fixed. To the east and, to the west stretched out
more modern wings, built in the Elizabethan style. A
flag-staff rose from the center tower, and even as the girl
gazed, a bright banner ran suddenly up, and floated out
upon the air—the glad token of the master’s coming.
home!

Sir Stephen gazed at the house, and at its mute wel-
come, with the same sad look,

‘It is a beautiful place!’* said the girl, softly. ‘‘So old—
sO gray—so silent and so peaceful—as it stands in the
midst of that velvet lawn! It looks just as I hoped it
might look. How you must love the place, Sir Stephen!’

“I! Ithas been nothing but a tomd to. me for five-and-
twenty years!”’

He took the hand that rested on his arm, as he spoke.

“My child, I have another place to show you, betore we
enter there.”

He turned aside before he crossed the bridge, and kd
her into a narrow grass-grown path, that wound through
a grove of stately pines, whose needle-like leaves formed
a soft and fragyant carpet for their feet.

Presently the sound of falling water madeitself heard.
The footpath widened out, and ended in anoperk circle of
deepest green, surrounded with tall pines, and a few
lovely drooping willows, whose branehes were laved con-
tinually by the spray which a large fountain threw up,
from the countless jets half-hidden in its rocky bed.

Beyond the fountain, another footpath wound through-
out another grove of pines. Following this, a few steps
brought them to a second glade, far smaller than the
first. Here were beds of the most beautiful flowers, evi-
dently cared for daily by a_ skillful hand. And in their
midst a marble building, like a Grecian temple, rose like
a white dream of beauty, on the eye.

Sir Stephen ascended the marble steps alone, and tak-
ing a key from a golden chain around his neck, he opened
the door.

“Come,’’ he said to Monica. Taking his extended hand,

 

 

X;

| she entered the mausoleum, by his side. Within; onia
marble bier, were extended two figures, so life-like in:
| their sculptured sleep, that Monica started, and turned
pale. ;

“Tt is my mother’s grave, dear child,” said Sir Stephen,
gently.
quilly sleeping, see how the sculptor has caught the placid:
heavenly look that always rested on her lovely face! You
do not fear to stay here—at least with me?”

“Oh, no!’ said Monica.

And then, all fatherless and motherless as she was, andi
her full heart divining, in some measure, the nature of his
grief, she bent down and kissed the beautiful marble
hand, that lay, like a lily, upon the lady’s breast.

Tears were in her eyes, as she did this.. Tears dimmed
the bright -blue eyes that watched her, and Sir Stephen’s-
strong arm encircled her waist, and drew her gently,
close against his quickly beating heart.

“Monica, here in this sacred presence I swear that. I
will be your best friend while we both live!’’ he said, in a
broken voice. ‘There is no sacrifice I am not ready to
make for your happiness, if only. for the sake of that kiss
upon my mother’s hand! My heart is strahgeiy drawn to
you, my child! No father ever loved a daugater better
thanIlove you. You must not leave me, at least for
many years. Promise me, here in the presence of my
mother, (for I firmly believe that slie sees and. hears us
here!) promise me that you will stay with me, till the time
panes for you to love another better, and to crave another.

ome!’

“J promise; but that time will never come!’’ said Moni--
ea, with a tearful smile.

 

her lovely face with an ardent, yearning gaze.

“The time will come—and then I will give you up with-
out a murmur, my Monica. But we will not think ef that
now. i brought you here, dear, because I daredi not.pay
this visit alone. The mere thought of it has made me in-
expressibly sad all day long. She was such a dear mother
; tome! She loved me best of anything on earth, and the
| world has been only a tomb to me since I have tost her.

But you, sweet child, youcan make life worth the living
| for me again, if you will but try. We will visit this place
| togéther every day.’’
|. And he, too, bent down and kissed the marble brow of
Be silent sleeper, before he closed the door of the mauso-
; leum.

“JT never thought to take any human being to that

 

|
| steps. ‘‘No one has ever entered it before with me, butit
| has done me good to see you there.”’

| ‘Tam glad then that I came,’’ she said thoughtfuily.

| She was looking at the. fountain as she spoke—at its
|

|

| trees. She stood on the second step of the mausoleum,

“Speak to me, Monica!’” he cried, suddenly; ‘‘say some-
| thing kind and loving to me—for my mother’s sake, and
| Here beside her grave!”’

Strangely moved and touched by that sudden. impas-
| sioned appeal, Monica looked down at him.
slightly flushed; his blue eyes were fullof tenderness, he
was superbly handsome at that moment, in spite of his
fifty years!

“What shall Il say to you?’ she asked.

And her own

cheek.

“Say!’ he cried, impetuously.
that 1 wish to hear you say!
ed for it, from the moment when [ caught you in my

Itis a mad, wild dream, Monica! It can never, never
come true, though I almost dream it possible, when I see
that lovely blush. that deepens beneath my loo avd touch!
Oh, Monica! If I -were but five-and-twenty
younger!’’

‘What then ?*-she whispered.

“Then, hereunder the blue sky, and beside may mother’s
grave, I-would say Monica J love you—not as a father—
not as a friend—but as a lover—as a husband! Be my
wie. But now—ah, I am‘anold man, darfing! For-
give me, and forget what I have said.”

“You could love meé,’’ she said. ‘‘Me—an.. orphan—
friendless, homeless, pgor, and without even a. name!”

“Tf | were five-and-twenty years younges, you i:should
take mine in spite of yoursell, Monica! : could have
made you love me five-and-twenty years agol””

“7 love you now!”

Was he dreaming ?
on his ear ?

He gave one startled glance at the lovely blushing face.

Had that soft whisper really’ fallen

gentle bride he had won came nestling to. his breast. .
Their lips met! Fifty years? Nay, he was but a boy
again, and in love for the first, last, and only time in al’;
his varied and eventful life.

 

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs. Caryl had ample time, amid-ai{: her other-cares;
and perplexities that day, to grow uneasy about. her; mas- -

the ornamental bridge together, and talking eagerly as.
they went.

The housekeeper eyed them. closely from. behind. the -
convenient screen of a lattice blind im.the segond story, .

room. Something in the look and manner of Sir Stephen,
struck her, with all the force of a revel and admost unex-
pected danger. And something else inthe subdued, yet
happy aspect of the girl, seemed mutely answering to the
change in him.

“Surely he can have said nothing. to her yet,’? thought
the housekeeper, aghast at the thought of such imprudent;
haste. ‘i must question her at once.. And if he has,
really spoken, then it will be time to intraduce her: to the
tenant of The Crimson Roony. Paat it seams almest im-.
possible that he should be so foolishly. abrupt. dter all:
these years of coo} cantion fo ge-and threw himself head-.
long at the feet of a little schoo'pgitl like that! Khaye no:
patience to think of it. Andif my will iS law yet, at the;
Moat, the thing shall ever be’? :

Meanwhile, the happy pair approachiag.the house, with,
all the blissful selfishness ofJove, had; no thought for;
others, and were utterly oblivious . even, of the- existence-
of the woman who watched them fromthat upper window
with such unfriendly eyes. }

Monica’s gentle and pious. heart was already upliftediin
secret prayer and praise, for.the sunshine that had sosud-.
denly dawned upon her path. Twelve hours. before; andi
she was but. a nameless and homeless wanderer, depend-.
ent on the Kindness and charity of 2. stranger, for, the-very’
bread she ate, and the clothes she wore. And now, frem
his-lofty throne, Sir Stephen Powis had stooped, to raise
her to his side, and had won.her fer his oyan, as.gently, as
tenderly, and as respectfully, as ifshe had been the Digh-
est lady in the land. How could she belp. loving bum ?
Even: as they stood before the stately home, whieh had
been. the cradle of his own. proud. race for ceaturies, he
hailed her playfully by her future title, and vowed that all
within those walls shunld be her subjcets,. ard, vie with
each other in executing her behests.

At that moment he glanced toward the honmse., His eyes,
wandered to the left wing of the building, which was
shuttered closely, and partly screened frum view by a
group of somber-looking yew trees, cut jato arbors anc
winding walks by the gardener’s. shears..

Monica, glancing up at him, was sarprised by the
change that came suddenly over his face.

The tender smile, with which ke had regarcted her, *as
gone—the leyelight filled his deep, blue eyes no more. His
face was tyoubled, and his eyes. were stern and question,
ing—even piercing—in, the glance they turned upoa hen.
now.

**Monica.’”

“Yes, Sir Stephen.”

“You must keep, all this. secret, foo the present. Breathe
no werd in yonder house of the relation in which we
stand to each other, till Il give you leave. When we have
been married a year and a day, 4 will tell you my reason
for this request. Nay, itis not a request, Monica. Itisa
conumand! Will you obey it?”

“Yes, Sir Stephen,’ said the girl, her heart sinking sud
i denly within her, at his altered look and tone.

“Say nothing to Mrs. Caryl, above all others.
questions. you, avoid and evade those questions.”

“T will obey you, Sir Stephen.”

“One thing more.”

He hesitated for a few moments, and then went on
again:

“Ours isan old family, Monica, and, during the many
hundred years that it has existed, many strange things
have happened in this house. There. is a skeleton in our
cupboard, my dear, asin all others. There is a history
which I shall one day relate to. yon—but not pow. It is
connected with that western wimg, which, as yon see, is

 

If she

 

 

‘‘Here she lies, as I have so often seen her, tran--.

 

 

Sir Stephen drew her still nearer, and looked down-into -

place,’? he said, as they stood together at the foot of the ;

bright drops seen glancing in the air between the somber"

| and Sir Stephen, at the foot, looked upward, his stately.
= | head just reaching to her shoulder.

His face was.

eyes drooped before his, and a deep blush rose to her~

“There is butone thing ‘
l have prayed for.it—yearn-

arms as we fell together down. that dizzy raiiway. wall? i

years..

Then he opened his arms, and of her oan accerd, the~

ter and his youthful charge, before they-appeared, crossing y

where she was superintending the preparation.of Monica’s,

 

 

  

Jenene. can mes -papernans apy atte OY
ie 4

 

 
 

2) OT TH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

now closed, and set apart from the rest of the house.
Your rooms are in the eastern wing, and nothing need
ever call you to that other side of the house. Have I
your promise that you will not go there ?”’

“I will go to no room except my own, unless you wish
it, Sir Stephen. You may rely on me in this.”’

“Yes, I think | may trust you,’ he said, eyeing her
with that same gloomy, troubled look. - ‘“fhat frank face,
those clear, honest gray eyes, would never deceive me,

Monica. Tcould forgive and forget anything and every-

thing exde
with me.?>" )

“Indeed, Sit$tepher
again. But héfhearfwas saddened by the evident need
of this assurané@» Ought he not to haye faith in her, even
without her pledged world?, Ought %e not to know th
she loyed him todgyell to sayr e> any thing that would
displease or pain him? The mystery of the western wing
no longer excited her curiosity, as it had done at first.
But it wrung her heart. And thus, when the e@yil day
came upon her, she had less Strength to resist the tempta-
tion, than his. wkeonditional faith and Confidence im her
would have given. Bound by that promise, the force of

’ circumstances made her false to her vow; when, had the
vow been an unspoken one, it would have been kept in-
tact, to the end! And herein Sir Stephen was at fault, as
he saw only too well in after,days. But, with so much at
stake, his present coursé seemed the only one open to
him. And so he required, and Monica pronounced, the
vow.

“And now let us enter the-house,”? he, said, with a sigh
of relief. ‘‘Some prying eyes may be watching us from
yonder casements even now, for aught I can say, and I wish
to protect you from every breath of slander, even though
we are down here among these wilds. It is the few peo-
ple who are immediately around us, that constitute our
world, after all, and not one of the subjects of our little
kingdom must be able to breathe a word against the fair
fame of Lady Powis when I present her to my sovereign
before the assembled court. I wish, with all my
heart——” ,

He paused as he spoke. His eyes, fixed on the distant
hills behind the Moat, lit suddenly. His cheek flushed,
his broad breast heaved, and he turned to the girl with a
glance that seemed to pierce her to the heart.

“Monica, do you see those mountains?’

‘*Yes, Sir Stephen.”

“There, where they rise, is Scotland. The Moat lies on
the border line of the two countries. A two hours’ drive
would take us over there. Would you like to go???

‘‘Anywhere with you, Sir Stephen,’’ she replied.

“And anywhere it eill be, to a dead certainty,’”? he mut-
tered between his teeth.

He hesitated. Again he glanced toward the gloomy,
silent western wing. And then he stamped his foot im-
patiently on the ground, and turned away, biting his lip.

‘“‘Monica, we will go!” he said, aloud.

And she, rather surprised at so much agitation over the
prospect of a little drive, assented quietly.

“Not to-day, of course, for it is too late,’’ he said, hur-
riedly. “But to-morrow, Be ready very early to-mor-
row, Monica. We will drive there in the early morning,
as soon as we have breakfasted.”’

“Very well, Sir Stephen. AmI to tell Mrs. Caryi? Is
she to go with us??? -

“Tell her! At your peril, Monica!’ he said, with a
frown. ‘Tell her, indeed! Are you mad, child? Nol
you will take your breakfast early, in your own room.
Then you will dress yourself, as if for a walk in the
grounds, or Park. Say nothing to any one, even of your
intention to do this, and get out of the house without be-
ing observed, ifyou can. Then cross this bridge, take the
path to the mausoleum, and when you have reached that,
turn sharply to the left, where you will find a lonely wood
road, all overgrown with grass and moss. Follow that
road for a quarter of a mile, and you will see a ruined
lodge beneatli the trees. By that lodge isa gate that leads
out into the highway. Andthere I shall be waiting for
you witha carriage. I can trust my own servant, and he
Will go with us to—across the line, Monica. Are you sat-
isfied with my plan? Do you understand it fully?”

“I think so, Sir Stephen.”

“And you will be there?”

“1 will be there.’

“My darling! Weshail have ahappy day! And after
to-morrow—hush! Is not that Mrs. Caryl coming out
from the hall door to the porch?”

“Yes, She is looking for me, I presume.”

“Then you must run away to her, and without the fare-
well kiss that I am dying to take, if she was not looking
straight at us, Neyer mind! To-morrow shall make
amends for this! Dine with her to-day, my darling, and
let-her sleep near yourroom. Ishall see you no moretill
we meet to-morrow morning at the lodge gate. I shall
expect you there by ten o’clock, Do not fail me,”

“T will not, Sir Stephen.’?

There was a fierce glance in his deep blue eyes—an_un-
settled kind ef agitation in his manner that almost fright-
ened the girl, and made her more willing to leave him
than she would otherwise have been.

As she hurried away she heard him say to himself, in a
low voice: ae

“J will make life such a heaven to her that she Will
never have the heart to regret what she has done.”? >»

What did he mean? Why were his looks so fierce and
wild? Why all that secrecy about their morning drive?

Monica had little time to muse over these questions, for
Mrs. Caryl took possession of her, for dinner, aS soon as
she reached the porch, and never left her side afterward
till the girl had closed her eyes in sleep. Tae ete

(To be continued.)

deceit. Remémber that, in all your dealings

 

 

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
  

1, you may trust me!” she answered

at |

 

—————
But Madame Larosette nodded encourasingly to Ma-
bel.
‘Fear not,’? she said, in a whisper, aside.
send you in a carriage to La Ronceville.”’
Mabel was quite reassured, for the servants at the
“White Lily of France’ far outnumbered the Russian
lacquies of the marchioness, Meanwhile, a blacksmith

“We will

had been found to repaiz the wheel of the carriage, and
the infuriated marchioness continued to rave and gesticu-
late, until there was quite a crowd in front of the ‘Lily of
ce.” ein the midst.of it all; to Mabel’s joy, a carriage
ame up, which the landlady told her to enter. She
Stepped in, the door was shut, and the Wheels were just
turning slowly round when she suddenly perceived Fathe
Clement standing in the crowd, listening to th : voluble
account of Madame Larosette. Hesigued to the driver |
ig stop; then he approached the carriage and put in his
ead.

.My child, I willaccompany you, that I may explain
everything to Madame de la Roncevyille. 1 think I shall
find no difficulty in trhaking your case good, because I
am well acquainted with the countess. Ihave known her
trom a child.”?

Very grateful, yery thankful was Mabel to find such a
friend seated beside her in place of the ferocious little
marchioness. That enraged lady actually danced round
the carriage, and attempted to throw herself into the way
of the horses, so annoyed was she to see her rival, on
whom she had hoped to wreak her yengeance, escaping
her clutches so completely. When La Ronceville was
reached, the gates: were thrown back to admit the hired
carriage, and after a while it stopped before the great en-
trance door.” There were lights in the hall, and when the
priest and Mabel entered the house they were informed
that the countess had just sat down to dinner with her
friends and visitors.

Mabel perceived a peculiar iook in the face of the ser-
vants—she saw at once that the fraud of the marquis had
been discovered; but the presence of Father Clement elic-
ited some show of respect.

A beautiful door of ebony inlaid with ivory leading into
a gorgeous suite of drawing-rooms opened at that mo-
ment, and Madame Maisonette, in a dark violet silk, and
wearing a lace cap with lappets flying, entered the hall
majestically. When she saw Mabel she threw up her
hands.

“Mademoiselle,’’ she said, with chilling and bitter po-
liteness, ‘‘we have not anticipated the honor o7 receiving
you again at La Ronceville. ‘To what happy circumstance
are we indebted for your return to the chateau? And in
the society, too, of Father Clement!”’

“Dear madame,’ said the priest, ‘‘show us into a room;
we can explain everything.”

Madame Maisonette, only too glad to have her curiosity
Satisfied, led the way into a pretty little drawing-room,
handsomely furnished in dark blue velvet. She hada
lamp in her hand, which she placed on the table. She
closed the door and locked it, then she stood with folded
hands meekly enough before the priest, but scornfully
ignoring the presence of poor Mabel.

“Dear madame,’’ said Father Clement, ‘‘abate some-
thing of your virtuous indignation. It does you honor so
long as you are in ignorance of the true state of the
case,’? ° ;
Father Clement then proceeded to relate the circum-
stances as they had occurred.

Mabel spoke up for herself. Most fortunately for her
the forged letter, purporting to have been written by the
countess, which De Fourmentelle had handed to her, was
actually in her possession.

Father Clement showed it to Madame Maisonette. That
good lady pursed her lips, elevated her eye-brows, and
shrugged her shoulders. She could not discredit Father
Clement.

Mabel had been duped and tricked, and her very pres-
ence at La Ronceyville was a proof that she had left that
chateau unwillingly. *

Madame Maisonette perceived that Mabel’s account
would meet with full belief, that she would be reinstated
as governess to the children and that the countesss, jea-
lous and indignant, would forbid the Marquis de Four-
mentelle again entering the chateau. But Madame Mai-
sonette was not altogether pleased at this prospect. She
did not like Mabel. If asked to give a reason for this dis-
like, the French housekeeper would have found it difficult
to bring one forward; but in her heart she knew the truth
was—that Mabel Carrington was English.

Madame Maisonette was one of those persons, narrow-
minded and ungenerous, who hate all those of a dilferent
nationality.

Madame Maisonette withdrew, and in a short time re-
entered the little drawing-room, accompanied by the
countess. The face of the latter was flushed, partially by
wine, and partially by indignation. She actually tore up
the forged letter, after she had read it, and trampled it
under her feet.

“Insulting!’ she said. ‘He will come here, perhaps,
to-morrow, as though nothing were the matter. I shall
make the servants shut the door in hisface!’?

It was fortunate for Mabel that with all the frivolity,
the love of expense, the vanity and flirtations of the coun-
tess, she still had a great ect for the clergy of

 

{person his revenge upon you.

her bedchamber, Mabel contrived to tell her of the base
and terrible conduct of the Marquis de Fourmentelle.
Madame looked desperately annoyed and thoroughly
alarmed as she listened to the story.

“TI knew it! LIalways knew he was a fearful rufflan!’?
she exclaimed excitedly. ‘The Countess de Castrucchio
is stilLhere, and he came to see her last week. That wo-
manismad. She talks of accompanying him to the seat
of warin the dress of avivandiere. The sooner they are
both gone the better, Meanwhile, you must not stir out
alone, Mabel. | — : rains
this time mnst be something fearful. — y
into his clutches again he would stop short of
Iam not a verys
/person, and I do not rate when bsay tha
not s¢ruple to take your Jife.”’ NO nage
-. And his wife!’ said Mabel, ‘the ami (
} Seems a terrible person!” __ Fans ee
_ “At any rate neither of them can hurt you ifthe open)
ae ight,’ said Madame St. Pierre. “Would you not like’

0 go to the Oratoire with Monsieur St. Pierre and some
of the lady b rs? There isa very celebrated preacher
oing to deliver a sermon on the war,” “

“T should like to go very mueh,’) answered Mabel.

The Protestant service at the Oratoire commences at 12
o’clock. As soon therefore as Mabel was ready she went
into the front saton, where she was introduced to several
strangers, and she started for the Oratoire in company
with three other ladies, two young gentlemen, and Mon-
sieur St. Pierre.

The church was already nearly filled with fashionably
dressed men and women when Mabel and her party ar-
rived there. The sermon was a deeply impressive one,
urging the people of France to patriotism, that they
might speedily overcome the Prussians. During a pause
in the sermon, Mabel happened casually to remove her
eyes from the preacher’s face and to raise them toward
the gallery, when she found another pair of eyes, as large,
as flashing as the preacher’s, fixed upon herseli. It was
Gustave de Orme who was looking at her so earnestly.
His face was.pale, de 1e expression was one of intense
pain, Instinctively Mabel comprehended that he .mis-
judged her, aftertiaving seen her driving with De Four-
mentelle. The agonised look of reproach which the young
count cast at her st@- answered by one of appealing en-
treaty. The bright color which had sprung into her cheek
at slght of Gustave faded away to such a ghastly paleness
that one of the lady boarders handed her a scent case,
thinking she was about to faint, Gustave saw the whole.
Itis certain that two out of the congregation that morning
profited but slightly by the preacher’s discourse. Then,
when they left the church, Mabe! asked herself should she
ever again speak to Gustave? Would he seek her society,
or would he avoid her as though she were a pestilence?
All along the narrow passage leading into the street she
asked herself this question, and, once out in the crowd,
her heart sank within her when, on looking round at all
the strange faces, she saw that that beautiful one of Gus-
tave was missing, No, he would not seek her out. He
had seen her once with that bad man, and henceforth
she was judged by him almost as a thing accused.

On returning to the hotel, Mabel pleaded illness as an
excuse for not appearing at dinner, and remained in
Madame St. Pierre’s room. She here gave way to her
own bitter reflections, wondering why Gustave did not
seek an explanation from her. Presently there came a
knock at the door. Immediately it was opened, and Jac-
ques of the large ears appeared. ; 5

“A gentleman,’ he cried, ‘‘to see Mademoiselle Carring-
ton. Monsieur le Comte de ’Orme. He is in the salon.
There is his card.’?

Mabel started to her feet, turned white as death with
excitement, and her large eyes blazed. She saw Madame
St. Pierre looking at her in surprise and consternation.
“Ts this a new acquaintance?’? she asked, a little se-
verely.

“No, madame, no—I knew him in England.’

TT England? And you a school-girl and he a French
count! I know that he is of a southern family, and the
count—ather, I suppose, of this young man—has always
been a firm supporter of the Bourbons, But how could
you have met him in England, Miss Carrington ???

“He was studying engineering at Shirley, and he was
visiting at the house of the vicar last Christmas, and there
I met him.’’ : i
‘And there he fell in love with you, or professed to do
so,”? said Madame St. Pierre. ‘My dear Mabel, all these
Frenchmen are alike. Your young count may not go to
such lengths asthe wicked marquis, but you may depend
upon it, he is a disciple of the same school—tarred, as we
say in England, with the same brush. I would not see
him, Mabel, if i were you,?? ‘

“Oh, Madame St. Pierre, he is not like the marquis; he
is good, and he saw me in the carriage with that bad man,

 

4
ot
co
pS

si
Rm

   
  
  

Less!—she

 

2 i ed Mabel.

|. “Lwas perplexe ildered, heart-br. replied
Gustave. ‘What ¢ think but that hé had taken ad-
vantage of your frit ss position to mu? You

denly Madame St. Pierre entered to tell them that dinner

a sa

therefore, to wait as well as I could for the month of
July, when I was to, return home. But July found our
nation preparing for war, and I came over at once to
Paris, where my father’s interest procured me, with very
little expense, a commission as lieutenant of cuirassiers.
My regiment is ordered off to join Marshal MacMahon’s

forces at the end_of this week, Standing in one of the
country; near St, Cloud, w you passin the Car-
riage of Fourmen le; [saw his wicked face through

the window, t have met him

  
 
 
     
 

in Paris

within the last three weeks. Shes formed’ a «fearful
inion of him, and he te f him, be-
fore I sawyyou in hk :4 t I felt}?

“You misjudge

  

 

ae have known t at he was married possibly.’’

“Had he not been,” eried Mabel, “do you imagine that

I would lave married him?” ie ‘
sae marquis)? responded Gustaye, with a smile.

“One Who ought to Rave a fortune if h

who, at any rate, en

not one, and

bjOys a splendid pensién from the em-

peror. His is an old name, too. What reason had I to sup-

pose that you would refaséso handsome and talented a

man? He is considered most successful in winning
ladies’ heart.’?

“You speak bitterly,” cried Mabel, and her eyes flashed
indignant fire; ‘and you are ungenerous,”?

“Nay, Sweet Mabel,” responded Gustave. “TI was only
humble as regards my powers of pleasing wheh measured’
against those of a man so fascinating, so rich as De Four-
mentelle. My-blood is as good as his—but my father has
lost nearly all his fortune. The lands of De ’Orme bring
us in but a scanty income—besides, may my father live
long to enjoy that income. Meanwhile, what have I to
offer you? I-shall be a soldier of fortune for some years,
perhaps, and after peace is concluded it will be a long
time betore I can make such a fortune out of engineering
as I should like to offer you as my bride. It is true that
if my parents once saw you they would adore you. It is
true there isa home for you at our old chateau when I am
away making my fortune. tis true thatI should like to
£0 before a priest with you to-morrow that he might join
our hands in holy wediock, Al this is most true. But
What do you say to it, Mabel?”

“My answer must be the same as it was before,’ re-
sponded Mabel, ‘‘or very much the same, Count de l’Orme.
I desire you to wait two years. I want to be assured of
the strength and durability of your love before 1 plunge
into an engagement. I will nottie you to me by any
bond or promises, and I would never marry you unless I
were quite sure sure that your parents would be pleased
at your choice. My parents, too, must be consulted.
Meanwhile, you are called away to battle, while I must
battle with the world and earn my bread as best I can.
You will see others, and your heart may change ”
‘“Mabel,?? returned Gustave, “you are English, and your
blood runs cold in your veins. You can not hate, love, or
suffer as we in the warm south. You reason, and you
cut out one’s life by rule and measure. Your heart is
marble, and you have no pity. If you hear that I am
shot down by yonder Prussian savages you will calmly
say, ‘What a good thing it was I was not engaged to him
or married tohim. Iam glad that I was prudent.’ ”
**You misjudge me,’’ replied Mabel. ‘I am only pru-
dent, and youcall me cold. It is not that I doubt you, but
your nation is not remarkable for stability of purpose or
faithfulness in love. Consider how wretched my plight
would beif I placed my whole hope of happiness in you
and you failed me.”?

‘“‘Mabel,”? cried Gustave, passionately, ‘“‘you love me—
do not deny it, do not make us both miserable. Promise
me that if 1 come back from the war alive you will marry
me if my parents consent, which of course they will do.
Then we will go down to our OWn chateau in the south,
and there paradise will commence for us both. After-
ward we.can discuss my plans for making a fortune.”
Mabel hesitated for an instant, but only for an instant.
She felt her friendlessness, her isolation, and her heart
yearned for Gustaye as it never had before. She turned
toward him, andin another moment he had clasped her in
his arms, and her head rested on his shoulder. They
plighted their troth then and there to one another in that
little sitting-room at the Hotel des Forets. Gustave was
going to battle, and Mabel was going back to her toil, yet
an of them were happler than they had ever been be-
ore. ;
The hot August afternoon wane
unconscious of the hours as they p:

  
 
   
 
  
  

 

 

the lovers were
> and when sud-

was ready it seemed to them that’ they had not been to-
gether five minutes,
“T have had a knife and fork laid for you,*’ said madame,

 

and he thinks evil of me, Let me see him, I entreat you.
You shall be present at our interview. Help me to clear
myself. Explain to him how De Fourmentelle persecuted
me. Will you not do this??? _ a i

“Willingly,?* replied: Mla Madatiie St. Pierre. Then she said
to Jacques in eee “Show the tinto my private
parlor. Mademo :

 
     
 
 

  

ton Will see him there.”

 

  
 

church, and an especial reyerence for Father Clem
She believed, then, everything that the good priest sa
her, and. Mabel was fully reinstalled as the instructress of
her children. But no longer was she to expect to be
placed on that familiar footing and equality which the in-
terest of the marquis had brought about. Henceforth she
must return to the school-room and the dull routine of her

usual duties,
CHAPTER X.

her

  
   
   

    

     
   

    
  

    
  

     
 

 

  

abePs | the color came and went

a _ She follow udame St. Pierre into the
smal] sittingroom, and there stood Gustave, erect, statue-
like, magnificent in physical strength and manly grace,

but with a pale, sad, almost stern face. :

significantly, addressing Gustave. He bowed and thanked
her. ‘But,’? she continued, ‘‘who do you think is here?
Madame de Castrucchio. She very seldom dines with us
now. ee ©

_ The dining-room was cool, for the windows were open.
The table was dressed up with flowers, and the whole as-
pect of the place was gay and cheerful. The
Castrucchio was there. She was very polite
watched her closely during the whole time of di

 
     
 
    
    

  
 

 

He looked slightly annoyed at the entrance’ of Madame
St. ee although he bowed to her deeply, as he did to

Be seated, mansicur,” said madame, add

 

That night Mabel lay down in her bed thankful, very

 

  
   
 

a Pang
bel Carrington ;

TING TWO YEARS.

- mig, the Peerless Author

OF “PEERLESS CATHLEEN,”? “LADY OF
GRAND COURT,” ete., ete.

 

 

 

[Mabel Carrington” was commenced in No. 28. Back Nos can
be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER IX.

The feeble old woman looked first at the infuriated
marchioness, next at the trembling girl, whose earnest
put helpless protestations were received only with the
bitterest scorn by the maddened wife of De Fourmentelle.

“Seize her!’? cried the Countess Jane, and as she spoke
the strong hands of the men seryants caught each a slen-
der arm of Mabel.

Ola Justine raised a cry, a loud, piercing shriek.

«What will Father Clement say??? she cried. ‘And
this is the sweetest, the most innocent creature——"’

Then she tottered down the garden in front of the men
who were forcing Mabel into the carriage. A villager in
a blouse paused in the road when he heard the loud
shrieks of Justine; a woman in a white cap, driving home
two cows, leant with her two arms upon a gate before
she unfastened it, and stared in open-mouthed wonder at
the scene which was being enacted before the house of

 

thankful, that she had escaped so much peril. But there
was a bitter pang mingling with her feelings of gratitude
and joy at her recovered safety. She thought of Gustave
de l'Orme, for she had seen him standing under the shade
of the thick trees, his hands raised, his eyes wide open in
a sorrowful surprise. Evidently he knew something of
the character of the Marquis de Fourmentelle. Probably
ne knew the livery of that nobleman’s servants. Possibly
he had caught a glimpse of his face. At any rate he seemed
to have been impressed with the idea that Mabel was
willingly fleeing away in the society of that bad and un-
principled man, :

And now where was,Gustave? It would have beena
great comfort to have ¢leared herselfin his eyes. It was
terrible to think they might never meet again in this
world, and that ifevera thought of her should cross the
mind of Gustave del’Orme again, he would no longer re-
gard her as the school-girl of lofty mind, who had never
once forgotten her maidenly dignity even while tacitly
confessing her love for him. What must he think of her
now? She buried her head in the pillow when she
thought of this, and she sobbed convulsively.
But in the morning it was necessary that she should be
up and cheerful. Avtew days passed eventlessly, then a
restlessness took possession of Mabel Carrington. She
felt a strong desire to be somewhere else, to converse
with somebody besides Madame Maisonette and the little
children. She decided that she would ask leave to spend
the following Sunday at the Hotel des Forets. She asked
and received permission. She was to be driven to the
station, and she was not expected to return until Monday
morning.

She wrote to Madame St. Pierre to apprise her of her

 

the priest; but no one seemed inclined to interfere. Ma-
bel was actually forced into the carriage, and the furious
wife of De Fourmentelle took her place by herside. An-
other moment and the wheels rolled round. Mabel coy-
ered her eyes with her hands.

‘Ah, you will not see him where you are going to,” said
the marchioness. ‘‘He may have made fine professions,
but he will not seek you in the wilds of Siberia, where it
is cold always—where there are neither flowers nor sun-
shine. You have listened to the voice of one who has no
heart and no honor—who is without shame, who——”’

Allat once the carriage came to a standstill, gave a great
jolt, and lurched over on one side in such a fashion that
the hunchbacked little marchioness was thrown upon the
very knees of Mabel. ‘ ;

Our heroine looked out of the window, and now to her
delight she perceived that they were stopping before a
largeinn. They were in factin the village of Bonny,
pte was not very far from the Chateau de Fourmen-
telle.

 

It was a large, comfortable-looking hostelry, a-blaze
With flowers at its windows and balconies. There was a
gas-light flaring at the entrance, and two waiters in white
aprons lounged at the door. Mabel knew the inn by sight:
she had often passed it in her drives. It was called ‘‘The
White Lily of France.”

The landlady also Mabel had frequently seen, and even
spokento. She was a good-natured, smart woman, and
Mabel felt that she was safe, and was humbly grateful to
Heaven for the accident which had caused the wheel to
break at this opportune moment. She sprang to the win-
dow, and cried out to the waiters:

“Tell Madame Larosette to come here. Tam governess
to the children of the Countess de la Ronceyille. You have
often seen me, or at least your mistress has, and I wish to
get outof this, and to hire a carriage which will take me
back to the chateau.

But the fierce face of the marchioness was thrust through
the window, and she shouted to the men:

«No, no! Lether not escape! She is a traitress!
deserves punishment. She is a prisoner’?

There was immediately a hubbub, and several persons
cime rushing at once out of the *‘White Lily of France.’’
it was necessary that the ladies should descend in order
that the wheel might be mended, and no sooner did Mabel
find herself on the ground than she caught convulsively at
the arm of the good-natured landlady. ;

“You will let me have a carriage, madame 2’ she said.
«J will pay you anything if you will let me be conducted
safely to La Ronceville. This ladyis the Countess de
Fourmentelle,” and in a few hurried words Mabel told her
story to Madame Larosette.

The sympathies of the worthy landlady were at once
aroused in favor of the hapless and friendless English
girl, Another moment and the hunchbacked marchion-
ess stood at the other side of the landlady. She poured
forth fearful accusations and threats, but the ruddy-
cheeked Larosette only bowed, and smiled, and attempted
to soothe the irate old lady, yet Mabel was a little shocked
to hear her say:

“Ah, well, madame, young girls will be young girls, and
monsieur le marquis is the envy of all the exquisites of
Paris. Itis the penalty which your ladyship will have to
pay for marrying so handsomea husband. Allthe ladies,
young and oid, admire him. But this young girl is going
back again to her work and her pupils. She is very sorry
that sbe ever took a rive with the marquis, and she will
never doit again. Evidently they have quarrelled, for she
ran away from De Fourmenteile!”’

‘No. Father Clement persuaded her, and she was
ashamed to set the priest at defiance,’ shrieked the mar-
chioness. ‘I called at the house and heard it all—heard
it from a servant, and now she shall come with me—she
ghall come and be pyunished.”?

She

intended visit, and she received an affectionate answer,
inviting her to be in time for the eleven o’clock breakfast,
and promising her a bed for the night.

On Sunday morning then, after partaking of a cup of
milk and a biscuit, she bade adieu to Madame Maisonette
and the children, and quitted the chateau in the little open
vehicle which was lent her for the occasion.

Beautiful she looked on that bright summer morning.
She wore a dress of delicate white muslin, sprigged with
rose buds; and asmall bonnet, in which was a single rose,
surmounted the heavy coils of her magnificent dark hair.
A parasol of. white silk, also sprigged with roses, and
wiiite gloyes completed the toilette of Mabel.

There may have been those who would have judged
that the young girl’s dress was too fashionable and ele-
gant for a mere dependent.

She was driven to the station, took her ticket, and soon
arrived in Paris; there, having obtained an omnibus, she
found herself journeying toward the hotel, andthe Avenue
des Fleurs.

Beautiful Paris! How it sparkled in the sunshine on
that'August day. It seemed a fairy city, carven out of
white stone, and positively garlanded with flowers—
flowers in all the balconies, and in nearly all the windows,

The chief of the regiments had left for the seat of war,
but there were still a few to be met with, splendidly
mounted, with bands playing, and colors flying. Some
of the magnificent Cents Gardes too there were, all of
whom were of gigantic stature, and nearly all of good
birth. The dress of these soldiers—sky-blue cloth, golden
epaulettes, and crimson pantaloons—was too gay and
gorgeous to have suited any but a race of giants. While
the bands played the church bells rang out a call to
prayer.

In the passing carriages Mabel saw women whose toi-
lettes were, as the younger Dumas expresses it, ‘“‘A
dream for poets,’ so exquisitely were colors blended, so
gracefully did lace fall, so rich were the folds of silk and
of satin.

The pavements were thronged; everybody was talking
about the war; street boys were singing songs; carica-
tures of Bismarck and the king of Prussia were carried
about, and advertised in loud voices by the vendors:

“To Berlin! To Berlin!’ cried the crowd; and even
fantastically dressed little girls carrying dolis—as little
girls in France do carry dolls on a Sunday—tossed their
Waxen babies into the air, and caught them again, shriek-
ing the same refrain. ‘‘To Berlin! To Berlin!* cried the
children. The women and men in the omnibus talked of
the same absorbing theme. They were going to .conquer
the Prussians, they were going to take Berlin. Mabel
listened to it all, and wondered dimly if it would come

true,

 

 

Mabel, being in France, felt with the French, and did
she not love a Frenchman? She hoped and believed then
that the obstinate pride of the Teutons would have to give
way. She did not feel annoyed with the shouting crowds,
| the gaily dressed soldiers, the children crying out to their
| dolls, the bands of music.» All Paris seemed to have gone

mad, and Mabel in her quiet way participated in the ex-
citement.

When Mabel entered the Hotel des Forets, she was
heartily welcomed by Monsieur and Madame St. Pierre,
who were sitting down to a plentiful breakfast, with a few
of their friends. She took eff her bonnet and gloves, and,
seated by the side of Madame St. Pierre, she was pressed

| to eat and drink with ali the hospitality which character-
| ized that kind old lady.

It was the same thing here as it was in the streets.
| There was nothing talked of but the war—the Prussians
| and the war, and the certainty which everybody felt that
|} the enemy would be thoroughly humiliated, conquered,

oe

  

or in a.kind tone. She was pleased by

    
 

apital,
earted
) ad, With om she amity
and quiet good will—notwithstanding all these facts and
circumstances, she was very much prejudiced against the
average French character. Madame spoke French, but
Gustave, detecting her nationality, smiled as he addressed
her in English,

“Thank you, madame,” he said, ‘first let me see you
seated, and Miss Carrington also.”

“Ah, Lsee you must haye lived for some time in my
dear native country,” cried madame, ‘‘to enable you to
speak my language so well.”

Meanwhile Mabel, blushing like arose, had seated her-
Self, after bowing to Gustave. zi
He devoured her with his eyes, but he could not speak
to her just then. Had not madame been present both of
thése young persons would have been much embarrassed
and the explanation would have been far more difficult.
“T am surprised to find that you two are old friends,”’
said madame. ‘‘Mabel tells me you were at school in
each other’s neighborhood, and you met in the vicar’s
house 7"? ‘

“Yes, madame,’? answered Gustave; then hé paused
and colored. '

Madame continued:

“Mabel tells me that shesaw you the other day when
she was in society the most hateful and abhorrent to her,
I do not wish to insult your nation, Monsieur de l)Orme,
butit is a fact that were an English noble to conduct him-
self as does yonder Marquis de Fourmentelle he would be
scouted by all decent society. Noman would walk by his
by his side, no woman would shake his hand.’?

Gustave looked very much astonished, but at the same
time very much relieved; then Madame St. Pierre gave
him a short account of the manner in which De Four-
mentelle had deceived Mabel with the forged letter, and
induced her to accompany him to his chateau, where he
shut her up a prisoner nearly the whole day, and from
which she had escaped through the accidental arrival of
Father Clement,:a priest.

  

 

       
   
   

 
  
     
         
 
  
   
 

 

Gustave’s eyes blazed with fury as he listened to this
story. He clenched his hands, he uttered afew words to
himself in a tone which sounded almost like the growling
of thunder; all the hot blood and high spirit of the Gaul
were aroused within him.

“But she escaped,’ he said, with flashing eyes; ‘‘she
escaped, and she is now residing with you, madame?’

“Oh, returned madame, ‘‘then I see you have not cor-
responded with Miss Carrington since she left England.”’

“No, madame; Miss Carrington never admitted me to
the honor of a correspondence.”

“Then perhaps [ had better leave you to finish your ex-
planations,’’ said madame, rising.

Another moment and Gustave and Mabel were alone.
Gustave ventured to approach Mabel.

“You went away without leaving mea word or a sign,”’
he said, reproachfully. ‘IZ missed you in church the
Sunday after, but [supposed you were ill, and I waited
patiently until the next Sunday; Iwas again disappoint-
ed. After thatI could not rest; I contrived to get into
the garden one evening when the young ladies were play-
ing croquet, and I hid behind alaurel bush on that lawn
beneath the elms until Miss Nellie Malcolm came there to
find her ball. She did not lose her presence of mind or
scream when she saw me; but I, knowing that I had no
time to lose, did not waste it by bestowing compliments
on that young lady. I inquired at once about where you
were, when she became most angry. She said some very
ill-natured and unladylike things, but refused to tell.me
where you had gone.”?

“She did not Know,” said Mabel, blushing; ‘but doubt-
less Miss Malcolm. apprised you of the fact that my father
had lost his fortune, and that Il was forced to seek my
bread among strangers.”?

‘‘Miss Malcoim did say something of the kind,” replied
Gustave; ‘‘and it showed that she was unfeminine, hard-
hearted, and of a meanand paltry spirit. I told her that
your reverse of fortune raised you in my eyes, that I re-
joiced at it, since it would-énable me to prove the sincerity
of my devotion. ‘You are romantic,’ she said, scoffingly.
‘Lam firmly and earnestly determined,’ I answered, ‘to
deyote myself henceforth, heart and soul, to Mabel Car-
rington. I shall seek her, and when TI have found her I
shall then offer her my hand in marriage. I could hardly
have done this so well while her father was a rich man;
but now Ishall lay myself prostrate at her feet. Iaméan
only child—my parents will not oppose my happiness.’
Miss Malcolm mocked at me very bitterly; she said that
she thought it would be very difficult to find you, and,
with a malicious gleam im her eyes, she informed me that
she believed you were on your way to Africa; but there
was something in her tone which told me that she was
speaking untruthfully. I went away tien, almost with-
out bidding Miss Malcolm adien, and called upon the
vicar; but he didnot know where you were.
to oblige me, he inquired of the Miss Singletons, and they
told him that you were in France, but they did not know
where. They stated that youhad never written to them
since you left, and they seeméd very much annoyed with
the vicar for asking questions. So he refused to’ appeal

juring your reputation if I went-about making too close
inquiries, and [felt convinced if'you were in’ France you

 

and crushed.

| After breakfast, when alone with Madame St. Pierre in

However, |

to them again for information. « I was much afraid of in-

ter dinner she left the room hastily, and did not appear
again. Sor ve eee veuneah i are aa
than eleven 0’¢l en he quitted the Hotel des Forets,
saying that he would call fF Mabe _in the morning, and

re

du er tothe, Chateau de la Ronceyille. t
r an old-fashioned

the quays. Suddenly

a upped in . ee : _crossed over to
id ay him in the Fr:
«J ee onto believe that you

  

 

 

   

— EE eS

rub and pat with the hand, spread on a clean towel, andyy1
are done, roll up the towel and iron in about an hour.

E ique, Crysalis, A Sufferer, J. M. B., and Caleb Curson Bathe
very frequently in cold water. Beregular in your habits, Neyer
retire to bed till you feel very sleepy, and rise early. The cover-
ing on your bed should be of light material. Avoid late Suppers
and spirituous liquors, Above all, kee yur thoughts as much

1en all

 
   
   
    
 
 

   
  

as possible from off y. wi are afilic

i : r 2 cted, -
tend places of anise: occasion an ‘mingle trae
cheerful company. D et dis d. Persevere in the

treatment we have sug;
A Cour oY wel To Ma
good glue n to. twenty parts
the liquid of nine parts of Tos ae d.
arabic. Ther mre can be br

w ; it keepS well, dogg not si
adber és firmly to irl) ;
i)

you will be cured.......
+E.—Macerate five parts of
Of water for a day, and to
y andthree parts of gum
Gd upon paper while luke-
gether, and when moistened
abels of soda or seltzer water

good rye flour and glue, to
shave been added, in the
e pound, Labels pre-
nh damp cellars. 2. You
No, 27.

    
     
  
  
 

es, itis wellto pre
: varnj
fan oa

propor
pa in rway do i
will find @ recipe for maki

  
  

      
 

juiee ugh 2 ye,

twenty-four cloves, half an ounce é
mace; salt and eayennta your tast
it boil until reduced to the origi

 
   
  

ack into the kettle, Add |
pice; half an oumce of '

t it on the fire, and let |
ntity. The next day |

Strain out the spice, anid to every pint .@ ce adda gil i

21°) t > adda gill ofyine- |
gar, and bottle for use...... Friend Joe.—Pera recipe fer BUMIONS
See No. 27......G. W. X.—Bathe your face im spirits of wine... |
Ipse Dixvit.—FLESHWORMS.—Wash the face Price a day with |

warm water, amd rub dry with a coarse tow, Then with
Wwek?Tub in a lotion made of two ounces ot white braaik on
ounce cologne; and one-half ounce liquor potassa,...... Flashing
Hyes\and Nina.—AftePyour ablutions apply a litte glycerine to
yourface, Shortly afterward put on a litue toile, powder, ar }

 

   

magnesia, Then rub off with a soft towel. Your ot question,
Nina, we cannot answer....,.,Edwin Prinn,—See recie tor ROSE
SOAP in No. 28........ Relief.—TO CURE CATARRH.—Théfollowing
recipe is recommended: Split half a pound of yellow root,
and dry itin an oven; take four ounces each of dried d root
and seoke root, one ounce of cinnamon and half an ce of |

cloves; powder them all fine, and mix well together; uss it as
snuff eight or ten times a day, and sweat the head with aninfy.
sion ot ‘hemlock boughs, brandy and camphor. Pour a little tm-
phorated spirits in the hot water, to cause perspiration. .\...W
H. H.—Write to the American News Company, in this city......'
Freddy R.—FRENCH POLISH.—For a yarnish, dissolve twelye
ounces of shellac in half a gallon of naphtha; it will be then
ready, without filtering. The wood must be placed level, and
Sandpapered until it is perfectly smooth, otherwise it will not:
polish. Then provide a rubber ot cloth, list orsponge, wrap it in-
asoft rag, so as to leave a handle at theback of your hand, :
shake the bottle in which you have placed the varnish against’
the rubber, and in the middte of the varnish on the rag, place!
with your finger a little raw linseed oil. Now commence rubbing
in small circular strokes, and continue until the pores are filled,
charging the rubber with varnish and oil as required, until the!
whole wood has had one coat. When dry, repeat the process -
once or twice until the surface appears even and fine, between}
each coat using fine sandpaper to smooth down all eularities. '
Lastly, use a clean rubber with a little strong alcohol only, which
will remove the oil and the cloudiness it causes. The work will:
then be complete....... O. N. E.—We cannot inform ydu........ |
Will. A. Campbell and Penman,—SILVER PLATING. —To prepare |
articles for plating wash in weak lye to remove grease. Dip
into dilute nitric acid to remove oxide, Scour with ahard brush '
and fine sand, Then, having fastened to a wire, dip in strong
nitric acid and immerse in electrolyte as quickly as possible, So-
LUTION FOR SILVERING.—Add to a solution of nitrate of silver |
(made by dissolving silver in pure nitric acid) a solution of cyan-—
ide of potassium until no further precipitate is formed; but’ not
enough to re-dissolve the precipitate already thrown down. Pour
off the supernatant liquid, wash with watér, and then redissolye
the precipitate in cyanide of potassium. The anode should be of
silver. Should the solution change on keeping, add a little fresh
cyanide, Usea moderate current. An ounce and a half ofgilyer
will give toasurface a foot square a coating as thick as common
writing paper. GOLD POWDER FOR GILDING.—Dissolve the pure
gold‘(or the leaf) into nitro-muriatie acid, and then precipi it
by a piece of copper, or by a solution of sulphate of iron, The
precipitate (if by copper) must be digested in distilled vinegar and
then washed (by pouring water over it repeatedly) and dried.
This precipitate will be in the form ofa very fine powder.....W7.
C.—A few drops of olive oil, given internally, may heip them,,...
Rhine.—Your eyebrows cannot be permanently dyed. Some
ladies hold a hair pin over a gas light and blacken the hair with
what accumulates on the pin. Of course this operation has to be
performed every day...... John W. Sutton.—l. To MAKE CINNA-
MON WATER.—Bruised cinnamon one pound; water two gailons;
simmer in a still for half an hour; put what comes over into the «
still again; when cold strain through flannel, 2. WHITE InK— |
Having carefully washed some egg-shells, remove the internal —
skin, and grind them on a piece of porphyry; then put the powder |
in a small vessel of pure water, and when settied at the bottom, |
draw off the water, and dry the powderin the sun. This powder |
must be preserved in a bottle. When yougvant to use it, puta’
small quantity of gum ammomiac into distilled water, and ietit |
dissolve during the night. Next morning the solution will appear |
white, and if you strain through a linen cloth and add to itthe
powder of eggshells, you will obtain a very white ink, which may
be used for writing on black paper. It is used for show cards —
J. P.—li, We know nothing of the virtues of the article named.
2. See answer to “A. B, C.,” and others, in No. 8..... Lantern.—
We cannot teli you......4 A Copyist.—Cyanide of. potassium and
oxalic acid...... W. F. A.—AQUARIUM CEMENT. —Take one part,
by measure, of litherage: one part plaster of Paris; one part fine
beach sand; one-third part fine powdered rosin; mix all together.
This may be kept for years, while dry, in a weil-corked bottle;
when used, make in a putty with boiled iinseed oil; a ittle patent
dryer may be used, it will stand water at once, either saltor fresh,
-.....Brown Coat.—SHAMPOONING THE HAIr.—Eyery barber has
his own recipe for making the article he uses, but haying tried the
following we recommend it; Take a basin and pour init a pint of
warm soft water. Beat up in it the yolk of an , and then
cleanse the hair thoroughly with it. Afterward wash the hair with

clean tepid water.......... Frank.—See Nos. 25 and 26..... ....
peas An Old Reader.—A full description would occupy too much
space in this column....... Sport,—Use chlorate of potassa........

Boy Questioner.—We would advise you to procure a work on the
subject. You can doubtless get one at the store of the American
News Co. in_this city........ Amateur Artist.—There are several
processes. If you intend to make it a business we would suggest
the importance of obtaining some work which treats of the subject
in detail......... Little Cooper.—l, We cannot aid you. 2, The
Athletes........4. H. F—Puta little borax into your hair oil
Newark, N. J., is avery good place for your trade. Avoid late
and hearty suppers. If youdo not improve consuita physician....
Thomas K. Adger.—A FINE DISINFECTANT.—A saturated solution
of permanganate of potassa is one of the most efficient and ele-
gant of all disinfectants. EP dc Ss grains will be am pie Tortwo
quarts of water, and a tablespoonful in a soup-plate ot water, ex-

 

 

 

ch language:

- hate the Marquis de

ourmentelle. He has done me a deadly injury; he has
carrigd off my youngest daughter, and I do not know
where he has placed her. Just now he went up that
courtyard, it is a short cut which leads into the yard of the
hotel where he was staying. Jam an old man, and very
feeble; no gendarme would lay his hand upon him, for his
are not crimes which the law punishes. Follow me, and
help me to hold him until he tells me where he had hidden
my child.”’

Gustave, impetuous, young, and enraged as he was
against the marquis, followed the old man at once. He
did not look muchathim. He only saw that he had white
hair and whiskers, and that he stooped 4nd walked feebly.
They went up a narrow lane, with high walls on each side.
A lamp was burning very dimly at the farther end.

Suddenly the old man turned round and laid a grasp of
iron upon the shoulder of Gustave.

Then he ralsed a loud cry for the police, while Gustave
struggled with him furiously.

(To be continued.)

 

QUR KNOWLEDGE Box.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering.

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Thirsty Dick.—TO MAKE SIRUPS FOR SODA WATER.—SIMPLE
Sirvup.—l. Take of white sugar, fourteen lbs.; water, one gallon.
Dissolve with the aid of a gentle heat, strain, and when cold add
the whites of two eggs, previously rubbed with a portion of the
sirup, and mix thoroughly by agitation, The egg albumen is
added to produce froth. 2, LEMON Sikup.—Take of oil of lemon,
twenty-five drops; citric acid, ten drachms; simple sirup, one
gallon. Rub the oil of lemon with the acid, add a small portion
of sirup, and mix. 3. ORANGE Srrup.—Take of oil of orange,
thirty drops; tartaric acid, four drachms; simple sirup, one
gallon. Mixasabove. 4, VANILLA Sirup.—Take of fiuid extract
of vanilla, one ounce; citric acid, half an ounce of simple sirup,
one gallon. Rub the acid with a portion of sirup, add the extract
of vanilla, and mix, 5. GINGER Sirup.—Take of tincture of
ginger, four ounces; white sugar, seven pounds; water, half a
gallon. Heat the sugarand water until the sugar is dissolved,
raise to the boiling point, then gradually add_ the tinc-
ture of ginger, stirrin briskly after each addition. 6.
SARSAPARILLA SIRUP.—Take of simple sirup, one gallon; com-
pound sirup of sarsaparilla, to suit your taste; powdered extract
of liquorice. one ounce; oil of sassafras and oil of wintergreen,
fifteen drops; oil of anise, ten drops. Rub the oils with powdered
liquorice, add a portion of sirup, rub smoothly, and mix the whole
together by agitation. 7. ORGEAT SiruP.—Take of cream sirup,
half a pint; vanilla sirup, one pint; simple sirup, half a pint; oil
of bitter almonds, five drops. Mix. 8. COFFEE SIRup.—Take of
ground roasted coftee, four ounces; boiling water, two pints; sugar,
four pounds. Infuse the coffee in the water until cold, strain, add
the sugar, and make asirup. 9. STRAWBERRY SIRUP.—Take of fresh
ripe strawberries, ten quarts; white sugar, twenty-four pounds;
water, a quarter of a gallon. Spread a portion of the sugar over
the fruit in layers, let it stand four or five hours, express the juice,
strain, washing out the mark with water; add remainder of sugar
and water, raise to the boiling point, and strain. 10. RASPBERRY
Srrup.—Proceed as for strawberry sirup..... Young Milliner.—To
BLEACH STRAW Hats, ETC.—Straw hats and bonnets may be
bleached by putting them, previously washed, in pure water, into
a box with burning sulphur; the fumes which arise unite with the
water on the bonnets, and the sulphurous acid thus formed
bleaches them.......... George Wooster.—We cannot say..........
L. BE. E.—CorN STARCH JELLY CAKE.—One cup of butter, two of
sugar, one of corn starch, one of flour, one of sweet milk, whites
of seyen eggs, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar, half a tea-
spoonful of soda. When baked, as you take from the oven, lay
on a fiat surface; spread over a layer of jelly on the top, then lay
on another cake; then jelly, then cake......Louisa Sefronia—To
MAKE STRAWBERRY SHORT CAKE.—We give you two recipes: 1.
To two teacupfuls of sour milk add one teaspoonful of soda; when
this is dissolved,'add one cup of butter or lard, and flour enough
to make a soft dough. Roll into thin cakes large enough to fill
the pan in which they are to be baked. Dust a frying-pan with
fiour, place in the cake and bake over the fire, turning as soon as
the underside is done. Split the cakes while hot, and butter well.
Lay on a plate a half of the cake, put on ita layer of well-sugared
strawberries, put another half of a cake, more strawberries, and
so on until there are five er cix layers, and serve. 2. Mix the
dough with buttermilk as for short-biscuit, roll so that it will be
from one to two inches thick when baked, and bake in an oven.
Mash the strawberries slightly and add sugar to your taste, and
water, to make juice sufficient to moisten well the cake; split the
cake while hot, butter each part well, and pour the strawberries,
ete., upon the under half and cover with the upper...... Briage-
man Huyler.—REMEDY FOR TENDER FrET.—A solution of tannic
acid is an excellent application for tender feet, and is, also, a pre-
yentive of the offensive odor attendant upon their profuse perspi-
ration. It can be obtained of almost any druggist. strong de-
eoction of oak bark will also be found very € we cake ly eas
Scipio.—You will find a recipe for INGROWING NAILS in No. 27
J. H. Miller.—See No. 28....... Young Housewife—How To MA?
AGE WASHING.—A lady of experience writes as follows: “The eve-
ning previous to washing-day I put on the boiler and two gallons
of soft water, allowing about a quarter of a pound of sal-soda and
a quarter of a pound of soap sliced; let them boil together until
the soap and soda are dissolved, I then put the fine white clothes
into one tub, and the coarsest ones into another. To the water
in the boiler I add enough cold water tomake the whole luke-
warm, and pour it over the cp tres and cover the tubs with a
blanket. In the morningI add a pailfui of hot water to the fine
clothes,.and rub them well from this. They then go through an-
other rub in fresh water, are next boiled twenty minutes, sudsed,
rinsed in blue water, and hungup todry. Thecoarse clothes re-
ceive the same treatment. My colored clothes are washed, rinsed
and starched before hanging out. Instarching my muslins and the
shirt-bosoms and wristbands, I use boiled starch, being careful
to rub.in well the starch; that is, after the shirt-bosom has been
dipped and wrung ‘out as dry as possible. It is well rubbed and

atted between the hands. © This is a secret known to all good

aundry women, and it is almost impossible to prevent the iron
from sticking, unless this precaution is observed. I cannot make
my husband’s collars stiff enough with boiled starch, so I always

 

 
  

  
    
 

 

   
 

 

 

would be in Paris. So many English feulge, Po come

: : : : et perhapsa }
there to improve themselves in‘ourlangudge, | F resolved, £ search théroughiy mixed before dir

oS NY ree Bi

| use cold starch for them. Take two teaspoonfuls of starch, and
Ve lf teacupful of water, or a little more. Have the

 
    

posed inaroom of ordinary dimensions, quickly removes any
ordinary smell, When the pink color disappears more must be
added. It is frequently

y to remove the smeli of bilge-water
and guano from ships.

t speedily cleanses foui water and makes
it drinkable. A tablespoonful to a hogshead 1s generaliy enough,
but more may be added, until the water retains a slight pinkish
tint. This will disap by putting a stick in the water for a few
minutes. No sick room—especially one in which an infectious dis-
ease is prevailing—should be without this invaluable disinfectant.
Ao Rufus King.—To GALVANIZE.—Take a solution of nitro-
muriate of gold (gold dissolved in a mixture of aquafortis’ and
muriatic acid) and add toa gill of it a pint of ether or alcohol;
then immerse your copper chain in it for about fifteen minutes,
when it will be coated with a film of gold. The copper must be
perfectly clean and free from oxyd, grease, or dirt, or it will not
take on the gold.

DO YOUR OWN PRINTING.

CHEAPEST AND BEST PORTABLE
PRESSES.
Men and Boys Making Money.
RICE of Presses, $8, $12, $16. Offices, $15, $20, $30.
Send for a circular to LOWE PREss Co., 15 Spring
Lane, Boston, Mass. w30-2t eow

 

 

 

 

Rees: ABDOMINAL WEAKNESS OR CORPULENCY.—
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SYCHOMANCY.—Any lady or gentleman can make

$1000 a month, secure their own happiness and mdependence,
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sold. Sent by mail in cloth, for $1.25, paper covers $100. The
Philadelphia Star, speaking of the book, says: its author is HER-
BERT HAMILTON, B. A., the celebrated Physological lecturer, The
publisher T. W. EvANs, one of the oldest established Perfumers
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cient guarantee of its merits. Mr. EVANS has spent $60,000, in
advertising and getting out this extraordinary book. Skeptics in
Psychology read and be convinced of this wonderful occult power

ka NOTICE.—Any person willing to act as Agent will receive
asample copy FREE. As no capital is required, all desirous of
genteel employment should send for the work, enclosing 10c. tor
postage to T. W. Evans, 41 S. Eighth st., Philadelphia, Pa.

W22-7te.0.w.
$150 AMONTH! EMPLOYMENT!
EXTRA INDUCEMENTS!
A premium HORSE and WAGON for Agents. We desire to
employ agents for aterm ofseven years, to sell the Buckeye
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ms A. HENDERSON & CO., Cleveland, Ohio, or St. Leuis, Mo.
4-52t.

 

 

AN AGENT WANTED IN BVERY counry
TO INTRODUCE OUR PATENT

Brush, Broom, and Tool Holder.

EXCLUSIVE TERRITORY GIVEN,

Agents are making from $5 to $15 per day. Samples mailed!
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26-5t. 268 Superior St., Cleveland, Ohio.
Acconmodation.

Persons residing in the country who desire to purchase any
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This newly discovered and unéqualled Polish should be used
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TOONE & CO., Proprietors,
$30 East 121st. Street., N.Y.
For sale everywhere by Jewelers, Druggists, Hardware, House-
furnishing Stores, Grocers, &c¢. w25tt

 

 

 

GREAT SUCCESS! ;

THE IMPROVED EMPIRE SEWING MACHINES.
Speedy. noiseless, and durable. Sold-on accommodating terms.
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MEDIKONES.

NERVOUS DEBILITY and other

‘disorders cured without taking
Medicine. (BOOK FREE.) Drs. WELLS & STELL,
23-26 101 West 42d Street, N. Y. City

    

VID

 

EG AR, how made in 10 hours, without drugs. Par-
ticulars 10 cents. F. SAGE, Cromwell, Conn, w2)-L3t

 

RY THE WEEKLY AMERICAN WORKMAN 3 MONTHS,
_ only 50 cents. 8 pages. Leading Labor Reform Paper in
J Address i
AMERICAN WORKMAN Co., Boston, Mass.

 

 

ig in acollar, wring out, and

 

 

 

 

 

 

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<<< THE NEW YORE. WEEKLY.

 

 

=

Mr. JoHN WorNapay, Augusta Station, Ind., relates
the following remarkable cure of chronic rheumatism:

“J send you the particulars of the remarkable eure of
Mrs. Sarah Ann M’Vey, of this place. She had been so
dreadfully agilicted with rheumatie pains and neuralgia
that four of the best physicians failed to cure her, and she
requested me to procure five bottles of Scovill’s Blood
and Liver Sirup, which has been the means OF re-
storing her to health.”

Mrs. Sarah Ann M’Vey indorses the above statement
with regard to eh roy true.

For sale by all Druggists.

For Pamphiet, address A. L. SCOVILL & CO.,
No. 7 Rose street, New York.

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The Only Sure Rat Destroyer 0” the Market.

This preparation is unlike anything ever before present-
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more sure than that. Dr, Bennett’s Sure Death
will Kitz Everytime. For sale everywhere. Address A.
L. Scovill & Co., 7 Rose St.. New York City.
25 cts.per Box; by Mail, 35 cts,

 

  

WwW MAKE ONLY ONE STYLE, AND HAVE BUT ONE

price for our Pianos; which are all made from thoroughly
seasoned and Kiln-dried materials, and have seven octaves—rose-
wood case—carved legs and lyre—large square, grand overstrung

  

  
 
  

 

scale—tront round corners—serpentine bottom—iron_ plate—
French action—and are all warranted five years. We haye no
age and allow no commissions or discounts to any one. This

explains how we can sell a good Piano for $290, which is about the
price Piano dealers pay to manufacturers for instruments similar
to ours. Piano dealers are allowed by all manufacturers, except
ourselves, to add 100 per cent., and upward, profit to all sales.
This the publie can prove, by investigation, to be strictly true.
Piano dealers, teachers, professors, and everybody else, are ex-
cluded from any and every possibility of a single cent of commis-
sion on our Pianos. If you wish a Piano sent for trial, you must
make the matter of reference and payment unquestionable; and

   

end of ten days’ trial, instead of paying for it.
Piano sent, we have one request to make; and that is, that the
trial shali be made by parties who are not interested in other
Pianos. Please send for our circulars containing full particulars
and references to bankers, merchants, and families in thirty-five
States and Territories, who are using our Pianos. Address or ap-
ply to the UNITED STATES PIANO CO., 645 Broadway, N.Y.

We ae ean on Canvassers for JOHN S. C. AB-

 

BOTT’S ** Prussia, and Franco-Prussian War,’

in both English and German. The book for the times. B. B
RUSSELL, Publisher, Boston, Mass, w32-2t

if the instrument is in any respect inferior to any Piano made in
the known world, at any price, you may send it back to us at the
If you order a

SSS

METAMORPHOSIS.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

 

 

What is thy soul, young lover?
A blithe voice sang to me,
When my love was mine, and my hopes were fine,
And I answered merrily:
My soul is my love, and’my love is a bird,
With berry-brown wings and a golden bill;
And I glide o’er the lake, or I hide in the brake, \
But mostly I love to sit still
On an alder tree by the summer sea,
Merrily, merrily
Watching the sea.
What is thy soul, pale mourner? i
A sad voice questioned me, {
When my love had fled, and my hopes were dead, |
And I answered bitterly: |
My soul is my love, and my love isa bird '
With ragged red plumes and a brazen beak ;
And I scream o’er the coast, like an angry ghost,
But mostly I rock on the peak
Of a scarred pine-tree by the wintry sea,
Hungrily, hungrily
Eying the sea.

—

The Child-Bride;
OR, (HE
WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.

- the Author of TRUE AS LOVE COULD
By he Lae Tae ae,

HER

 

 

_—

[The Child-Bride” was commenced in No. 16. Back numbers
may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union.}

CHAPTER XLIX.
LADY GUNTER AT HOME.

When Archie left the hotel, he turned instinctively to-
ward Brooke street, where he was sure to find Edward
Pulteney, Archie had few friends, and out of the few he
had Edward was the only one whom he cared to see when
his heart was in tribulation.

It did not require an undue exertion of Mr. Pulteney’s
perception to tell what had happened when he saw
Archie’s somber face. He saw that Rayel was in no
mood to be questioned just atthe moment, so he let him
sit and coutemplate the window with a very gloomy brow
till the spirit moved him.

“Well,”? Archie said at last, with a heavy sight, “it’s
all over, Ted! Selton has done it now—lI knew he
would!’

“What has he done?’ :

“Repeated to her what he wrote to me; and though
she soon taught him to be sorry for it, the thing was
done. She will never return to him!”?

Edward listened seriously while Archie told him what
had passed between Miriam and the baronet. He was
not greatly surprised; but he did not take such a hopeless
view of the probable consequences as his friend.

“You are very fond of your uncle’s wife,’ he said,
quietly; ‘‘and you take her trouble to heart the more be-
cause she has wisely decided to separate from you.”

“Wisely 27?

‘Ask yourself. See how dangerously sweet the com-

 

 

S250

Key-Check Dies. Secure Circular
Saniples, free. ‘S. M: SPENCER, Brattleboro, Vt. W52-26t

A MONTH easily made with Stencil and
and

panionship had become! You would have been content
had it gone on for ever.’’
“The poor girl wanted some one to take care of her,

 

\YYENCIL TOOLS and Stock, best in the world.
S METCALF, 1i7 Hanover street, Boston, Mass. w3:

L. 8.
2-4

Ted, and taking care of her was the purest pleasure |
ever had, Iam very fond of her, as yousay. Sheis the

 

HITCHCOCK’S MU

TO '
29 Beelamanh Street, New Work.
; 4
OUR patronsare
yur stock of SHEET MUSIC. Those who send by Mail, can ad-
vo. Post Office Box No. 3008. ; i lishet
country can be ordered of us, provided the retail price is
sed with the order. Catalogues containing over 500 pieces,
eu free. . The following 39 ses will be mailed on receipt of
@ Dollars, or singly, at 10 cents each:

REMOVED

  
 

a

 
   
   

 
  

 

   
 
  

 

No, 100.-T Love a Little Body, Song.
99, Josie’ Galop, Tastrumental.
96 Tyrolese Song,

Song.

Zi 5 Tnstrumental.
it. Doyou Re ‘ Song.
Was there Song.

7. Corinna We Instrumental.
Maiden’s Prayer Song.

 

 

49, Monastery B.

§ 5 Tastrumental,
43. Alpine Bells, ‘ j

instrumental.

   
 
    

  

  
 
 
  

 

     
 
  
   
    

 

. The Bridge, Song.
Reape i Song.
Cs Tnstrumer

. Kiss Waltz, Instrumental.

3. In Tears IP Song.

5. Grand Dache instrumental.

{ Pulling H St Song.
Tndian ¥ Instrumental.

Song.
Instrumental,

Song.
Tustruments

Sone.

Instrumental.
; .

   

. Orphee awsx Ex

\idréss BENT. “W. TZr7r!

Pet i ‘
Lie 29 Beckman Sitreef, N. W.

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
   

isher

“DOMESTIC”

 

The whole world
: lenged ta
duee a Fame
Sewing 2

  
 

iS Ué
as heavy} light

mning and eis-
y operated. The
best machine for
use, the easiest
te sell, the mrost .
durable-will Jast
a life-time. Lock
stitch, noiseless, “7
attachments un-
equaled. Ag
wanted ir Unoc-
cupied territory.

  

 

   

‘

3
w York, or Toledo, 0.

 

SIC,

invited to‘eall at our new store, and examine

Any piece of music published
s

|
1 at 5
oF ata Ss
et cians

only woman in the world I ever really loved. I daresay
I have been as big a fool as most fellows in my time—gone
mad over a dozen pretty dolls, written despairing letters,
and felt in a dreadfully bad state, indeed, and laughed at
myself for it in less than a month afterward. But in this
case itis very different.”

“Palling in love with another man’s wife is an easy
and a pleasant proceeding, Archie; but it is not one that
honorable men indulge inas a rule.”

“Miriam is no one’s wife now,” said Ravel, gravely.
*| “Sir Henry lost his last chance of her returning to him
when he made her feel the truth of that, and the singu-
larity of her position. Her experience of mankind has
been bitterly unfortunate. Divorced from a husband,
and discarded by the other, yet a truer wife and nobler
woman never lived!”

“What is her purpose, do you think, at present ?’”

“Ward to say, but it concerns Mrs. Digby chiefly. That
little lady has so identified herself with me as Mrs. Major
Digby that I can never think of her as Lady Gunter; she
has made a terrible enemy.”?

So Mr. Pulteney’s own convictions told him.

‘We had better let things take their. course for a
while,’? he said; ‘‘the time for you and me to step in will
come presently. Leave Lady Selton to herself—I call her
Lady Selton still, because Lam sure she will be reconciled
to Sir Henry.” uA

“Never!

Edward smiled. ‘

“Time plays a splendid part in the beautiful philosophy
of nature, Archie; it has bridged over many a wider
space than that which now divides them, healed many an
injury deadlier than the one that made her leave ‘him!

you hopeso!” Se Si

“On my Soul I do!" dat Bis Ba

“A good, unselfish, manlything to say,’ said Pulteney,
with his hand on Ravel’s shoulder. “That is trué love,
Archie; sink your own wish for the woman in the thought
of what is best for her; and the sacrifice of self is rewarda-
ed by many a grateful hour of recollection. You clearly’
see that it is best that they should be reunited?” :
¥° Rayel shook his hé#a: ~

“Setting aside the law—and Heayen never meant that
such a law should be—she belongs to one of these two
men. Talbot Grey lost her by his yacillation and coward-

ice—let us call things by their right names. He had a
| seifish passion for her, and it would not stan: e test of
+ absences Hl ‘ys itnally-daddto-her, ashe ivarried
again. Now, of the separati from her seeond husband
you are the cause.” r aM
“Indirectly, yes!" ae , :

“The world says you are—the little, despicable portion
of the world, if you like; but still that portionin which
the Lady Miriam must mingle—the portion in which she
is known, and from which she must choose her society.
Now, if you, being the indirect cause of her separation,
were to marry her, you would at once make the foul
rumor seem true beyond dispute; and deeply grateful as
she might be for your love, it would not shield her from
the withering contempt that would meet her whereyer
she turned her face.’?

“But why sacrifice ourselves to the world’s opinion ?”?

“Because & woman cannot live without the world's
opinion, A man may; hecan be a Bohemian, a hermit,

4a 3 ase

 

~ a Te
gi? € & ,

 

get into public disgrace, he is considered a little eccentric,

 

J eae TO Si boos and received. He need not burden himself with a local
* Sep UN ery tr fE | habitation; so that he keeps on the right side of his bank-
YEARS IN THE FEDE » The most thrilling, popu- } ps6 ; tee : ik iat

lar and best selling w« -, Anybody can sell it. eater: er’s book, he need have nothing on his card but his name

 

k
body buysit. Sold by Agents only.

138 Bleecker St., New York. wi

 

DY QIPEPSIA. A permanent cure guaranteed in every case
pS J Address, inclosing 60 cents, Dr. SILAS HAMMOND,
Boston, Mass. w3d-3t.
1 GC
The New Wilson Under-Feed.
aga THE BEST & CHEAPEST
$ FIRST CLASS SHUTTLE
SEWING MACHINE
$ IN THE WORLD.
. Warranted for five years,
wand the warranty indem-
| Snified by a capital of half
+12 million of dollars,
BAGENTS WANTED
qin unoccupied territory.
.,For particulars address
- Wilson Sewing Machine Co.
@ Cleveland, 0.; St. Louis,
'3Mo.; Providence, R. I.;
=I : ‘a, Philadelphia, Pa.; Bos.
ee ae ton, Mass. ; Pittsburg,Pa.
Louisville, Ky.; Cincinnati,0.; Indianapolis, Ind.;
Memphis,Tenn.; Chicago, lil.; Milwaukee, Wis.;
Toledo,0.; Albany,N.Y.; St. Paul, Minn.; Rich-
mond,Va.; Montgomery, Ala.; New Orleans, La.;
. Galveston & Houston,Tex.; San Francisco, Cal.; or

No. 707 BROADWAY, NEW YORK

iy. ERY MAN HIS OWN PRINTER.With
4 of our presses, and the material accompanying it, every man
can do his own printing, thus saving much time and expense.
Cirenlars, containing full information, mailed free on application.
Specimen books of type, cuts, borders, &c., 10c. ADAMS PRESS
CO., 53 Murray st., N. Y. w21-13t.

3

   
  

 

 

$5 TO $1 PER DAY. Bove anaes
who engage in our new business make from $5 to $10

per day in their own localities. Full particulars and
Yustructions sent free by mall. Those in need of perma-
nent, profitable work, should address at once,

28-8t. GEORGE STINSON & Co., Portland, Maine.

 

S10 A DAY FOR ALL with Stencil Tools.

1 OR Address A.
IE. GRAHAM, Springtield, Vt.

26-10t.

‘ROYAL HAVANA LOTTERY.

$390,000 in Gold drawn every 17 days.

Prizes cashed and information furnished.
for doubloons and all kinds of gold and silver.
TAYLOR & CO.,
Bankers, 16 Wall-st., N. Y.
A YEAR TO AGENTS OF EITHER
Sex. For particulars, address
J. N. RICHARDSON & Co.,
Boston, Mass.

Highest rates paid

$1000" $300

w51-52t.
\ 7 ANTED—AGENTS ($20 per day) TO SELL THE Celebrated
“Home Shuttle Sewing Machine.” Mas the under-feed,
makes the “lock-stiteh”? (alike on both sides), and is fully ii-
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NEW WAY TO MAKE LOTS OF MONEY.—Something

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w24-13t 150 Fulton st., New York.

R. H. FERGUSON & CO.,
730-10t.

one

and his club address.”
snot haye described. my state of existence almost ex-
actly.”? pp oy

‘Perhaps I had you ih my mind’s eye while speaking;
but with a woman you see how different it is. The most
minute details in her antecedents are inquired into by her
dearest friends—and' a woman’s dearest feminine friends
are those she has most to fear. In her own immediate cir-
cle she is made to feel the slightest inferiority of birth or
character; not openly=they are too well trained for that—
but if one of the gentle creatures can soil another, even
with the dust of her dead grandmother, she willdo i¢ with
infinite delight.”

“Yes, I know,’ said Archie; “they have a sweet way of
saying things occasionally.”

“Picture Miriam as your wife, with such an enemy as
Mrs. Digby. Her infamy is’ a thing of the past—she has
lived it down, has no sense of shame, aud is sucha dan-
gerous little wretch that few would care to offend her.
Wherever Miriam might go, she would. be sure to work
her way in, and your wife Wout feel her influence in the
smile, the shrug, the whisper, and the overdone civility
with which people meet those’ they have just been scanda-
lizing; and you could not defend her, Archie!’

“Not against her own sex.”?

“Her natural placeis with Selton, and you must help
him to gether. A man persisting in a certain purpose
can do much, and a patient, unflinching, persevering
course of action, tending to the one object, Would have
its effect upon her. For the present, let her go her own
way—take her reyenge on Mrs. Digby. Ishall watch the
game with much interest, and when her purpose is finish-
ed the reaction will come—the weariness that follows the
gratification of strong passion, and makes one long for
rest. Then, while her mind is unoccupied and pliant, will
be the time to urge Sir Henry’s claim,”’

Archie assented, moodily. Miriam’s companionship
had been dangerously sweet to him, and life seemed. very
purposeless now, that she was not in his care, but he saw
the wisdom of his friend’s advice.

“You will not see me for a month or two,” hesaid, ‘“‘and
you need not be particularly sorry, for 1 have not been the
most cheerful companion you might have had. I shall
| back my portmanteau and start for the Pyramids to-mor-
row.’

“You will do nothing of the kind,’ said Pulteney, with
the thoughtful decision which generally conquered
Archie’s good-natured wantof self-will. ‘There are
other wrongs to be righted, other things to be done,
What about our little friend, Alice?”

“You can arrange that business!”

“With your help. You want to travel, and you shall.
Sydney Seaton is at Lisbon, soI hear; and as the young
gentleman has not chosen to answer my letters, you must
see what a personal interview will do.”

“T thought he was coming to London.”’

“So he is in the course of a week or so; but the date is
uncertain.”’

“We may as well wait till he comes, then. It is more
than probable that on receiving your letter he wrote to
Mrs. Digby, in whose charge he left her, and that amiable
lady may have put my conductin a light that would not
render a personal interview pleasant just now. My mind
is a in its healthiest condition, and I could not stand too
much.”

“There may be something in that,’ Edward said. ‘I
will write again, and impress upon him the gentlemanly
necessity of areply. Then we shall know what to do.
Meanwhile, the little girl is very happy, and quite believes
what wetell her.”

 

 

 

 

; were a favorite with her ladyship.

They will be reconciled I am sure,» Let -me hear you oan
i" [ , tomey {TS

ADO!

a-vagabond, and solong as he pays his way, and does not’

‘What do you tell her?’

“That he is traveling from place to place, and, of
course, When he comes to England, his first visit will be
to our house. Fortunately, women do not reason closely,
or she would ask how it could be so, since he. has not
written a word in reply to me.”

“Well”? said Archie, rising, ‘‘good-by.”

‘where are you going ?”’

‘Don’t know! Where can a fellow go? I wonder if I
should feel happier if I took an establishment of my own,
and furnished it with the first girl who may be shied at
me by her mamma!’’

“More content, if not happier.
responsibility.”

“Thank you! Theremight be a lot of responsibilities.
But I am ready for anything.*’

‘‘Desperate!”?

“JT would face a tiger!’

“Or Mrs. Digby ?””

“Two Mrs. Digby’s!”’

‘“Tyy one first,’? said Pulteney, quietly. ‘You alwa,s
Pay your respects to
her, if you have the courage. General Sir Montgomery
Gunter is an old friend of your uncle’s, and for his sake

There would be the

/ she would be glad to see you.”’

“By jove,’? said Archie, ‘‘I will doit, if only to see how
the little vixen will behave. It will be anew excitement,
Ted. Good-by; you will see me shortly.”

Ravel was sincere in his intentions of paying a visit to
Lady Gunter. He was impelled by a strange curiosity,
and he sauntered down to Mount street next morning.
Had he not known thenumber of the house he would
have recognized it by the outward appearance; the taste-
ful splendor of the windows was her work unmistakably.

He was sent to the drawing-room within two minutes
of giving his card, and, in the d@i¥ing-room, on the most
elegant of silken loynges, sat Cecilia, graceful and non-
chalant as ever. Her appearance took him by surprise.
He knew that she must be quite three ana four and forty;
but many a woman of thiriy wonld have envied her the
oval, unwrinkled contour of her face, and the full, supple
outlines of her figure.

Had she not done so munch mischief to one in whom he
had so deep an interest he would have admired her for
the skill and daring with which she had fought the long
batile. There was a certain fascination about the pretty,
blue-eyed, indomitable little adventuress, and her very
wickedness was not without its charm.

‘My dear Mr. Ravel,’ she said, putting out a tiny hand;
“so glad to see you—you cannot think how grateful I am."

“To me?”?

“Vex?

He looked an interrogation. ey :

“For having removed a stupid impression. I thought
you did not like me.” :

“T am very glad indeed if I haye removed such an im-
pression,’”? he said, giving himself up to the occasion.
“As your ladyship was kind enough to Say on one occa-
sion, I am difficult to understand; but my friends know
me.’ yh

“Sit down, ve can haye quite a cosy morning. The
general is‘out with Captain Chandos—an odious person.
1 often wonder why Montgomery will have young men in
the house? But do tell me—poor dear Miriam, I wrote to
her, you know, offering -her a home with me if anything
happened. Yow were very wicked though.”

“So people have been kind enough to say, But you
ene their faculty for discovering evil where it does not
exist.
cept your offer, for she is-entireiy friendless,’’

‘Poor dear child! Sir Henry, might have been more
merciful; but then men are so unreasonable. ‘They doubt
us, and neglect us, and place temptation in-our way, and
condemn us on the faintest cause or pretense of one. It
is really very sad.’

. CHAPTER L.
CAPTAIN CHANDOS.

There are some inexplicable perversities in human na-
ture, and Mr, Ravel was certainly possessed of one this
morning. He had a dim consciousness that, by opening
an apparently friendly treaty with Lady Gunter, he was
doing Miriain a service; but he did not care to contess it
to himself.

He stayed nearly an hour, and the time passed very
pleasantly. The little blue-eyed woman tried her best to
fascinate, and she had so well acquired the art of con-
cealing art, that no one, unless gifted with Archie's stol
idity and penetration, would have known how unreal she
was. Had he been a stranger, she would have charmed
him, made him her slave; but he knew her, from the top
of her audacious, sinful, pretty golden head, to the dainty
morsel of a foot, which looked so tempting, with its velvet
slipper and silken limb. He knew her, and, well-as he
knew her, he was not unconscious of her power.

Mr. Ravel admitted frankly that she had been very
beautiful in her time. Had: he not know her so long, he
would have thought her beautiful still. The small, lithe,
compact figure was faultless; the face, with its delicate
features, pearls of teeth, and rich, red, tender lips, fault-
less; and the arm which she displayed ith such careless
intention would have riveted the attention of a sculptor.

And she had the rare grace of dressing well. Her robes
had the simple effect of drapery; they Inarked every out-
line, followed her every attitude. Cecilia saw that he
noticed it and admired her, and she half sat; half Jay up-
on the satin couch, with her han@s aboye her head, smil-
ing at him with those wicked eyes-and glad-to see.that.
though he hated her, he ceuld lot resist the fascination of
her supple beauty.

“Do you remember our journey? she said, with the
ripple of a laugh on her lip; ‘‘how dearly you wished me
a thousand miles away, and what a surly bear you were?
Tel me candidly, Mr, Ravel—why do you dislike me 7?

“Say, rather, Why @id [ 2"

“Speak the truth, and say why do you! Weare not
children, you deai', wicouth, handsome stupid, and you
‘May as weil say what you incan_ in plain words. We are
quite alone you know; no one Wil distunb-us, or listen to
us, SO you are quite at liberty to'spe@ak.??
" Archie looked at her tranghilly. He
done with amazement, or she would have touched his
organ of surprise to a considerable extent. « She was diffi-
cult to deal with, and he could not treat her as he would
haye treated an ordinary woman. Nothing but his stolid
guietude—uncouthness, she called it—sayed Tim.

“Why do I disike you ‘he said.
the gmere pleasure Of lieariig the reply.”

shall be so if you like. Do you know, I like you, Mr.
Ravel! [like you for coming here. You, were not cer-
tain that the door would not be shut in your face; bat you
risked it for the sake of seeing how I wear my new title,
‘Look at me!” me ; i.

You are a wickéd Jitile—" \

“Say it,’ she laughed, touching his lavee white hand.
“¥ ama Wicked little demon=that is what you meant.”

Truth compelled Mr. Ravel to bow in the affirmative.

“Well, and here J am; in my proper place. Shall: 1 tell
you a curious history, Mr. Ravel—my own? Bad as Iam,
much as you detest me, and little as E fear you, 1 do not
like to be entirely misjudged. ; Will you listen?”

“Tf you wish it, with pleasure,’

“You will not listen with pleasite: You ate a good
man, and you will shudder, because sliat I tet you will

.

  

had Jong since

O72

wv

spite of yourself, that the same thing might happen to
your own Sister or your. own wife. I am not atraid of
taking you into my confidence; you would never betray
any ween, eyen were she worse than I am; and eyen If
you did repeat every word, I would contradict you to
your face. 1 can speak fearlessly, because 1 have the
position Lalways aimed at. I have acrest on my carriage,
my servants wear violet plush and silk, andI have more
than one duchess on my list of callers. Lam Lady Gunter,
Mr. Rayel, and so I will be to the end.”

“Unless you give General Sir Montgomery Alisford,
cause to appeal for a separation,’’ said Archie, placidly.

He liked the suppressed tempest in her tone. Its inten-
sity made her, body quiver, and her little hands were
clenched when she spoke again. :

“Se, the purblind old idiot! Why, he is in his dotage—
a miserable withered wretch, who can scarcely totter to
his bed. I would Jet him die, as I could, ifit were not for
his name. That, like charity—for 1 care not—I want as a
cover formy sins. JZ hate him! We tired of me years
ago, while | loyed him passionately. Now the old driy-
eller is in love with me again, and I loathe him from the
aoe of my soul. You will hot wonder when I tell you
all.”?
ss eo are not a hapyy woman, Mrs, Digby—pardon me,
sady—"?

“Mr, Ravel,’ she said, with her face hidden in her
hands, and such a sudden change of tone, such an ago-
nized transition from the reckless gayety of her manner,
that hjs heart was smitten with compassion before she
uttered another word, ‘‘you are a man, stronger than I
am, even in my sin, and you heed not mock me. Women
can only war with women. We are frivolous with you.
Ah, if you only knew the power you have!”’

“I think too many of us do,” said Archie, gravely, ‘and
use the power badly; yet you often play the fool with us!”?

‘But the bitter cost of it!’? she said, with a slight shud-
der. “It is not in your masculine brain to conceive,
even in thought, the self-torture a coquette endures—
tempting a lover, trifling with him, denying him at the
jast moment, and sufferinga pain keener than his pas-
sion at the time; and then, aiter ail, giving into some
one she does not love half so well—but some strong, per-
sistent, tranquil man, who makes himself her master,
Mr. Ravel, lam telling you more than any other woman
would haye done, and I am telling you the truth!”

He believed her. . Instinct had told him as much before,
but he had never heard the words from a woman's lips,

“My history,’’ she said, after a pause. “I was as pure
as the proud, beautiful girl whom you love so tenderly.
I was, asl live. Jhaveruined her, and I am sorry for it
now it is too late. On my soul, I didnot mean to let it go
so far, If Ieould have reached my present place, this
room—sat here as I sit now, mistress of this house—with-
out making her a stepping stone, and crushing her, I
would have done it; but it was not to be. She put herself
in my way. I hated her and I was terrified by her.
Sometimes, when she has turned upon me with almost a
red light in those magnificent eyes of hers, like a splendid
lioness, I have quailed in my soul, but she has never
known it. Ifshe had killed me at her feet, I would have
died smiling at her, driving her mad by the dead look
which should tell her I had conquered!”’

“You certainly are an interesting study,’’ said Mr, Ravel.
“Pray go on.”

He liked the scene forits novelty. The richly-furnished
room, With its window overlooking the park trees, and
the fashionable street below. A richly-furnished room in
a splendid house, and its titled mistress crying over the
infamous depths of her heart, he could not help thinking
what a difference there was between what she was and
what she seemed.

‘If I were a man’s dearest friend,’’ she said, plunging
into her story, With no change in her voice beyond an in-
crease of its low intensity, “E should advise him never to

 

 

 

I think it very likely that Miss Medhurst may ac-‘

“You ask that for.

bring the truth home to you, and make you adinit, in|

be too stern with his wife. I marrled when I was barely
nineteen—I am turned forty now—and you see what I
am, you can guess what I was then ?”’

“Prettier than you are now IJ should imagine,’ said
Mr. Ravel, quietly, ‘‘and with your element of wickedness
undeveloped. I give you credit for everything in nature
and art, except truth and virtue. I think you struck
those two small essentials off your list years ago.”

Lady Gunter laughed bitterly.

“J am very truthful just at present, Mr. Ravel—I can
afford to be with you. 1 tell you when I married Il was as
pure, ever in spirit, as is she whom you so dote upon, and
my husband was a poor, proud man, reserved, truthful,
austere, believing me with entire faith. giving me a cool,
calm sort of love, which was torture tome. Hetreated nie
as if I werea pretty doll, caressed me at times, neglected
me at others. When we went to India I was the prettiest
woman ofthe garrison, and the most plainly dressed. 1
believe, had I worn the untrimmed gray of a quakeress
he would never have cared.

“J was fond of him—I worshiped him. Lieutenant
Digby was avery handsome man—a majestic, dignified
gentleman, unapproachable when he chose even by his
superiors. He never raised his voice to me, neyer put
the same request twice. His word was a law from which
there was no appeal. He was so proud thatI dared not
love him as much as I could—and 1 was very young, only
nineteen. You would pity another woman, Mr. Ravel,
but your lip curls at me.”

‘‘However, having married an honorable man. you be-
trayed him, and now are seeking self-extenuation on the
score of your youth. You were old enough to know right
from wrong.”’

“How sternly men judge,” she said, half sadly, ‘and
how unjustly. You were not there to see how I: was
tempted. If you ever marry a young wife, Mr. Ravel,
keep her from the society.of old married women as you
would keep ler trom a ‘pestilence. You can scarcely
dream what an easy code of morals they have. How,
halfin banter, half in pity, they work upon the feelings
of an untrained girl, till she grows discontented with her
lot. Ihada.passion for dress and jewelry—my husband
despised both, and fora long time I had to conceal my
liking. He could not afford to buy them for me, and he
would not get into debt. He told me to live down to his
income, and I could have laughed in his face. I was the

“T went there first with the idea that I might do some
service to Miriam by going,’’ he said, ‘“‘and I find myself

pitying the golden-haired witch a little. She told me
with real tears in her eyes, that she would never have
been so bad if the world would have given her a chance of
redeeming herself when she once went wrong.”
“And you believed the tears ?"’
“Yes; there was no sentiment, no repentance about
them. They were bitter heart drops, and she was savage
with herself for letting them come. 1 believe she told the
truth, Ted.’? +
Ted gave him a contemplatively dubious nod. .
“T daresay she believed she was telling the truth at the
time, Archie. The faculty of being aifected by the false-
hood we are telling, and wishing it was a truth, isa com-
mon bit of psychology discayered a long time ago. It
comes from the same mental principle which makes us
persist in doing things we are sorry for even while we are
doing them.” he

‘*-You think her utterly bad?” v

_“No one is utterly bad. Mrs. Digby would have-been a

different woman had she married a different man; but
that is no excuse for her. It washer duty to adapt her-
self to circumstances. She is to be pitied, but she ought
to be punished.”?

“Is it good logic to say that you can both pity and pun-
ish at the same time?’ :

“Yes; you may pity the criminal, but you must punish
the crime in the person of its perpetrator. It is too much
the fashion to be lenient with pretty women, especially if,
they are delicate and educated. ‘They have no more right
to our sympathy than an ugly kitchen-maid has!) 9) >

“You would make a splendid reformer,?? said Mr.
Ravel, “providing there were no pretty women in the
world. I should like to see the delicate, edticated beauty
before you, by the side of the ugly kitchen-maid, poth
charged with the same crime. 1 amiafraid the poor slave
of the dish-cloth would get the worst of it.”

“Not from me!’? . ’ "

and admiration tor pretty things is one of the keenest
with me, as with you, and every one, No, my youthful
stoic; you may think it wrong, and wish to see it altered,
but, depend upon it, as long as mankind is mankind,
pretty women will have the best of it--and so they
ought!??

 

prettiest woman atthe station, Mr. Ravel, and I would
not be outdressed by the others.”

Mr. Ravel wondered to himself how much of the femi-
nine sins that exist, known and unknown, comes of that
same vanity. Mrs. Digby answered his thoughts.

“TJ wanted money, Mr. Ravel—more than he allowed
me. Iran up biils of which he knew nothing, obtained
feathers, flowers, jewels—all on credit; and he might,
had he given such things @ moment’s thought, had he
looked at me a second time, When I went to him for ap-
probation—for we like our husbands to admire us whether
we care for them or not—he might have seen that Il was
spending ten times more than he gave me,”

“May I venture to inquire how you got it?”

Cecilia shrugged her shoulders with wicked noncha-
lance. 4

‘From a wide circle of the poor major’s friends... There
was scarcely a woman in the garrison—and they all de-
tested me—whose husband had not contributed to my
wardrobe, or my jewel case, and yet the men knew, what
the women would not believe, that my reputation was
spotless. I could not afford to let it be otherwise.”

*‘As a rule, I suppose not; but isn’t there generally an
exception 7”?

“Yes. Mine was the general—you knew it long ago.
He was so safe, you see, bore such an irreproachable
character, and hisrank kept the othersfrom going too
far. It wasa parental, fatherly regard, you know, though
—I state it confidentially—that parental privilege of age
is a wretched delusion, and a friend of fifty is sure to be a
young husband’s worst enemy.”

“You understand human nature, Lady Gunter ?’’

‘J went to schoolata very early age. But, mark me
in this, Mr. Ravel; my husband might have made me alla
good man can desire, had he taken the pains, and he did
not take the pains. He settled down intoa quiet, com-
fortable sense of proprietorship. He had courted me—
married me—I belonged to him, and there was an end of
it. Asa matter of course, I should always remember that
Iwas Mrs. Major Digby, whether he was with me or not.
I was always subdued in his presence, and he never knew
or dreamed that I was an inveterate coquette. Besides,
if I fancied he thought [ was going too far with any par-
ticular one, [made a diversion by going a little further
with another. I provoked him to quarrel with Colonel

Jowsman, to keep suspicion from the general. Strategy,
you know, and we understand the art better than diplo-
matists or soldiers.” :

“Tam glad to haye met so. many good women, Mrs.
Digby,” said Archie, with uncomplimentary candor, “for
you would give me a very bad opinion of the sex.”

“Thanks! J have such a bad opinion of your sex, that
not even;your primitive style of behavior can induce me
to think better of it. You are all more or less villains
with the innocent, and fools with the cunning. Have I
edified you with my history ?”’

‘A little. The details imterested me, though I knew
the substance long since.”’

“And you give me credit for ingenuity, courage, nerve,
in gaining my position 1”

“T shall give you more credit if you keep it.”

‘Ts that a warning, Ma. Ravel?) What_have [ an old
man’s darling to fear?’?

‘That which comes to every old man's darling, Lady
Gunter—the risk of being a youngman’s slave. A woman
who is the first is rarely able to saye herself from being
the last.” ;

She looked at hiiii steadily for a moment, and he saw
her countetiance change. He had touched some hidden
train of thought, or struck upon a secret. His instinct
told him so, and he smiled as he rose to go.

“Give my kindest regards to my dear Miriam, will you,
Mr. Ravel, when you see her?’’

“T never do see her now.”

“What ashame! Inconstant so soon, and such devoted

lovers as you were! Really, you men are yery cruel! I
did not think you would leave the poor girl iu such
trouble.’’ :
_ Arve you frying to make me angry, Mrs. Digby?’ he
-asked, tranquilly, ‘You know that L know you—do not
believe a word you say of her. You know that Miriam is
-a true and pure woman, and that is one of the reasons
why you hate her!”

“Well, yes; perhaps it. is.
Mon isomery yn

“Phianks!—not now!
with him.”

The litile lady had quietcd down in the last few minutes;
but she sprang up again, her lips quivering with bitter-
4+ ness.

“Yon are not glad, and you know I do not love him,
Mr. Ravel. Why should I—since at my very worst I am
better than he? He made me the despised thing I was—he
made me despise myself. He kept me hanging on for years
to the faint hope he would give me one day what I long
since had a’right to—the shelter of his name. I slaved for
him, intrigued for him—supplied him with money. Ipaid
for the very dress in which he went to Court. J furnished
this house—bought the carriage and the horses. He would
haye cast me off had heslared—he—he who has dragged
me down, thought me not good enough to be his wife!
The old dotard would never have married me if Lhad not
frightened him into it!’

“Then I would not give much for your ladyship’s do-
mestic peace!’

She laughed strangely.

_ “He has fallen in love with me over again, Mr. Ravel.
The old wreck—the almost helpless, withered thing—that
wears a title, and tries to flatter and caress me as he did
twenly years ago, does not know how I sicken at and
loathe him. Do you hear him now—the wretched voice,
the feeble footsteps coming up the.stairs? I sometimes
think the title and position were hardly worth the sacri-
i¢e,?; :

She took up a bouquet and smiled sweetly.

“Ts it not beautiful? Montgomery knew my passion for
flowers, and he is so thoughtful, so generous; you will be
charmed to see how well he is Jooking!”’

The change in tone, the smile, and the last words, were
alittle piece of acting for the general’s benefit. Cecilia
pretended not to know he had re-entered the room till she
turned.

He was not alone. There wasa gentleman with him
of three or four and forty—a fine, handsome man, with a
soft, full mouth, and small, white, filbert-shaped teeth.
He was introduced as Captain Chandos, and during the
half-hour Archie stayed, he thought the general must
have a new lease of faith in Cecilia to have such a visitor
at his house.

   

Will you stay-and see Sir

Tam glad to see you are happy

CHAPTER LI.
THE BEGINNING OF RETRIBUTION.

The instinct by which men know each other told Mr.
Ravel Captain Chandos was not a desirable acquaintance.
He was altogether too sweet and smooth—too level in
tone for a man of Archie’s honest nature. Heliked more
individuality than Mr, Chandos appeared to possess.

Archie gathered from the conversation that the cap-
tain and General Gunter had known each other in India;
and taking quiet notice—as he always did—he saw there
was more than mere Jriendship between Chandos and the
general’s wife. There was too much studied courtesy on
one side and reserve on the other for either to be real.

“Yes, there isan element of danger in old Gunter’s
friendship for the captain,’ he said, as he went into the
park to smoke an early cigar under the trees. Theircool
green shadow was a relief to him after the interview
which had given him such an insight into Mrs. Digby’s
character. ‘He is one of those quiet, graceful, tender-
yoiced men, with whom a woman is about as Safe as she
would be with a tiger; and I think he has something to
do with her change of countenance when I replied to her
remark about being an old man’s darling. And I was
right. Not that she is so young; but she wears well, and
net indomitable pluck is worth twenty years of youth to
aGr.??

He went to Mount street several times after that; im-
pelled by some such curiosity as might have taken him to
study the habits of a strange creature in the gardens at
Regent’s park. The woman interested him in a certain
way; seeing her as she was to others, with her charming
society manners, and then watching the curious pleasure
she had in throwing off the mask when they were alone.

Chandos was generally there when he went, or came
before he left; and Archie growing observant, saw that
he was in the way when the captain arrived. Personally
they did not make the least progress together—there was
not a single feeling in common between then.

Archie went to Mount street several times, and gradu-
ally became conscious that he was taking an interest in
Lady Gunter which was not entirely unmixed with sym-
pathy. He told Ted Pulteney the little woman, tigress
though she was, would not have been so sinful had she
not been deeply sinned against.

 

 

 

 

And, feeling that for once he had the best of an argu-
ment with his friend Pulteney, Archie departed while the
victory was with him.

He went to the park again, :
up and down the walk in front of the Achilles statue. I6
Was an object of serious interest toa man who looked like
a seryant in plain livery; buthe was chewing a splinter of
cinnamon in a cogitative style which belonged to no one
except Mr. John Samuel Granger.

“You have a taste for the fine arts,’ said Archie.

“How do you do, sir?
but I was thinking what a good ‘thing it was there were
no policein the days when gentlemen of that size web
about in that state!’’ z

cow hy. 2? . ;

‘““Where would havé been the use of a constable peing
told to take him into custody, if we weren't any bigger
than we are now ?”? t

“It would have been awkward, certainly, assented Mr.
.Rayel, gravely; “but policemen were not required at that
period, Mr. Granger. It was a highly moral and instruc-
tive age—remarkable for the simplicity of its customs and
the severity of its diet.” ;

“Severity of diet suited him, anyhow,’ said Granger,
surveying the Trojan hero with a glance of mingled ad-
iniration and Outraged propriety; ‘and as for dress—he
must have taken a lesson from Adam!’ :

“No; helived along time before Adam, Mr. Granger!”

Mr. Granger might have believed him but for that; he
ventured on a wink, expressive of incredulity.

“No, Mr. Ravel, that won’t do, when Adam was the
first man that ever lived.”

“Yes, in his part of the world; but this gentleman was
a Trojan, and lived a long way off.*?

John Samuel’s incredulity was removed, and he made a
mental resolution to enlighten the select circle of which he
was an honored member, in the parior of the Lantern and
Staif, down Scotland-yard.

“For though they know a lot,” he thought, ‘‘and some
of them can put me down, there isn’t one as can go in for
ancient history so far back as that; and coming froma real
gentleman it must be right.”

“What are you doing here, Granger? TBusiness?"

“Yes, sir. I am butler toa lady in Park sireet, and a
very nice place it is.*?

“Surely you have not retired from the prefession 7???

This time it was Granger’s turn to smile.

“Tam butler to a lady as takes a great interest in a cer-
tain friend of hers—Lady Gunter, you know, Mr. Ravel—

Dimeconces. WAAL res aa:

be long finding out who I am butler to.”

“Miriam—Lady Selton ?”?

“Mrs. Hurst,’ corrected Granger. ‘‘Mrs. Hurst, widow
lady, number twelve, Park street. Why, sir, you have
passed the window a dozen times, when she has been
looking at you. Not thatit’s for me to tell, but 1 know

hear,’?

To be gontinued,

oe  B
ITEMS OF INTEREST.

gee women are fattened for the imperial harem in
i RAE $ stated: “You take a plump young dam-
sel of about 14, with a tendeucy to obesity—iew Mooresque
rirls are destitute of such a tendeney—anad you shut her up
in a room of which the windows .are carefully darkened
by heavy ¢curtaliis of green silk. You cause your plump
young damsel to sit cross-legged on a divan, and then,
having by your side a bowl full of cowscousou, or mois-
tened meal roNed into balls; you cram her during a cer-
tain number of hours every day with as many of these
balls as she can conveniently swallow. Well crammed,
the Emperor of Morocco will pay an exceedingly hand-
some price for her. That nothing may interfere with the
due conduct of the fattening process, a black nurse stands
behind the incipient favorite with a matrank, or big stick,
much used in Moorish domestic economy, and if the pa-
tient manifests any reluctance to swallow the. balls
of cowscousou, she is immediately and unmercifully
thrashed.’

aag- A few days ago a boy three years oid, at Manches-
ter, N. H., while at play with an instrument for buttonine
ladies’ boots, caught it upon the upper lid of -his eye, and
becoming frightened, pniled it away, tearing the lid near-
ly off. The doctors, using chloroform, operated upon the
little sufferer, and succeeded in .taking a-sufficient num-
ber of stitches to secure it in its place. <A silver thread
was found necessary near the inside corner of the eye.
The boy is doing well, a
the scar.

ka A Frenchwoman, named Cross, living in Burling-
ton, Vt., who for several months has suffered from a tu-
mor in the throat, so large that for nine weeks she was
unable to take solid food, and at times even liquids, has
lately had it removed. She refused to take ether, placed
herself on the operating table, assisted the surgeon in
dressing the wounds, and then got up and walked to her
bed, unassisted. She had been accustomed to work out
doors, chopping wood, and was very masctiline in her
strength and habits.

ga- An “unpleasantness” recently occurred between
two knights of the hod at Bridgeport, Conn., caused by
one plashing mortar on the other. All sorts of hard
names were Called, and finally the most robust of the
two put an abrupt end to the dispute by summarily plac-
ing his opponent head downward into an empty ‘parrel
where he fumed and fretted to his heart’s content, On
his extrication the difliculty was compromised by a mu-
tual shaking of hands, and the work went brayely on.

4a In the past seven years there have been 730 di-
vorces and 15,710 marriages in Vermont, ratio of one to
twenty-one. In Massachusetts, for a period of four years
there was a total of 1,022 divorces to 45,372 marriages a
ratio of one to forty-four. In Ohio, in 1866, the divorces
were 1,169, marriages 30,479, a ratio of one to twenty-
seven. In Connecticut, in a period of eight years, there
were 2,910 divorces and 83,227 marriages, a ratio of one
to eleven,

tas A petrified apple was discovered by some workmen
in digging a well near Shelbina, Mo., recently. It was
exhumed at a depth of twenty-five feet below the surface
and is perfect in every particular, save that it is solid
stone instead of the mellow apple it was when dropped
in its subterranean bed. ;

#a= The old Presbyterian Church at Easthampton, L.
I., in which Lyman Beecher preached many of his most
noted sermons, has been demolished. It was erected in
1717, but was discarded for a new structure 20 years ago
since which time it has been unused. oes

kas Men have as many pretexts for suicide as for
drinking liquor. John Burns of Harrisburgh, was
driving his wagon about the street, when one wheel came
oif. Unable to bear such an irreparable misfortune, he
went to a quiet and convenient spot and hanged himself.

kar A bird, while building her nest in Rochester lately,
caught the loose end of a string she was carrying, on’a
twig, and the other end was drawn tightly around her
neck. She hung suspended until a gentleman climbed
the tree and extricated the little sufferer.

2a A little girl named Isadore Moody, of Akron, Ohio,
recently performed three hundred jumps oyer her skip-
ping rope, followed on the next morning by one hundred
and seyenty more, and three days afterward died.

ar Louisville, Ky., is the largest leaf tobacco market in
the country, and the number of manufactories there is in-
creasing. The sales this year will probably exceed sixty
thousand hogsheads.
ka A Pottsville, Pa., justice sent a man to jail for eight
months, for soiling a lady’s dress, by spitting tobacco
juice upon it.
ka- A deed was recently registered in Massachusetts
that bore the names of ninety-eighty signers, who were
legal heirs to an estate.
ka Twenty thousand pear trees have been disposed of
in Boston, the past spring. Cambridge is the banner town
for private pear orchards.
4a There are now living in one school district in Maine,
Mrs. Mary Carson, aged 90, Mrs. Phebe Robinson, 90,
Mrs. Betsy Robinson, 85, and Mrs, Parthena B. Thing, 79.
4a5- Brunswick, Me., reports the capture of a lobster of
a bright blue color.
#as- There are 495 church edifices in New York ity,
with accommodations for 350,000 worshipers.

 

and will not be much marked by
Ye.

 

Ye
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sa The 3,000 acres of oyster-beds in Chesapeake Bay
yield 25,000,000 Hushels a year.

 

“You cannot argue me out of my Senses jiterally, Tea,

and if you could put two and two together you wouldn’t.

 

and took a’ reflective éigar ©

No, 1am not much inthet way3

ve

you can be depended on, And | theught you would like to

 

 

meen

 

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Sacco chacesnentinestes

 

 

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cosa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. t=

 

SLOOP OL OL

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oe

NEW YORK, JUNE 22, 1871.

OOD OOOO OO

The Terms to Subscribers:

One Year—Single Copy........++s+sseeeree Three Dollars,
mM if TWO COpIOB.’,: ...5+0.sehees lobes oF Five rf

gs “ Four Copies (2 50 each)......... Ten i

a rf Right Cinnies, vines sas tacsineest Twenty *

Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will
be entitled to a Copy FREE. Getters-up of Clubs can afterward
add single copies at $2 50 each.

 

 

American Fiction.

 

F E . 2 i : :
- . The supercilious English reviewer who once contempt-

uously asked: Who reads an American book? would hesi-
tate now before convicting himself of the stupidity and
prejudiced narrowness implied by the inquiry. The sneer-
ing interrogatery was not only’a reflection on the literary
productivenes untry, but also an imputation on
the taste of our public, as difficient in that cul-

ture and intelligence which creates a demand for good
books and assures a profitable market for them. The
English reviewer meant to say that there were no worthy
works written by Americans, and there was in this coun-
try no reading constituency which asked for such works
or made it worth while to supply them. If the question
thus haughtily asked were repeated now, it would meet a
ready response. America has produced in almost all
branches of literary enterprise books which challenge
comparison and command admiration abroad. Works
scientific, historical, poetical, critical and imaginative se-
cure eager attention in Europe, and our authors are grow-
ing in the favor of foreign readers. At the same time the

number of home readers has wonderfully magnified and

is steadily increasing. The best works, whether domestic
or imported, are sought for and secure a large circula-

tion.. European authors write for the New World as
much as for the Old.

But just now we shall confine our attention to a single
specialty of the literary art—novel-making, or story-tell-
ing. The fondness for narrative, whether of the simple,
realistic kind,or that which appeals more powerfully to the
imagination, is as old as any known human taste. It un-
doubtedly has its foundation in the essential elements of
the mind. It is therefore not temporary or occasional,
or confined to any time or people. It is common to the
whole race and to all ages. Itis skared by those of lim-
ited education and by those of extreme culture. The
taste is as wide-spread and the appetite as sharp now and
here as ever or anywhere. It is not necessary just at pres-.
ent to offer arguments in support of the wholesomeness
of the taste. It was long ago demonstrated that fiction
has its useful functions. It is admirable as a recreation,
delightful as an entertainment, harmless as a pleasure.
But it is something more than this. 1t is often a channel
ofuseful information, and always (except when perverted
to depraved purposes) an agent of moral instruction.

The Americans are second to no people in the fondness
for fiction.- Nowhere else have good novels a wider cir-
culation. At the same time the Americans are peculiar
in their reading habits. A nation of workers, they are
accustomed to make available every moment of the day,
and their listless, unoccupied hours are extremely few.
Much of their reading is done at intervals which other
people fail to utilize—on ferry-boats and in street cars, at
the noonday recess, and in other brief periods, insignifi-
cant in themselves but amounting to a great deal in the
aggregate. To readers of such habits the adaptiveness of
the serial story and the short sketch is at once apparent.
And asthe American has a.strong inclination to news-
papers, the extraordinary popularity of the serial and
sketch paper is not surprising. This is the explanation of
the fact that the NEw YORK WEEKLY numbers its readers
by the million, and its regular issue at over 300,000 copies.

Now in the gratification of this peculiarly American
taste for serial stories and sketches there is an ample field
for the employment of genius and talent. We have no
doubt that the genius and talent exist abundantly in this
country if only stimulated to activity in the right direc-
tion. To make this latent ability productive is the aim of
the NEw YORK WEEKLY. That we have done something
already, our million readers will testify; but the past is
only a partial promise of what we shall doin the future.
We propose to avail ourselves of the best-known writers
of fiction in America, and to add new and worthy names
to the list; and having eneouraged them to successful
efforts, we propose to provide them through the New
YORK WEEKLY with the largest reading constituency pos-
sessed by the periodical press of the world.

Fashionable Religion.

A short time ago the NEw YORK WEEKLY showed how
the church-going customs of the people had changed;
how fashion and folly had imyaded the sanctuary, and
how sensation had usurped the place of primitive devo-

_ tional habits. Those who thought the picture overdrawn
may easily verify its photographic accuracy by visiting
the numerous fashionable houses of so-called worship.
We should be quite willing to let the fidelity of our de-
scription stand or fall by a literal report of the scenes and
proceedings in any of a score, we might readHy name,
of churches where our most popular preachers draw the
largest crowds. Not torepeat what we have already said,
we recur to the subject now toe call attention toa special
feature of fashionable ecclesiastical customs, The time is

   
  
 
   
  
 

 

fast approaching when the annual pastoral and congre-

gational vacation begins. For the fashionable church has
its ‘seasons’? as well as the society it represents. There
are certain months in the year when it is as much out of
order tobe seen in a city church as to occupy a city dwell-
ing. The fashionable church must be closed as regularly
as the fashionable town-house. Soon, therefore, the pop-
ular preachers wiill deliver their final discourses, and sur-
render themselves to holiday recreations. Some of
them will go to Europe to prevent the threatened throat
disease superinduced by their eloquent labors. Others
will make the American tour, or betake themselves to
country retreats, to repair the energies wasted in excess-
ive application to their duties. Their congregations will
also disappear. The comfortable pews will be emptied of
wealthy, well-dressed and luxurious worshipers. The
soft music of costly and artistic choirs will cease to be
heard, and the magnificent temple will be deserted, or
turned over to the cleaners and renoyators. It is. hoped
the congregations will take their religion with them, and
that in London or on the Continent, or at the favorite
watering-places of their own country, they will not forget
Sunday observances. Of course there aremany churches
which are not closed during the summer. There are pas-
tors who cannot afford throat diseases, and who perform
their duties industriously and continuously without wast-
ing their energies. There are congregations whose mem-
bers never go to Europe or famous American resorts, and
are compelled to stay in town throughout the year. When
we Classify these several kinds of churches and pastors
and congregations, we shall find the difference between
fashionable and unfashionable religion.
—_——__—_ > @<+

Men or Monkeys ?

Were our original ancestors men, or monkeys? If men,
who become illustrious through noble deeds or remark-
able attainments, it is natural that we should be proud of
them. Darwin seems to delight in tracing the origin of
the human race to a pair of apes. Nowifhe had referred
only to his own ancestors, the world might find little fault
with his opinions; but when he advances arguments to
prove that all mankind are but improved specimens of
the animals that attend oxgan-grinders, and aceounts for
the loss of their tails by the civilized custom of moving
restlessly on cane-seat chairs, we must dispttte his beastly
theory,,and refer him to the present number of the Phun-
ny Phélow, which contains accurate likenesses of him-
self and his ancient progenitor. The Phunny Rhetiow is
fixed with humorous reading matter and droll pictures.
Bvery news agent sells-it.

 

 

 

The Turf in Disguise.
The season of agricultural fairs is at hand, and the
many committees of State, County, and Town Associa-
tions are busy in preparing their annual exhibitions. But
displays of this sort have greatly changed in almost every-
thing but name. An agricultural fair used to be what its
title implies—a representation of the skill and industry of
farmers, and of the fertility of the soil. Specimen pro-
ducts of all kinds were placed on view—pumpkins of phe-
nomenal proportions, swine whose sides hung down in
extravagant fatness, fruits of the richest variety and rar-
est culture, and cattle of the most approved breed. That
is what the exhibltion was, but it is that no longer. Some
of those featunes indeed are retained for the purpose of a
thin pretext, but they are no longer the sole or the chief
attractions. An agricultural fair is now simply the turf
in disguise. A Town, County, or State exhibition has come
to be nothing more or less than a race meeting. The com-
mittees are chiefly concerned about ‘‘entries’ and
“purses,” and the running or trotting course is a matter
of far more consequence than the building for the display
of corpulent sheep or dropsical turnips. The fair really is
regarded as of little or no importance as a record of the
agricultural success of the year, but is understood to be
merely a series of matches betw fast horses, whose
owners make or lose money thereon by the same gam-
bling methods which have brought the turf into discredit.
Now this is a sham against which all respectable people
should protest. The evils of the open and avowed race-
course are bad enough, but the agricultural fair adds to
them the shameful and transparent fraud of a false pre-’
tense. There should be an end put to the imposition, and
the agricultural fair horse-racing nuisance should be
abated by the force of public opinion.

 

>-o<

A FEW PROVOKING THINGS.

BY REV. H. M. GALLAHER.

 

Can’t something be done for our ‘Illustrated Week-
lies’*—something which will keep them from such per-
sistent agreement, and such tiresome sameness in their
pictures!

Here are Harper’s Weekly, Every Saturday, and
Frank Leslie's, of the same date, and we find four large
engravings in each which are precisely alike.

And this is by no means a rare occurrence. “On the
contrary, quite the opposite,”’ it is the never-varying rule.

“The winds may blow,
The cocks may crow”—

or not, as it happens, but each week in its round is sure
to bring us the thrice-repeated pictures, until at last we
cry, with some impatience, and a slight feeling of being
put upon, not to say swindled, Hold, enough!

To find our four great dailies offering us every morn-
ing, the same editorials in each, as they print now the
same telegraphic press dispatches, so that what we read
in one paper we would be sure to discover in all, would
be a nuisance ‘‘most tolerable and not to be endured.”

And yet to something not unlike this are we treated by
the publishers of our ‘Illustrated Weeklies,’ and we sub-
mit to it with the resignation of men who have no right
but the right to take what is offered, and be thankful. We
sit with the children and look over. one of these papers,
then we take up the second, saying, ‘Now. for another
good time,”? when lo! °*Tis Monsieur Tonson ¢ome again;
the same pictures are here also. We seize the third, and
here he is again, the poor old engravings meeting us for
the third time. 4 - :

The publishers have learned the trapper’s happy method
of dividing the game killed in partnership with his Indian
friend, ‘‘I’ll take the pigeon and you take the crow, or
you take the crow and I'll take the pigeon.” aug it

It is pigeon and crow, or crow and pigeon in Harpers,
in Leslie’s, andin Every Saturday, and it is this every
week, too: We might stand it say every third week, or |
even every second week, but to serve the same dishes in- |
terminably, from May to December, and from Christmas 4
to Easter, does not. agree with every digestion.

Give us a rest, Messrs. Publishers, and alittle, please, of
that variety which is the spice of life.

In the issues of the three papers named above, for
March 25, 1871, we find that Harper's Weekly has a total
of seventeen engravings, of which six—one a large two-
page picture.of peace—are taken from foreign periodicals;
that Every Saturday contains altogether fifteen engrav-
ings, three of them—one the large picture of peace—
copied from foreign papers; and that Frank Leslie has
four from abroad. :

No credit is ever given to the papers from which these
pictures are constantly filched; the artists’ names rarely
or never appear; and simple-minded people are left.to be-
lieve that the engravings were designed and executed,’
ordered and paid for by the publishers of our weeklies.

One little bit of originality in connection with these ap-
propriated pictures must not be overlooked. They take
on new titles this side of the water, and though the pic-
tures do not vary, the names attached to them frequently
do; what is called in Harper's ‘‘The Effects of a Shell”
becoming in Every Saturday ‘An Unwelcome Visitor.”

This change of name then, together with the fact that
they are usually blurred and made scratchy-looking by
unskillful copying, or perhaps because the publishers
serve them ‘‘as gipsies do stolen children, disfigure them
to make them pass for their own,’ is all that isnew or
original about them. :

Another provoking thing is the flippant and even con-.
temptuous method some of our younger writers use in
speaking of the most sacred things.

The author of ‘‘Poems in Dialect’’ is the chief offender in
this direction, and needs to be told that the cheapest of all
wit is wit at the expense of the Scriptures.

To write of the worship of the heavenly hosts as ‘‘angels
loafing round the throne.”’ And to tell us that to live as
the righteous live, is not so pleasing in God’s sight as to
be a drunkard, a blasphemer and a bigamist like ‘Jim
Bludsoe,”’ if like him, we have but the animal courage to
stick to our post when danger comes, and not add
cowardice, to our other crimes, is an offence to one’s un-
derstanding, as well as to one’s religion.

Doubtless there is a dialect, part slang, part blasphemy,
to be heard in Pike county, Illinois, but weare no better
for knowing it. 4

“J never allow myself to look at a bad picture,’ said Sir
Joshua Reynolds, ‘‘my own works would be sure to suffer
from it.” j

It is no more necessary to exhibit the vulgarities of these
people than minutely to expose the orgies ofa panel-house
or the well-dressed debaucheries of the garden Mabille.

We have however the remedy for these ‘‘Poemsin Dia-
lect,’’ close at hand. We need not read them, but for still
another of the provoking things, there seems to be no cure,
we must grin and bear it. We mean the vile language
which clean-lipped people are forced to hear on our street
corners, in the horse cars, at the ferries, and in almost all

 

 

public places.

The presence of your wile or sister never checks the foul
speech of these fellows. For them the age of chivalry 1s
gone. To remonstrate with them is to change them from
swearing generally, to swearing particularly, and at you.
That is all one gains if he attempts to escape from the
condition of silent suffering.

A law is said to be extant against profane swearing, but
who ever saw that law executed, unless indeed one at-
tempts profanity before his honor the judge in our courts
of justice.

Then we discover the vast difference between a gentle-
man in office, and a gentleman who is only a private citi-
zen.

You may with impunity be profane and obscene before
us, but take care that the delicate ears of his honor are
not offended, orelse you shall smart for it.

Itis useless to apply to the police for correction; they are
not inapt practitioners in the noble art themselves, and
may tell you, as one of them did the writer, that ‘‘you are
too d—d particular.”’

We may add to this last nuisance, the provoking way in
rons indecent newspapers and publications are exposed

or sale.

They flaunt before our faces at thronged corners; they
flutter from many windows, they stare at us from multi-
tudes of news-stands in the most busy thoroughfares.

Children loiter and look, and learn vicious lessons from
Villainous designs; modest women hurry by, after a sin-
gle gkance, which crimsons their faces, and good men say
bitterly, as they pass: “‘Itisashame! Itisashame!” ~

Nothing has been done, and nothing, we suppose, will
be done, to suppress these most public exhibitions of ob-
scenity—these pictured appeals to our worst passions.

They shall hang before us, a constant offence to decency
and flaunt it out hardily so long aS money can be made
from them.

It must needs be that offences come; but woe to that
man by whom the offence cometh.

———>-@—+—______

To Authors.—Wanted at this Office Serials of all
Kinds and Lengths. We are about making such ar-
rangements that we desire Authors te send us their
Stories before sending them etsewhere. Ali Stories <Ac-
cepted will be iberaRy paid Jer.

“you say your

crimes that nightly were perpetrated there.
“his little on

 

 

THE FIRST MUSIC IN THE CENTRAL PARK,

JUNE, 1871.

 

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

There’s a tremble all over the emerald trees,

Yet, is it alone from the bards of the breeze?

There’s a motion of joy on the breasts of the lakes,
Yet, is gladness alone from the wind that awakes

¥o breathe harmony here in this grand summer noon,
So perfumed and so blest by the angel of June ?

No! sonse trembles of rapture are now, also, made,
From a cause stili more sacred through tree, wave and glade,
For now swells the first music from man, broad and clear,
That has thrilled the great Park in the spring of this year,
And the soul must be sealed that feels not Nature knows
And responds when Humanity’s joy-music¢ flows.
What a sweet, grateful triumph pealed then from the band}
How the thousands here round it make all the scene grand!
Men, women and children! OFM long may each heart,

_ Cloudless Paradise take in such Nature and Art,
Thus married on emerald carpets at noon,
With the blessing of God from the red lips of June.

“6 AVED.”

A TEMPERANCE SKETCH.
BY M. P. ©. M’CORMACK.

 

“Please to give me a penny.”

It. was the pleading voice of a child.

It was a stormy night. Along the deserted street the
piercing wind swept, and large drops of rain mingled
with sleet began to fall, ;,

Huddled up in tlie doorway of one of the closed shops that
lined the dingy street, her scanty clothing tucked closely
around her delicate form, was a child not more than eight
years old. For three hours of that cold night, she had sat
there; her eyes fixed on the door of a liquor saloon on the
opposite side of the street, as if she expected every mo-
ment, the one she sought would come out. But the little
one waited in vain, her little limbs benumbed with cold,
and her sweet face wet with tears.

Eleven!—tolled the city clock.

Now the people were leaving the various places of
amusement, and hurrying to their homes. Our little girl
had left her place on the door-step, and was importuning
each one who passed:

“Please sir, give me a penny.’

But no notice was taken of her. Suddenly she started
up again. Some one was coming now, who did not ap-
pear to be in such a hurry asthe others. <A well-dressed
gentleman was walking slowly along the street. He
seemed entirely unconscious of all around him.

“This is the first time,” he soliloquized, ‘‘in ten years,
that I have-been in New York. I wonder what became of
them. Strange that I never, in all this time, have heard
anything about her—poor Millicent. I must look them
u 73, +

“Please sir, give me @ penny.”’

The gentleman gave astart, There was something in
the voice that sounded strangely familiar. :

“Give you a penny ?”’ he repeated.

“O, yes sir, please, for poor mother she’s so sick, and
she has nothing to eat, and—” A torrent of grief choked
her further utterance.

“There, there, don’t ery,’ said the gentleman kindly,
other is sick ?”?

“O, yes sir, very Sick, she says she is dying. 0, sir, if
you only knew poor mother, you’d love her indeed you
would, sir, she’s so good,” the little one said rapidly.

The earnestness of the child at once enlisted the gen-
tleman’s sympathies. ‘i

“Where do you live?’ he asked.

“Down that dark street, sir—a great way down.”’

“And what brings you up here?” f

“Mother sir, says She’s—dying—and—and she sent me
to bring home—father—and he wont—come.”

i priig father! wont come!’? he repeated,
“He’s over in that saloon, sir.”? -_ eicrtt: ae

“QO Heaven! thisis terrible, his wife dying, his: child

wandering about in the cold streets on such a night as

“where is

bigeee ae

this, while he is making a beast of himself, and enriching.

others with what ought to be given) to his—I suppose—
starving fells This is indeed ay 0 Heaye J
many such are in this great city to-n atin many wretch-
ed families have the same sad story to tell ?-Bat come, little
one, I will go with you to ert hae sick mother.’

And taking the ‘child’s hand, both entered the dark
street. Half the lamps had 1 peboon jighted, or if they
had, they had been extinguished in order to hide the

Phe gentleman.and hi compani
gceded tar when the former halted. - -.--

had not pro-
“Well, ’? said he with a low laugh re's a

- macerete 63

ety ad-

     

venture. Why this is one of the 1 ors : ities in the
city, and this child is only a~decoy—but fm ee yoice, so
soft, so touching. Iiust have a look at her face, at the

next gas lamp.” And on they Went again. _

When they came to the light-he stopped, The sweet, |
pale, innocent face looked up ing y into his. ~

The gentleman uttered an exclamation of admiration

as he looked down on that angel-like face, bedewed with.

tears, yes, tears of joy, the gentleman’s kindness and
sympathy had touched her heart.

“PI stake my life on the honesty of that face,” he said.
_ They went on again, a thousand conjectures. filling his.
~~ | bands. The timid youths could not master courage to re-

-|.fuse the hand that wielded the lance and the javelin. But
there was a large number of young ladies who preferred

mind as they proceeded down the street.

' “This is the house, sir.”? 1 Sie
“Alt! this is it, eh? A wretched looking place surely.”
They were before a gloomy old tenement house of the

meanest kind. Thestreet in the vicinity—as far as could

be seen by the aid. of the dim, mud-spattered gas lamp,

was filthy in the extreme.. Everything around betokened

-wretchedness.

The two entered the dingy hall, and made their way
through the darkness, up the creaking old stairs, the little
one every moment telling him to look out for broken
steps. . After considerable exertion, and no small risk to
limb, they reached the top landing, The little girl took
the gentieman’s hand, and led him along the dark, nar-
row passage. At the farther end she opened a door, and
glided softly into a wretched apartment. On the bed lay
a woman, thin and worn. On a chair by the bedside, a
lamp burned dimly.

“OQ, mamma! dear mamma!”? cried the little girl, as she
glided toward the bed, ‘‘here’s a good gentleman come to
see you.”’ ;

The gentleman had meantime approached the bed, and
the sick woman, with a sigh of distress, turned and pre-
sented her face. ;

“Gracious Heaven!’’ the gentleman exclaimed, starting
forward, ‘‘Milly Graham!’’

“Ralph Clifford!” and she fainted.

“QO, she’s dead! She’s dead!” cried the child, frantical-,

ly throwing herself on the bed.

“No, no, child, she isnot. Give me a little water, quick-
ly. She has fainted.” - fo

“QO, Heaven!” he groaned, as he sprinkled the pale face,
and bathed the white, marble-like forehead and temples,
“what achange! Poor Milly! dear sister Millicent! 0, if
I had only known that——” °

“Ralph!? i

The poor sufferer had opened her eyes, and with a con-
yulsive grasp, seized the hand that bathed her brow.

“QO, Ralph—Raiph—Heaven has sent you to—me—in
this terrible trial——” j

“There, there, Milly, don’t talk now,’ said he, shocked
and overcome at what he had discovered. ‘We will talk
some. other time, my poor darling. I must see a physi-
cian immediately.”’

“J fear it—is—no use, Ralph, I believe—l am—dying.”’

“Hush, Milly, not dying. You will live and be happy
yet. We will all be happy again, asin old times. Cheer
up, dear one, il be back presently.”? And imprinting a
kiss on that white forehead, he left the place in search of
a physician. :

As he passed out into the street a drunken man stag-
gered past him, and entered the house he had just left.

Quite a different scene from the one just described had
been enacted in the-liquor saloon before mentioned. The

room was filled with men of the roughest class, drinking, -

smoking, and cursing by turns. The air of the place was
unwholesome with the odor of bad liquor and worse to-
bacco, and snatches of ribald songs, mingled with oaths,
were heard on all. sides.

In the center of a group of, perhaps a dozen villainous-
looking roughs, stood a tall man, dressed in a very seedy,
threadbare suit of black. But for the look of drunken
idiocy that was on his face, he would have been called
handsome. :

He was gesticulating violently as he addressed those
around him on some political subject. It was evident,
from the angry countenances of his hearers, that his po-
litical favorite was not theirs, or his opinions theirs.

Suddenly there was an uproar. He had made some re-
mark that touched the feelings of one of his audience, and
the man, without a moment’s warning, threw the con-
tents of his glass in the face of the speaker. The latter,
with a cry of rage, sprang upon his assailant and bore
him-to the ground. In an instant the fight became gen-
eral; glasses, pjtchers, chairs, &c., flew in every direc-
tion. Curses and yells issued from almost every mouth.
The crash of smashing glass, the overturning of tables,
chairs, &c:, all swelled the tumult, in the midst of which
the tall man was thrust, pale and bleeding, out upon the
sidewalk. ,

He made several attempts to gain an entrance, but was
each time hurled back; and at last seeing that his efforts
were unsuccessful, he turned down the street to his home
perhaps to vent hisrage and mortification on his poor,
helpless family.

After half an hour’s search, Ralph Olifford found a
physician, and requesting his attendance immediately,
both returned together. As they reached the door of the
sick woman’s room @ loud noise issued from within.

“Ah!? said Clifford, ‘‘he is back now, and the foul fiend
is doing Ais work within him.”

A distressing sight it was, indeed, that met their gaze
as they opened the door. Huddled up in a corner, pale
with terror was the little girl. A look of the greatest
agony lingered on the pale face of the invalid in the bed,
the tears flowing down the hollow oheeks, while a
drunken man, his face and hands covered with bluod,
raved and tore about the room, smashing everything he
laid hands on. It was he who a short time before had
been thrown out of the ‘‘rum-hole.”’

The moment Ralph Clifford and the doctor entered, the
man looked up and staggering forward seized the latter
by the collar:

‘“Who the
you———”’

 

are you, eh? What—brimg you here—

“pen
a accwalics should the ballot no longer be confined to:

“Don’t, Robert.’’

It was the faint voice of the sick woman.
ree an oath he let ge the doctor, and staggered toward

e ;

‘“‘Hallo, there! What have you to say about it anyhow?
Do you dare dictate tome? If you do, take that! and he
dealt her a stinging blow on the worn, upturned face.

The child gave a shrill scream as the poor invalid with
a cry of agony fell backward. :

Yhe man had scarcely struck the blow, when a great
change came over him.

“Back!’? he shouted to the men, who sprang forward to
prevent a repetition of the blow. The look of idiocy had
vanished; he was sober now; a fierce, wild light gleamed
in his eyes; he looked bewildered, horror-stricken.

In.an instant ke recovered, and throwing himself on

his knees by the bedside, raised the insensible form of his
wife in his arms.
_ “Oh! Heavenly Father! I have killed her. Milly, Milly,
darling, speak to me—to Robert! Look up—speak to me,
Milly, or | shall go mad. Oh, Heaven! has it, indeed
come to this that | should strike her? Oh! Milly, Milly,
Heaven pity me! Won’t you speak tome, Milly? Im a
changed man now.”’

The poor sufferer opened her eyes.

“Thank Heaven,’? he exclaimed. ‘‘Oh, Milly, darling,
will you—will you forgive me? I was not myself. It was
the demon within me that poe the blow.”?

‘““Yes—yes, dear Rovert, I do forgive you,’’ said. she en-
twining her thin, white arms about his neck. ‘I do for-
give you.”

‘Hear me, Heaven !’ he suddenly exclaimed; “I swear
that after this I will never again taste intoxicating liquor
in shape orform. It has brought misfortune and disgrace
on me, and poverty and starvation on my poor darling
wife, and sweet child. From this forth I will become a
new man—so help me Heaven!??

“cc Amen!) ‘

He started up and looked round. He had quite forgotten
the presence of the others.

“Gentlemen, par—what! Ralph Clifford ??

“The same, Robert,’ replied Clifford, grasping the out-
stretched hand of the other. :

Robert Graham hung his head.

“Come cheer up, Robert, old friend. All is not yet lost
—you still have your health. There is yet, I hope, a bright
future in store for you. Robert, remember that I was once
a victim to the accursed passion—love of drink, and as
deep in the mire of iniquity as the worst, perhaps, and,
had it not been for the Heaven-bright influence and pray-
ers of that poor angel there, Heaven only knows to what
depths I might have fallen. So cheer up, old fellow, I have
now no friends in the world but you, we will work to-
gether, and Heaven will aid our efforts to do good.”’

A grasp of the hand and a convulsive sob—no more. The
heart of the erring one was too full for utterance.

It was indeed an affecting scene, there was not a tear-
less eye in the room, even the physician, though accus-
tomed to scenes of sorrow, could not keep back a tear of
sympathy.’ ;

Robert Graham kept his oath—he became anew man,
though it was hard work at first, by energy and perserver-
ance he rose to the position he had fallen from, of happi-
ness, respectability and affluence, and we can assure the
reader that we seldom in our life felt happier than when
we made a call at the happy, peaceful home of Robert
Graham, no longer in the shabby tenement-house, butina

| beautiful uptown residence, where happiness reigned

supreme.

 

WAR AND WOMEN.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

 

 

One of the favorite arguments used by the opponents of
woman suffrage, is that women are incapable of discharg-
ing one of the most important duties of citizens, that of
bearing arms; which is met by the assertion thatif women
were admitted to vote, there would be no more wars.
for the latter declaration history falsifies it. Where power
has been wielded by female hands it has been put forth

ee offensive and defensive wars, and, as history is

\Stantly repeating itself, what has happened may hap-
again. Nor is there reason to disbelieve that in case

 

an army of Amazons might be easily recruited, His-

men
furnishes us with. numerous examples of female

tory

women might not make efficient soldiers? Whether it
desixable to have our wives, mothers and sweethearts
take the field as artillerists, lancers, dragoons, and rifle-
women is another question. The distance between the
needle and the needle-gun may not prove enormous.

We treat as a perfect absurdity and libel what Jean
Paul Richter says would be the conduct ofa female captain
commanding a company of female soldiers. He says that
if she wished them to cease advancing, she would say:

“Now, soldiers, don’t you move another step. Stop

just where you are—don’t you go. tora another inch.

I'm captain, and 1 will be obeyed. I won’t have you go
ny er—now you asthe nes I say.’ Where @ man

would arrest his column by the single word“ ’

It is certain that the king of Dahomey has a corps of
Amazons in his service, and_ that these colored ladies far
su the men in valor and ferocity, ‘‘traveling on their
muscle” in a style which,is Pte astonishing. Nor
can we treat the stories of the ancients about a kingdom
of Amazons as wholly fabulous.
~ Gosmus of Prague, a chronicler of the eleventh century,
very gravely relates the story of a State governed by
female warriors in Bohemia. These ladies were addicted
to war and hunting. The marriageable girls paid their
addresses to the young men and selected their own hus-

single blessedness to wedded felicity, and who fortified a
savage eminence in the vicinity of Prague, where they
erected a fortress, which they called ‘‘Diewin, or the
Maidens’ Castle.”

A corresponding number of young gentlemen erected a
similar fortress on a rocky hill in the neighborhood, to
which they gave the name of Nurestan. :

These young gentlemen and young ladies then proceeded
to make war against each other in the most approved
fashion. After numerous combats which resulted unde-
cidedly, an armistice of three days was agreed upon, and
the belligerents celebrated the truce by a picnic on an
enormous scale. To make a long story short, they all dis-
covered their ‘“‘affinities,”? and instead of renewing the
war, settled their differences by matrimony. AS a sort of
peace offering, the ladies made a bontire of their castle on
the rock.

During the middle ages, women often took part in the
savage wars ofthe period. Gaeta, the wife of a Norman
prince, greatly distinguished herself in the battle near
Dyrrachium, in which Robert Guiscard defeated the Greek
emperor, Alexis Comnenus. When the followers of her
husband were driven back by the Greek infantry, this
courageous woman rallied them and led them back to the
charge on the enemy’s ranks, brandishing her lance like a
second Pallas.

Isabelle, daughter of Simon de Mentfort, and wife of
Raoul de Conches, was as brave as. any of the knights
among whom she rode to battle. Yet she was a gay,
pleasant, graceful woman.

What shall we say of Julienne, wife of Eustache de Bre-
teuié, who defended her husband’s castle against her own
father, Henry I. of England? With one of those medizyal
machines for hurling stones, called a ballista, she pro-
jected an immense rock in the direction of the paternal
head, but failed in her laudable design of -crushing it.
What made this attempt worse was, that she had proposed
to “interview” the old gentleman peaceably, and he very
naturally lost his temper at her treachery. He conse-
quently visited the castle, destroyed the draw-bridge, and
summoned the garrison to surrender. His dutiful daugh-
ter, finding resistance hopeless, capitulated. But while
her troops were allowed to march out with the honors of
war, King Henry compelled his daughter to let herself
down by a rope from one of the windows, and to crawl
through the muddy ditch. She was then permitted to re-
join her husband.

The famous French poetess, Louise Labé, made her first
and only campaign at the siege of Perpignan, in 1542, at
her father’s side, when she was only ‘“‘sweet sixteen,’’ and
so greatly distinguished herself by her gallantry, that the
enthusiastic soldiery called her Captain Louise.

In the same century Catherine d’Eranso, aSpanish nun,
ran through a wonderful career of adventure. Escaping
from her convent, she procured a masculine disguise, and
shipped as a Ssailor-boy on board a vessel bound for
America. There she deserted, and entering the Spanish
army, did her full share of the hard fighting with the In-
dians. She was promoted from the ranks for her daring,
fought a duel with a brother-officer, was severely wounded
and her sex discovered in the hospital. After her recovery
she returned to Europe and received a pension from Philip
Til.
Madame Barbe d’Ernecourt, Countess of Saint Balmont,
was another fighting lady of distinction. She was said to
have united the valor of a soldier to the modesty of a
Christian woman. She was not handsome, and set but
little store on beauty. After recovering from the small-
pox she rejoiced to find her face deeply-pitted and seamed
because it made her look more likeaman. She lived hap-
pily enough with her husband, till the disturbances in
Lorraine, her native country, forced them to separate.

She lived on her estate to protect it; and a captain of
cavalry was quartered on her property and behaved very
badly. Up to this time the countess had satisfied her
craving for manly pursuits by hunting, but now she went
a step further. The disorderly behavior of the cavalry
officer, who had paid no attention to her respectful re-
monstrances, seemed to call for severe chastisement.

So she wrote him a note, signed ‘‘The Chevalier de Bal-
mont,’’ stating that his treatment of her sister-in-law,
the Countess de Balmont, demanded interference, and
challenged him to meet him (her) at a designated spot,
sword in hand.

There Madame de St. Balmont, disguised as a man,
waited for her adversary, and they engaged in fierce en-
counter. At the end of afew minutes, the countess sent
her adversary’s rapier flying from his hand. She stooped,
picked up the sword, and advancing to him gracefully,
said: : '

“You thought. sir, you were fighting with the Chevalier
de Saint Balmont, but it is Madame de Saint Balmont
who now begs you to receive your sword again, and who
suggests that in future it would be well for you to treat
noble ladies with some respect and consideration.”’

With these words, she saluted the officer gravely and
retired to her chateau, leaving him. covered with confu-
sion.

After this event the countess gave free play to her mili-
tary instincts. She made numerous sorties at the head of
her neighbors and vassals, and waged war in Lorraine

 

with great suecess.

heroism; and who shall say that, with proper nan:

 

She was far more at home in male attire than in the
dress of her sex. Often entertaining her lady visitors in
her chateau, she would retire for a few moments, reap-
pear in the dress of a cayalier, mount her horse and es-
cort her guests for some miles on -their return ride, with
asword at her side and pistols in her holsters.

She was much beloved in her neighborhood, for she was
very charitable, a kind attendant on the sick, and exem-
plary in the performance of her religious duties. She fin-
eae her days in a convent. *

ere is a Well-authenticated story ofa female pirate, an
English girl, named M Read, who was one of the buc-
caneers of the Spanish Main. She was taken prisoner,
carried to Jamaica, tried and sentenced to death, but died
in prison, at the age of forty.

bout the same period, Mademoiselle Maupin, an act-
ress of tlie French opera, scandalized all Paris by her ad-
ventures. Sle was a consummate fencer and almost con-
ystantly wore male attire, so that she could gratify her
belligerent propensities. One evening she grossly insult-
ed a lady who was in CORRE with three gentlemen. A
duel instantly took place the men not recognizing the sex
of the offender. The furious Amazon fought the three
gentlemen, one after another, and killed them all, She
was arrested and committed to prison, but pardoned, left
Paris, returned to the opera, finally became penitent and
devout, and died, if we remember rightly, somewhere
about the year 1707. '

We might easily extend our list of fighting ladies, but
these specimens of female warriors, duellists and pirates
are perhaps sufficient.

Itis not generally known that the first woman who made
the tour of the world, was a native of Brittany, named
Barre. She was dressed asa footman, and in that capacity,
accompanied the French botanist, Commersgon, in his
travels from 1767 to 1770. .

THE LADIES’ WORK-BOX.

A department designed especially for ladies, wherein will be an-
swered all questions which may be asked by correspondents, re-
lating to fashion, the different styles of dress, combination of
colors, needle-work of all kinds, the arrangement of the hair,
etiquette—in short, anything of especial interest to ladies. ]

 

 

 

Never have we seen a more elegant and varied assort-
ment of beautiful fabrics than are now displayed in our
palaces of fashion.

Organdies, exquisitely fine, and with delicately-tintec
figures or flowers upon white ground. Lawns as fine, but
thicker in texture, with the same graceful figures. Hand-
some dress patterns of figured piques also with white
ground almost covered by clusters of flowers in all colors..
A most beautiful pattern was one with a rose and a clus-
ter of leaves and buds, almost as perfect as nature. The
colors in these materials are said to be perfectly fast.

The Japanese goods of the present season are said to be
far superior to any hitherto exhibited or manufactured.
Many of our friends having new suits to make have sent
us samples of their materials, in order that we may judge
better of a suitable style. It is a good idea, but we notice
that many have selected the old Japanese goods instead.
of the new. The difference is this: the old material has
a silken luster, is very glossy, and is stiff, the folds are
pretty when first made, but the wearing of a few times
shows the trouble, the skirt becomes stringy, and when
creased, remains so. If a small piece is pulled apart, one
will find the silk thread running up and down, while the
cross thread is stiff like horse hair.

The new Japanese is more on the order of the pongee,
and will not rumple, norcrease. It hangs well so long as
the material lasts, and will, if necessary, wash as well as
ordinary cotton cloth.. It is soft to the touch, and is com-
posed of silk and wool.

Grenadines are very popular now; of the more expen-
sive qualities the iron frame is the best. This ranges in
price from $1 to $6a yard. These goods must be made
over silk to have an elegant appearance, hence a grena-
dine dress is quite as expensive as silk. In cheaper qual-
ities we find the figured and striped grenadines, These
have either black or white grounds, and stripes or flow-
ers, in all the gay colors. Black and white together are
very pretty, and when made up, havea most stylish ef-
fect. The black goods are trimmed with silk or satin,.
in colors the most becoming to the wearer.

Hats trimmed with gauze ribbons are much worn with.
these suits. ;

“Nellie R.”"—If you have an old silk skirt use it as foun-
dation for your grenadine. Put three or four fiounces
about four inches wide, and bound around with silk the
color of the flower. Trim the overskirt with two flounces,
and the waist with ruchings of the grenadine bound with
the garnet silk. If your brother will soak his brushes in

| turpentine, and then wash them in strong lie, he can soon

cleanse them of paint.

“Tone.?’—Persons with your Complexion and eyes can
wear almost any color in certain shades. A very dark
blue. would not be becoming, but a silvery light blue
would. Peach-blossom pink, or rose, is the suitable
shade of pink. Lavender, pearl, gray, or any soft, deli-
cate color, is the mest desirable. . % bah

‘“Myrh.”—Your mantle will do without any alte
There are so many different styles that anything |
ing is admissible. Trim your silk sk
aoe flounces or ruffles of black si
si
you will find it an exceedingly serviceable garment. to
wear with your skirts of any.color. =

“‘Melissa.’’—Make your cambric dress with two flounces,

»ecom-
‘t with two or three

  
  

 

 

six inches deep, in the skirt, headed by a puff. Trim the
overskirt with one ruffle and a puff, and the sack to
match. ‘Trim your black alpaca cape with side plaitings
of the material, or two or three rows of black velvet
about an inch wide.
lace are considered the most stylish. We think you would
prefer a sack or jacket of alpaca to the cape. If sack,
make it open at the sides and in the back, and trim with
either a puff, or plaiting of the material.

“Mrs. Jennet Burt.”—We have no purchasing depart-
ment connected with this paper, and cannot become per-
sonally responsible for any one. But, if you will write to
Mrs. Mary E. Tucker, office of the NEw YORK WEEKLY,
we think she will give you all the desired information, and
will also purchase any article you may wish from New
York.

“A Schoolgirl.”—For this season no material is more
appropriate than the linen serge. It is cheap, neat, and
stylish, and can be washed without injury. These dress-
es are striped, and can be stylishly trimmed with bias
bands of the material, edged with folds of black. The
overskirt or polonaise should be deep in the back and
open in front, and trimmed with side plaiting, headed
with a bias band. This trimming should run up in front
and around the neck. The sleeves can be either open or
coat, but trimmed to correspond. Poplins, silks, serges,
organdies, lawns, linens, and percales, are all fashionable,
and pretty for this season. :

MS H.’—A pretty way, to make a brown linen
suit is to have the short skirt bordered with a deep flounce
attached in clusters of single plaits, the intervening spaces
ornamented with brown braid, disposed in a Grecian de-
sign, the headings arranged to match. The graceful over-
skirt and jaunty jacket are bordered with braid in the same
design; the former looped very high on the sides, the lat-

 

the openings filled with side plaits, disposed in fans. The

trimmed with quillings of the alpaca.

trimmed with the quilling. You can have it either with
or without pockets. The ‘‘fashion’’ will allow you to wear
your black velvet hat, but we fancy the weather wili not,
for even now we find the heavily trimmed winter hats al-
most insupportable. Try, if possible, to keep your head
and brain cool. Some of the new style shoes are quite
high, but as a general thing we find the top of the most
stylish boots reaching just above the ancle.

‘“‘Minnie.’’—Make your graduating dress of white Swiss
or organdie. Have a deep flounce on the underskirt,
headed by a ruffle, both fluted; above these have a cluster
of four tucks. Let your overskirt be very long behind, and
with a draped apron front, trimmed with the narrow ruf-
fles, fluted, and the cluster of tucks. Tuck the yoke of the
waist, and have the corsage full. Make the sleeves half-
flowing, a puff at the top, and the bottom tucked and ruf-
fied. If you wish, or can afford extra expense, you may
add to all the ruffles and flounces, an edge of imitation
Valenciennes lace, which will cost you about 75 cents for
twelve yards. Let your sash and ribbon for your hair, be
of the most becoming color to your complexion. —

“Ella L.2’—By all means make a white overskirt and
waist to wear with your grey silk, then you can use if
with others. The long draped overskirts are in great
favor, and are very stylish. Lawns are ruffled and tucked,
Sometimes embroideries are used for trimming, but the
material seems to be preferred. The only remedy for the
hair splitting is to cut the ends off about once a month.
The trouble you speak of indicates fever, as that causes*
the skin to parch and become rough. Perhaps it woutd be
well to consult a physician. ;

“Ferre Thompson.’’—A blue, drab, pink, maroon, or
violet neck-tie would be becoming. Get a pointed collar
of linen and lace to wear with your suit. A locket ribbon
is usually about one and a half yardsiong. The length of
pillow cases depends upon the size of the pillows. Trim
either with ruffies or have them plain.

 

To Young News Agents,

Persons inclined to start news agencies frequently write
to us for information relative to the business, and request-
ing advice as to the wholesale dealer they should patronize.
In answer to all such inquiries we simply state that it will
be found advantageous to patronize the nearest wholesale
dealer; as a saving of time will result in the transmission
of orders and in the receipt of goods. _ Below is a list of
wholesale dealers, all prompt and reliable men, who will
cheerfully furnish information necessary for the guidance
of persons desirous of embarking in the news business:

AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, )

NEW YORK NEWS COMPANY, > New York city.
NATIONAL NEWS COMPANY, )

NEW ENGLAND NEWS CoO., Boston, Mass.
WESTERN NEWS CO., Chicago, Ml.

POWERS PAPER CO., Springfield, Mass.
BALTIMQRE NEWS CO., Baltimore, Ma.

CENTR. NEWS CO., Philadelphia, Pa.

W. A. GILDENFENNY, Pittsburgh, Pa.

J. A. ROYS, Detroit, Mich.
ST. LOUIS NEWS CO., St. Louis, Ho.
WISCONSIN NEWS CO., Milwaukie, Wis.
TILLINGHAST & MASON, Providence, R. I.
C. A. WAKLEN, Newark, N. J.

NEWARK NEWS COMPANY.

 

 

Next week we shall add other names te this list.

 

ake a black
lonaise or a casaque to wear with the skirt, and

»

The pointed collars of linen and ©

ter about half-fitting, slashed on the hips and in the back, .

sleeves are arranged to match, and it is open in front over» |
a linen chemisette. Make your apron with bretelle waist, &.
Have the skirt, or |
front piece, round at the sides and pointed in front, also

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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|

 

 

 

 

 

BY B. P. SHILLABER.

 

PART I.
Sweet Madaline’s hair was very fair,
O©f ashen-gold hue, by which bards swear,
Whose glorious curls
Were the envy of girls—
@f kink divine and profusion rare
And Madaline’s power,
Evinced each hour,
Rested, like Samson’s, in her hair.

In such a glory it round her lay!

€rinkled in Style’s adroitest way,

Burnt with irons to make it stay

With amount of effort best not to say—

Its every curl, in the light astray,

Seemed a streak from the source of day,
Leading the rapt beholder,

Who saw it about her neck at play,

To deem it some amorous sunbeam’s ray
Lit on her snow-white shoulder.

Not like the curls we sometimes meet

Out there upon the public street,
To good taste oft offences;

That glisten and twist admiration to gain,

.And excite the susceptible masculine train,

Till they find at last, to their shame and pain,

That they’re fraud, and the whole of their object plain—
Getting goods under false pretences.

At every feast, or dance, or fair,
In the burning blaze of the gaslight’s glare,
Were seen those locks flash here and there,
Like fire-flies in the summer air,
Enchanting by their glitter;
Sought for by eligible beaux,
Subject for rivalry with those
Who ached to tweak each other’s nose
In the eager race to get her.

And her smile was bright as the curls she wore
And equal kindness on all she’d pour,
And each fond swain
Perplexed his brain
So far as that organ might obtain,
As he watched the smile her features o’er,
If for him it any promise bore,
But all his watch was vain.

PART II.
"Twas in the glow of a festal night,
The social fires al] burning bright,
The gas turned on to its utmost hight,
Bathing the scene in its fullest light;
Sweet Madaline,
The pride of the scene,
The cynosure of enraptured sight
To many a would-be lover,
Sat at the board with her golden hair
In affluent ringlets above her chair,
Catching the whole of the gaslight’s glare
That streamed from the jet above her.

Toasted, and flattered, and praised, and pressed,
She caught each word with a fluttering breast;
And many a youthful, manly vest
Swelled at her beauty manifest,
And pulsing hearts, ‘neath the glowing test,
The potency of her charms confessed,
With rapturous feeling overblessed
If her eyes in kindness wandered;
And her golden hair a wealth possessed
That bosoms filled with as keen unrest
As any awaked by the golden west,
In auriferous dreams long pondered.

Around her chair
Her votaries there
Hung entranced her joy to share
In each luxurious minute;
Already had passed the season of cream,
And trifles sweet as a maiden’s dream,
And SmaK-talk ran like a babbling stream,
When, 2 moment’s hush,
A push and a rush,
And then there came a mellifluous scream,
Like the angry note of a linnet!
No one could tell the reason why,
But ‘twas Madaline’s ery, and Madaline’s eye
That looked around on the standers by
With the fiercest temper in it!

PART III.
“On with the dance!” and with agile feet,
The music breathing its cadence sweet,
The dancers flitted with measure meet,
The gay hours moving on pinions fleet
With saltatory joy replete,
And Madaline,
Again serene,
Moved in the throng the regnant queen,
The blissful scene enhancing;
There were polks, and waltzes, galops and reels,
And those rare movements the dancer feels,
Thrilling all through from head to heels,
That make the acme of dancing.

Again, “‘Choose partners!” every set
In just accordancy has met
For the gracefulest, grandest trial yet:
There are twists and twiris
And swirls and whirls,
And glowing bright are Madaline’s curis
On the happy shoulder of George Mariett!
(Perhaps that wasn’t the very name,
But the truth of the tale is just the same.)
About they go in the mazy dance—
Chassez! Balancez! Back! <Advance!.
When, just at the critical turning,
Fair Madaline seemed struck with a trance;
Her feet stood still, and with look askance,
With wonder shown in her countenance,
Her eyes in their sockets burning!

The dancers stopped in sore dismay,
The caller’s call none would obey,
And there they stood in the light’s full ray,
Looking with vacant stare,
Till Madaline her finger put on
Her wondering partner’s third vest-button,
Where, gleaming like gold,
On his waistcoat’s fold
Was @ lock of golden hair!

_ like the fierce wild red-man of the West,

Swinging a scalp as his valor’s test,

So Mariett wore on his sturdy breast

A lock of her’s he loved the best,

And he vowed a vow that none of the rest
Should lift a hand to pick it;

Though how it came there he didn’t know,

But Madaline the spot could show

Where late the golden curl did grow,

That was torn by its roots from its soil of snow,
In the midst of the golden thicket.

And that was the secret of Madaline’s scream,
Mingled with noise of spoons in the cream,
And waking the “spoons” from their little dream,
Coupled with glance of her eyes’ fierce gleam,
- That carried such a start with it;

And Mariett clings to his beautiful scalp
As firm as the foot of an amorous Alp,

Determined never to part with it;

And Madaline she

ed Don’t disagree,

Seeing he has his heart with it.

BERTHA,

THE

 

| Sewing-Machine Girl;

—— OR, ——
DEATH AT THE WHEEL.

By Francis S. Smith,
Author of “ALICE BLAKE,” “MAGGIE TH

CHARITY CHILD,” “RVEL YN WILSON
ete. ete,

 

(Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl; orDeath at the Wheel” was
commenced in No. 27, Back Nos. eat be obtained from any
News Agent in the United States. ] e

CHAPTER XIX.—CoNTINUVED.

Bertha, of course, had been in constant correspondence
with her lover, Philip Hamilton. They found it sweet to
communicate by letter, doubtless, while distance Separated
them, but it was only natural that they should desire
greatly to see each otlrer, after the lapse of a month, and
Bertha at length received the gratifying intelligence from
Philip that he designed paying his aunt a Visit, and would
call upon her immediately on his arrival.

Accordingly one bright morning, Philip packed his valise
and took an early traln for Philadelphia.

As he sat turning over m his mind the in jdents of the
past few monthe, and bitterly deploring the wrtoward

 

{ stamps and I warrant

—

 

wi

events which had placed the.girl of his heart in a position
at once so painful-and humiliating, suddenly his ear caught
the sound of Bertha Bascomb’s name from the lips of a
man who, with a male companion, sat directly in front of
him. Every faculty of his nature was aroused at once,
and with a fast-beating heart he prepared himself to
listen.

The speaker was a middle-aged man, and his companion
was not more than twenty-five, but both were somewhat
over-dressed, and both had a rakish, sensuous expression
of countenance.

‘Bertha Bascomb is a beauty,”’ said the elder of the two,
“and the old fox was lucky in securing so dainty a tid-
bit. But what asly old dog Jasper Carter is! Who would
have believed, now, with his demure looks and his great
pretensions to morality and his methodical way of doing
things that he could be the gay and festive old buffer which
he really is? Iam pretty quick at reading character, but
I must say that in his case I was all abroad.”’

“Well, I wasn’t Tom,” replied the younger, with a know-
ing look. ‘I knew he was an old hypocrite. Men who
busy themselves so much about the affair of others gener-
ally need a little looking after themselves. You know
what ashow of virtue the old fellow makes on every occa-
sion that offers. Confound him! He came near having
me pulled when he gave the information which led
to the descent on Phil. McManus’s house. I was there
that night fighting the tiger, and escaped by the skin of my
teeth. It would have been a pretty go had I been arrest-
ed. How the old fellow would have cavorted had he seen
his prospective son-in-law locked up on the charge of
gambling and he the cause ofit! And wouldn’t Lil have
given him a blessing!”’ hee

“It would have been a good joke, though!’ rejoined the
elder. ‘But what do you suppose put it inte the old fel-
low’s head to complain of the crib, Harry?’

“A clerk of his had been roped in there while lushy, and
beat out of five or six hundred dollars, I believe,’’ replied
the younger. ‘:When he found his money was gone and
he couldn’t get it back again,*he tried the penitent dodge
on old Carter—owned the corn, promised amendment, and
all that sort of thing and the old man let up on him and
had the concern pulled. By thunder, I’ve felt neryous ever
since. If I had been caught there the old fellow never
would have consented to my marrying his daughter, and
that would have been awkward. I don’t care so much
about Lil. It wouldn’t break my heart to lose her, for be-
tween you and me she is alittle too high strung to suit me.
But J do feel like fingering the old governor’s stamps, and
that’s what’s the matter with me.” i

“And very praiseworthy feeling itis, too, Harry.” rejoin-
ed the elder of the two. ‘‘But look out that the pretty Ber-
tha don’t get away with the old boy’s stamps before you get
a chance at them. These old fellows become dough in the
he nds of a pretty girl who knows what she’s about. They
can be molded into almost any shape, and their money
flows as freely as water.”’

“T don’t feel at all uneasy about that,’? was the reply,
‘for however smart the girl may be she can’t pull the wool
over Lil’s eyes. It is true that Lil rather likes her at pre-
sent, but let me hint once that Bertha is after the old man’s
u. she won’t stay long beneath
that roof. To tell you the truth, Tom, I’ve got a sneaking
notion after that little sewing girl myself, and after I se-
cure Lilian I think I'll take her away from the governor
and provide for her myself.’

“That may be easier said than done,” rejoined the elder
man. ‘It don’t follow that because she is willing to ac-
cept the old man’s bounty, on the sly, she would be will-
ing to compromise herself openly with a youngster like
yourself.’?

“Tf all that I have heard be true,” returned the younger
man, ‘‘I shall have but little difficulty. Why, Tom, doyou
know thatthe little beauty is under indictment in New
York for the theft of fifty dollars?’ 9

“You don’t say so!’? was the response in a tone of won-
derment.

“Fact, I assure you!’ was the reply; ‘I have it from un-
doubted authority and wouldn't say so if I wasn’t certain
ofit. She robbed an old fellow that she worked for of the
sum named, and old Carter went her bail. Of course if
she’ll steal she’ll do anything else, and I tell you skeis in
the market.’ ?? otas es

“You are an infamous liar!’ exclaimed Philip Hamil-
ton, in a voice of thunder, and so suddenly that both men
jumped as though they had received an electric shock.:and
then fixed their gaze upon Philip, who regarded them
with blazing eyes and flushed face. ‘

‘Hello, sir!’ exclaimed the younger, with a show of in-
dignation, ‘I should like to know what right you have to
interrupt a conversation between gentlemen: which does
not concern you!"’ 47

“Gentlemen! said Philip Hamilton, in a tone of scorn.
“Such gentlemen as society could very well afford to do
without. Gentlemen who dare not face a man, but do not
hesitate to stab in the dark the .character of a poor but
virtuous girl.”

“Don’t you think that’s cool, Tom ?’? asked the younger
of the two men turning to his companion. ‘The fellow
isn’t drunk unless it be with passion. . What do you make
of him? I think he must have escaped from some lunatic
asylum.”’

“T shouldn’t wonder,’ was the rejoinder, ‘“‘he looks a
little weak about the upper story. Heis either very crazy
or excessively facetious, that’s certain, or he wouldn’t run
the risk of getting his head broken by interfering between
gentlemen in defence of a female thief, even if she is un-
usually good looking.’’ eS 4

“You are @ liar and a scoundrel! exclaimed Philip
Hamilton, rising to his feet, and clenching his fists tightly;
“and if yousay another word derogatory to the character.
of Bertha Bascomb I will teach you such a lesson as you
will not soon forget. The lady, with whose name you are
making so free, is my aftianced wife, and she is as far sup-
erior, in every respect, to you or any of your set, male or

 

 

female, as gold is superior to dross. Dare but utter an-
other word to her discredit, and by all my hopes of Heaven
I will throw you headlong from the train one after the
other!’’ - ry

“By Jove, Tom,” whispered the younger of the two
men, turning ghastly with terror, ‘I believe he means it!
The fellow is dangerous, or 'm no judge! I think we has
better retire to the smoKing-car and blow acloud. © Ss
He’s growing more and more angry every moment: Don't”
let’s tempt him!’ ; :

“You shall hear from us again, my young cock-spar-
row,’ said the elder man, severely, as he arose from his
seat followed by his companion, and started toward the
door of the car.

“I don’t believe it,” replied Philip Hamilton, ironically
—‘‘T haven’t the slightest idea that we shall ever meet
again if you can avoid such meeting. You.and your
youthful friend, I can plainly perceive, are both more than
careful of your precious persons. You are notapt-to run
into harm’s way. You have every disposition to infict

 

 

 

 

harm, no doubt, when there is no danger, but your }
run away with your bodies when the fear of punishment
assails you. The fact is, tobe plain with you, you area
pair of unscrupulous scoundrels and rank cowards, and if
you would not have me carry out the threat I made just
now, you had better place yourselves beyond my reach,
for I do not think I can resist the temptation much lon-
Ser.77

“‘T don’t think it will pay us to bandy words with this
beggar any longer, Tom,” faltered the younger man, but
his face was pallid with fear as he spoke, and he was care-
ful to place considerable distance between himself and the
subject of his remarks, ‘‘so come along. Iam dying for
a smoke, and we can attend to his case when we reach
Philadelphia, proyided he don’t leave the train before we
get there.”

“Hark ye, you brace of contemptible villains!*? ex-
claimed Philip Hamilton, with terrible calmness, and as
he spoke he cast a look of withering contempt at first one
and then the other of the men, ‘‘at present you are
Safe, provided you leave this car instantly, for there are
ladies present and I would rather avoid a scene if possible,
but if either of you dare to remain in this train til it
reaches Philadelphia I will give you both the threshing
which you richly deserve, and which only out of regard
for the ladies presentI refrain from inflicting at once.
Are you going!’ And with blazing eyes he took a step
forward—a movement on his part which caused a mirac-
ulously speedy retreat of the two men, whose exit was
accompanied by peals of laughter and boisterous shouts
of derision from the passengers, amid which Philip Ham-
ilton reseated himself and was soon deeply cogitating up-
on what had just transpired.

The more he thought of the insulting remarks concern-
ing Bertha to which he had listened, the more indignant
he became and he fully determined to carry out his threat
should the two slanderers accompany the train to Phila-
deiphia. He was somewhat chagrined, therefore, upon
reaching his destination to find that they had adopted the
course into which they had endeavored to frighten him,
and made their escape at one of the way stations. :

‘Never mind!’ he muttered, as he took his way toward
his aunt’s residence, ‘I may meet them again during my.

stay here, and if I do I will pay them with interest!”

CHAPTER XX.
AUNT HANNAH.

The first thing Philip Hamilton did, after exchanging
greetings with his aunt, was to call for pen, ink and paper,
and seating himself in the cozy little bedroom assigned to
him, he wrote to Bertha the following note:

‘My DARLING—You will doubtless be surprised at re-
ceiving this note instead of beholding me in propria per-
sonae. It was of course my intention to have called upon
you at once in your new home, but alittle circumstance
which transpired while I was on my way here has induced
me to alter my intention, and now I beg of you to visit me
here at my aunt’s house, at your earliest convenience, and
I will explain to you why I have taken this seemingly
strange course.

“In haste, Iam, loye, ever your own,
“PHILIP HAMILTON.”?

Having posted this note, Philip returned, andin as few
words as ,possible, made his aunt acquainted with all
which had happened.

Mrs. Bussing, Philip’s aunt, wasa warm-hearted, beney-
oient, and pious old lady. She had been a widow for
some years, and Philip, being her only near relative, was
little less than idolized by her. It needed no special plead-
ing on his part to convince her that Bertha was not only
the most vilely persecuted, but the most beautiful, as well
as the most virtuous girl living. It was enough for the
aunt that Philip endorsed her. She wanted no further
evidence, for Philip’s word with her was law, and as he
progressed in his narrative the old lady’s indignation be-
came extreme.

‘I have sent for her to come here,’ Philip concluded,
“and must beg your pardon, dear aunt, for not consulting
you beforehand, but the fact is, | was so greatly excited
that I did not think ofit till after I had posted my note. I
know that you will not object, however, for you were al-
Ways ready to take sides with the oppressed and_ perse-

 

 

 

“The dear lamb!’? exclaimed the old lady, in a tone of
sympathy, ‘‘I only hope she won’t be too proud to

her home here while she stays in Philadelphia! nar-
rative of her wrongs, as you relate it, is enough go draw
tears from a stone, Philip, and while Aunt Hannagp has
crust of bread she shall share it if she will, and I will feel
myself the obliged party.’? :
“Spoken like yourself, Aunt Hannah!” exclaim Philip

Hamilton, whose eyes filled with tears of gratitugde—‘‘you
are the best and most generous woman in tye world,
aunty! You are! you are!’ and he caught the gold lady in
his arms and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Psha, Phil! Don’t be foolish!” exclaimed g Aunt Han-
nah. ‘‘Best woman in the world, indeed, begcause I offer
to shelter an unfortunate and persecuted gfirl! I should

be the worst woman is the world if I did o
thinking! There—I haven't time to listeng to any more
nonsense,”’ she continued, as he assayedg@#o Speak, ‘‘l’ve
got a vast deal to do and only one pair off hands to do it
with. So make yourself as comfortable as*qossible, and

erwise, I am

CHAPTER XXI. }
BERTHA LEAVES HER BENEFACTOR’S HOUSE,

It would be hard to describe the feelings of Bértha Bas-
comb when she got her lover’s note. Her first idea was
that he was sick and could not visit her, and this of course
filled her with the keenest anguish. The idéa of being
deprived of the support of his strong arm, jf only for a
short time, was frightful to her, and great, theretore, was
her joy when he greeted her on the morning of her arri-
val at his aunt’s house, in the evident possession of his
ordinary robust health if not in the best of spirits.

Her first impulse was to throw her arms around his
neck and greet him, as her heart prompted, with a kiss.
But suddenly as she reflected that he might as well have
visited her as to have summoned-her to yisit Ikim, she
checked herself and said, half poutingly:

“If your desire to see me had been so great as was my
desire to see you, Philip, we should have met some hours
sooner. I was greatly frightened at first, for I was afraid
that you were ill; but now that I see you are well I can’t
help feeling that you have slighted me somewhat.”

“Oh, Bertha!’’ exclaimed Philip, half in pique, halfin
sorrow, ‘‘can it be possible that you have no better knowl-
edge of me than to suppose I would have taken the course
of which you complain if I had not had the very best of
reasons for so doing ?”?

The giri’s displeasure—if indeed she had felt any—van-
ished in a moment, and all the love which she felt for the
man before her came welling up in her heart in an irre-
pressible flood.

“Forgive me, Philip!’ she exclaimed, as she flew into
his outstretched arms—‘‘I am an ill-natured creature, and
am heartily ashamed of myself! I recollect now that you
said something in your note about an incident or the
train which had determined your action. What was it,
Philip ?, Let me know at once, for I am certain that it
must have been something of more than ordinary im-
portance.”? ;

“It was, indeed, my own love!’’ returned Philip, em-
bracing her warmly—‘‘something which nearly concerns
us both, but which to you personally is of the greatest
moment.”’

“Oh, let me hear it! Quick! Philip, quick!
could endure suspense!’ exclaimed the girl.

“IfI could keep back the revelation which I have to
make I would gladly do so,” rejoined Philip Hamilton,
“for it will be as painful for you to listen to as it will for
me to utter it. But beth your interest and mine demands
that I should keep nothing from you, and you shall know
all.*? :

And then, as gently and as delicately as possible, Ber-

tha’s lover related what had occurred during his trip to
Philadelphia. .
' Most poignant was the anguish of Bertha as she listened
to the atrocious recital. At ene moment the pallor of
death was on her features, and at the next all the blood
in her body seemed to rush into her face.

“Can it be possible that even I cannot escape calumny!”
she exclaimed, tearfully—“I, who have always been cir-
cumspect even to prudishness! But I am poor—that is
the grand secret of it all! Oh, poverty, thou art indeed
a bitter amiction!”’

“Who could first have given birth to the infernal slan-
der?*’ asked Philip Hamilton, deeply pained at the distress
of Bertha. ‘Is there nobody in Mr. Carter’s household
whom you suspect of being your enemy ?””

“No one,” replied Bertha, readily, ‘‘at first, it is true,
his daughter Lilian treated me somewhat coldly, but now
she expresses for me the warmest friendship, and I feel
certain that she is honest in her professions. In fact
every member of the family treats me with the greatest
consideration, and I am at a loss to imagine who my en-
emy can be.”?

“If I can trace the slander to its source,’’ exclaymed her
lover, “the author of it shall answer it dearly! In the
meantime, love, you will of course remain with my aunt.
Slander cannot reach you here, and your return to Mr.
Carter’s residence is not to be thought of.”’

“T agree with you, dear Philip,’ replied Bertha, “that
I cannot again place myself under Mr. Carter’s protection,
but had I not better return home? For even here you
know slander may reach me.”

“T don’t know but you are right,’ returned Philip, after
a little reflection, ‘perhaps it-is better that you should re-
turn to youg father’s house, but not at once—not till after
Lhave finished my visit here.and, if possible, ferretted out
the author of this most abominable slander. Having ac-
complished this task I will accompany you home.?!

“T hope you will let the matter rest just where jt is, dear
Philip,’’ replied Bertha—‘‘let us leave the slanderer in the
hands of One who will surely punish such wickedness
sooner or later. For myself such vile whisperings will do
meno real harm, since they do not injure me in your
esteem, and the attempt to bring to light and punish the
offender may subject you to danger, and if you should get
‘into difficulty on my account my present. difficulties
would be increased ten-fold. I beseech you, my darling,
‘do not attempt to follow out your resolve if you would not
have me a prey to the most terrible misgivings.’? And as
she finished speaking the poor girl looked pleadingly into
her lover’s face.

“Have no fears for me, Bertha,” returned he, “I shall
be prudent, I assure you, and shall run into no unneces-
sary danger.’’

“I cannot trust you in a matter of this kind, Philip,”
replied the girl earnestly; ‘‘I know your nobie nature too
well to believe that your prudence would be superior to
os wrath should you succeed in discovering my enemy.

ou must promise me—indeed you must, my love—that
you will go no farther in this matter. I know you would
not willingly add to my present sorrow, my darling, and
I assure you that a refusal to comply with my request will
render me utterly miserable. You will promise me, then,
will you not, Philip?”

“Since you take the matter so much to heart, I will
promise you,”’ rejoined Philip, ‘‘not to prosecute the affair
at present, but I cannot give up the hope of one day dis-
covering and punishing the wretch who could. endeavor
to injure one so pure and so unoffending as yourself. So
rest contented, dear.”?

“Oh, thank you, Philip! A thousand thanks!’ exclaimed
Bertha, with a sigh of relief; ‘and you will call upon Mr.
Carter and tell him how very, very much I thank him for
all his kindness to me, and explain to him, in as kind a
Way as possible, why I cannot possibly again take up my
residence beneath his roof. You will say to him that I
hold him in reverence and esteem next only to my own
father, and that I shall never cease to pray for his happi-
ness.

‘I will, darling,’’ was the reply, “I will not only carry
to him the assurance of your reverence and esteem but I
shall not hesitate to express to him my own appreciation
of his great kindness to you. He is the noblest and most
generous of men, and I know it will wring his kind heart
to learn what has caused you to leave his protection. It
will be a painful interview for both of us, and the sooner
it is over the better. So make yourself entirely at home
with Aunt Hannah, my darling, and I will start at once
upon my very unpleasant mission.’? And, kissing Bertha,
he started forth and took his way toward Mr. Carter’s
residence.

I never

CHAPTER XXII.
HARRY HOLMAN RECEIVES A CHECK.

The Carter family, including David Carter, were dis-
cussing a new painting which the old gentleman had
bought the day before, and which the artist had just hung
in his splendid parlor, when their attention was attracted
by the ringing of the door-bell, and shortly thereafter the
servant announced that a gentleman wished to see Mr.
Jasper Carter.

“Show him in,’ ordered the old gentleman, and accord-
ingly Philip Hamilton soon made his appearance.

“Why, my young friend!’’ exclaimed the old merchant,
as he recognized his visitor. ‘This is an unexpected
pleasure, and as agreeable as unexpected. Of course I
knew you were in Philadelphia, for Bertha gave me the
information, but I understood her to say when she went
out that she was going to your aunt’s house, and I natu-
rally supposed that you would meet her there; and let me
tell you I did not like the idea much either, for I thought
that the least you could do was to call upon Bertha here,
if you did not take up your abode with us during your
stay. However, there’s no accounting for the whims of
young people who are in love, and I forgive you.” And,
as he finished speaking, Mr. Carter smilingly introduced
his visitor to those present.

“It was my intention when I left New York to call on
Bertha here,”’ replied Philip Hamilton. “but circumstan-
ces induced me to alter my purpose, and my object here
now is to explain why I thought proper to summon Ber-
tha to my aunt’s house instead of going to her.’

Jasper Carter saw at once, from the look of concern
visible on the young man’s face, that he had something of
more than ordinary importance to communicate, and not
without a slight misgiving he replied:

“Do you wish to see me in private, Mr. Hamilton? if
so, I will take you to my library.”

Philip refiected for a moment, and then he said:

“‘Perhaps it is as wel! that I should make the statement,
which I have to make, in the presence of all here, since
all must eventually know what could have induced a poor
but strictly virtuous and honest girl to leave the protec-
tion of the best and most generous of gentleman.”? And
then Philip Hamilton related in detail all which had
transpired in the railway car.

When he had finished his recital the look of pain and
mortification which rested upon the countenance of Jasper
Carter was painful to witness.

“The scoundrels!’ he ejaculated, ‘how dared they utter
such vile slander! i care not for myself. Those who are
acquainted with me will know just how much importance

 

euted,.”’

 

and sufficiently unfortunate to be charged witha crime of
which she is entirely innocent, but she must be made the
victim for some soulless wretch to level his shafts of malice
and detraction at! Iwould give a thousand dollars at this
moment to know who originated so outrageous a slander!”?

‘I also would give much to know,” said the genial and
gentle Mrs. Carter, ‘‘for if the offender be one who is on
visiting terms here, our own safety demands that we
should know who he or sheis.”?

“The brutes!’? exclaimed Miss Lilian Carter, with real
indignation. ‘The villians! To speak so outrageously ef
such a dear, good, sweet girl as Bertha Bascomb! They
ought to be whipped at a cart’s tail all over the city! If 1
had my way with such vile wretches I would sear their
tongues with a hot iron.”

The reader may well believe that David Carter, secretly
winced under these scathing rebukes, but his countenance
afforded no indication of what was passing in his mind—
on the contrary his face was as bland and placid as asum-
mer’s day, as he said:

 

T’li join you again as soon as 1 can get through work,” ‘You are severe, Lil, but I don’t blame you. Such
and without waiting to listen to the eulogy whi he in| scoundrels need but slight consideration, especially at the
his warmth of feeling commenced to pour forth, e left | hands of a pretty girl who may some day be the victim of
the room and was soon busily engaged in her h hold | slander-herself. But talking will do no good. After au, I
duties. : don’t see that any great harm can come of the siander. As

r Jasper says, his character is too well known to
rom such a cause, and-his endorsement of the
young Vady is sufficient to satixfy his friends that she is all
id be. I don’t know that my advice is worth much
but I giwe it gratuitously—I think that the young lady had
better regurn,to her protector, and treat all such gossip

wWicn silerXt contempt.”
“The young lady will not come here!’’ replied Philip
Hamtiton, iff anything but a pleased tone, ashe fixed his

keen eyes on\the face of the merchant’s brother, whose ap-
pearance he diid not like any to well. ‘‘Amad excuse me for
saying, sir, that in my opinion you think altogether too
lightly of a very\grave subject. What has a poor girl to de-
pend on but her &haracter? Rob her ofthat, and you take
from her all that rmakes life precious.”’

“You areright, Mx. Hamilton!’ exclaimed Lilian Carter,
in a tone of approbation. “I love the dear girl and should
be pleased to see her back here, but I don’t blame her one
bit for not. coming unde¥ the circumstances. But I shall
go to see her as long as sNe remains in Philadelphia, and
when she returns to New rk to stand her trial on the
atrocious charge which has been brought against her, I
mean to accompany her if payya wilkallow me and give her
all the support and consolatiom ¢f which I am capable!’

“Bravo, my daughter! Bravov’? exclaimed Jasper Car-
éer, gleefully. ‘‘You are improvilg amazingly, and will
become a philanthropist yet! I never saw you take so
deep an interest in one of your own sex before and I am
conn ces to perceive that you are becoming really charita-

e!? °
- “T don’t love everybody as you do, papa, returned Lil-
ian, with a pretty pout. ‘In fact, I love very Yew indeed,
but Bertha is one of the few and I intend to standby her.”?

To look at the serene, meek face of David Clirter, as
Lilian said this, one would have thought him the happiest
person present, but in spite of his calm exterior a fearful
storm of passion was raging in his bosom. He saw that
Lilian was determined to pursue a course with regard to
Bertha Bascomb, the very opposite of that which he wish-
ed her to pursue, and at that moment he determined that
she should become an ally to assist himin his scheming
even if he had to impart to her a secret which he would
much rather have kept locked in his own breast, to gain
her assistance.

Philip Hamilton was greatly pleased to hear Lilian es-
pouse his darling’s cause so vigorously, although it is only
the truth to say that he was none too favorably impressed
with her. He had not thought fit to mention in the state-
ment which he had made, anything in regard to theallu-
sion to Lilian which had been made by one of the slander-
ers. It was too delicate a subject to speak of in the pre-
sence of others, and he thought he would write to the old
merchant and let him know that one of the parties to the
outrageous discourse concerning Bertha, was the man
who aspired to the hand of Lilian—not because he loved
her, but because her father was rich.

' “Can you describe the persons whose slanderous con-
versation has led to all this trouble, Mr. Hamilton ?” ask-
ed Jasper Carter—‘‘it may be possible that we could rec-
ognize them from your description.”’

Philip Hamilton knew that should he minutely describe
Lilian’s suitor that individual would undoubtedly be
recognized at once, and he therefore replied evasively:

“One of them was a tall, low-browed, dark-complex-
ioned, middle-aged man, rather flashily-attired—the other
was a younger and a smaller man, but there was nothing
about him to note especially. I should know either of
them were I to meet with either at any time, which is
hardly probable, for I shall return home in the course of
afew days. And now, Mr. Carter, having performed my
mission here I will take my leave. I regret exceedingly
that duty has obliged me to communicate that which I
know has made you all feel exceedingly unpleasant, but
it could not be helped. I hope this unpleasant circum-
stance will make no difference in your feelings with re-
gard to poor Bertha. I assure you, sir, she loves you as
dearly as a daughter could love a father. She bade me
assure you of her deep gratitude and undying love and
esteem, and I must add, on my Own account, that what-
ever course you may see fit to pursue in the future, I shall
forever hold you in the deepest reverence and regard.
Should you decide to abandon my poor darling on account
of what has happened, I should still look upon you as the
noblest and most generous of men, and with this assur-
ance I will bid you good-by.”’

He started toward the deer as he spoke, but the old
merchant stopped him.

“You will not go, my boy,’? he said, as he grasped
Philip’s hand, ‘‘tillI have expressed myself as fully as
you have done. Iam half angry with you to think that
you could for a moment imagine that I would desert the
poor girl under any circumstances. I can only excuse
you because you have not been acquainted with me long
enough to know me thoroughly. In leaving me now you
can carry this assurance with you: when Bertha Bascomb’s
trial is called I shall be present if God spares my life, and
I will stop at no outlay to secure her acquittal. I am
certain of her innocence, and I shall work for her as
though she were my own daughter.”

“‘And-I will assist you all that lies in my power, papa!’
exclaimed Lilian; ‘‘I also feel certain of the poor girl’s in-
nocence, and I shall consider her my sister from this mo-
ment.’?

“T cannot tell you how grateful I feel for these expres-
sions of real friendship,” said Philip Hamilton, with
swimming eyes; ‘‘I can only thank you from my heart,
and trust that the day may arrive when I shall be able to
convince you how deeply I am your debtor. Good-by!’
and not daring to trust himself farther lest he should
show unmanly weakness Philip Hamilton took his de-
parture.

He passed through the street door, and was descending
the steps when he encountered an individual about mid-
way. ‘Their eyes met and Philip Hamilton at once recog-
nized the younger of the two persons whose conversation
he had overheard on the railway car.

“Well, sir,’ he said, in a tone of severity, “‘you are
prompt in calling upon the lady whom you hope to make
your wife, but the possession of whose money is your
principal object.”’ j

For a moment the man was rendered dumb by surprise
and fear, but at length he said, tremulously: »

“Have you exposed me???

“Not yet,’? replied Hamilton—‘‘a fitting opnortunity
has not offered—but I intend to.”

“Oh, do not, for Heaven’s sake! Do not!’’ pleaded the
man; ‘“‘if you destroy my chances with Lilian nowI am
ruined! Make your own terms for silence! Or if money
Will not satisfy you I will become your slave if you will
spare me!”?

“Come with me,’’ said Hamilton, after a moment of re-
fiection. ‘I wish to speak with you.” ;

Philip led the way, and the man followed him like a
whipped spaniel, till they reached an obscure street, when
Philip halted and allowed him to come up.

“Now, then,’ he said, fixing a searching gaze upon the
trembling wretch, ‘‘in the first place, whatis your name ?”’

“Harry Holman,’ was the reply; ‘‘and it is an honor-
able name, I assure you. My family is one of the highest
respectability. My father is one of the first merchants in
Philadelphia, and my mother and sisters move in the very
highest circles.’’ oy

“T pity them, then, from my very soul!’’ replied Philip
Hamilton, in a tone of disgust; ‘‘or they have for a near
relative the meanest and most contemptible cur in the
community. One who, but for the accident of birth,
would long since have found an abiding place in the peni-
tentiary.”’ fap hes

“Sir!? exclaimed Harry Holman, with a show of indig-
nation, ‘‘you are going too far. Accident, I admit, has
placed me in your power, but you must not presume too
far on that account, or you may regret it.”

“Miserable wretch!’? returned Hamilton, ‘‘do not try
your grandiloquent airs upon me. I know you for what
you are, and all your bluster will avail nothing. Shall I
tell you just how you stand at present? You havenota
friend in the world—not even in your own proud family.
You have dissipated and gambled till you have alienated
all who ever felt an interest in you, and you have gone
from bad to worse till in your desperation you have com-
mitted forgery, and hope to escape the consequences of
your crime by marrying an heiress, whose father will buy
up the notes which you have forged.”’

A déath-like pallor overspread Holman’s face, and his
limbs would hardly bear him up.

“In the name of Heaven!’ he gasped, “hov did you
learn this? I didnot suppose my crime was known to a
soul on earth save myself!”’

“In all probability you were right,’ returned Hamilton,
quietly. “I at least know nothing of it from information
furnished. I knew you were a gambler and a debauchee
—I knew also to what end such a course of life tends—and
I read the secret of your crime in your guilty face. And
now tell me what is the name of the man with whom you.
were,conversing in the railroad car ?’’

“His name is Delancey,’’ was the reply;
lancey.’’ 8

“One question more,’’ said Hamilton, ‘‘and see that you
answer it truly. What is the name of the villain who set
afloat the slander concerning Bertha Bascomb?”’

“That I cannot tell,’? was the reply.

“You mean that you will not,’ rejoined Hamilton, look-
ing fixedly at the trembling wretch; ‘‘for that you can tell
Tam certain. I heard you say, inthe car, that your ihfor-
mation concerning Miss Bascomb came from undoubted
authority. Now who was that undoubted authority?
Come—no subterfuge!’ s

“What if I refuse to tell??? queried Holman, though his
tone was not defiant, but indecisive and wavering.

“Then 1 will not only expose you te Miss Carter and her
father, but will denounce you to the authorities,’ ex-
claimed Hamilton, decisively.

“Profaise me that you will do nothing to my detriment,

“Thomas De-

 

to attach to such detestable gossip. But the poor girl—my
heart bleeds for her! It was not enough that she was poor

 

“{ wili promise nothing,’ returned Hamilton; ‘nor
will I wait longer for areply. I never make terms with a

you are not inclined to answer, I will leave you, and take
my way to the police station.”

“‘Stay!’? exclaimed Holman, dejectedly. “Iam at your
mercy and must succumb. The person who gave me the
information concerning Miss Bascomb was David Carter,
the uncle of Lilian.”
___ "The fact does not much surprise me,’? returned Ham-
ilton, ‘for I do not like the man’s countenance, though
why he should endeavor to ruin the character ofa poor
girl who never could have injured him by word or deed, I
cannot imagine. He must have a bad heart indeed, if the
pure love for scandal induced him to take so atrecions a
step. Do you know of any reason why he should have
acted in this manner ??

“T do not,’ returned Holman; “but I think he must
have an object, for although he is a cold-hearted, selfish
sort of man, and never, probably, performed a disinter-
ested action in his life, yet he is not given to scandal. On
the contrary he isan unusually quiet man. I never heard
him speak ill of any woman but her, and he certainly has
been very industrious in spreading the story which has
awakened your wrath. There is scarcely a man, woman,
or child, in the whole circle of his acquaintance who is
not familiar with the story.’

“And most of them, I suppose, believe it,’? rejoined
Hamilton, with great bitterness—‘‘you, of course, be-
lieved it—did you not?’

“‘Well, I may as well own the truth,’ replied Holman—
“I was inclined to the belief that there was some truth in
the story, and you can’t blame me. If I were acquainted
with Miss Bascomb the case would be different, but she is
an entire stranger to me and how should I judge except
from what I hear?’

“If you were not steeped to.the lips in crime yourself,”’
rejoined Hamilton, ‘“‘you would be able to tell an anges
from a vicious woman. However, I dare not pursue this
hateful subject further. Ishall lose both prudence and
patience if Ido. And now with regard to yourself, I have
but oné condition to offer—you must either cease your
visits to Mr. Carter’s house or suffer a complete exposure
of your true character.”

“The condition is a hard one!” exclaimed Holman, des-
pairingly, ‘“‘and no less hard for Miss Lilian than
for myself. We are engaged, and should I suddenly
withdraw from her society without an explanation it
would break her heart.”

_ “From what I have seen of Miss Lilian,” replied Ham-
ilton, ‘‘she is not one who would be likely to break her
heart for a good man, much less for a contemptible puppy
like yourself. Nor do I believe you fear sucha result. I
can read your character as plainly as though it were writ-
ten inabook. Itis not sympathy for Miss Carter that ac-
tuates you but fear for yourself. You dread lest your
crimes should be discovered before you are able to cover
them up with money. This, and this only is your fear.»

‘“‘And if I admit that you are right,” returned Holman,

‘“‘what would you have me do? You wouldn’t have me

 

wait, day after day, in an agony of fear, for the hour to
arrive which would make my guilt plain and consign me
to.a cell in the State prison? Ican’t do that, you know!
Anything but that!”

_ ‘It is a fate which you richly deserve,” answered Ham-
ilton; severely, ‘‘and yet Isuppose there is one way to es-
cape it. Go to your father, confess your crime, plead for-
a for the past and promise amendment in the fu-

ure,

“That would be certain destruction!” exclaimed Hot-
man, in despair—‘“‘twice already has my father interfered
under similar circumstances, and he has taken a solemn
oath to prosecute me should I sina third time. I know
him well and he will keep his word. Should I confess to
him his first act would be to send for an officer!’

“Then I cannot help you,” said Hamilton, firmly—‘“you
must extricate yourself from the dilemma in which your
evil conduct has plunged you, the best way you can, but
you must not, shall not, visit Mr. Carter’s residence again.
Hehas beenatrue friend to Bertha, and neither his
daughter nor himself shall be imposed upon by a villain
if I can help it. Remember, sir—I shall place a watch
upon your actions, and if you dare to disobey me your
exposure will speedily follow.’ 7

“T suppose I must submit,’ returned Holman, dejected-
ly, ‘“‘but I will never go to the State prison. If the worst
comes to the worst I will kill myself!’*| And with a heavy
heart the young villain took his way homeward, while
Philip Hamilton turned his face in the direction of bis
aunt’s residence.

(To be Continued.)

WHY DID
HE MARRY HER?

OR THE

MISTRESS OF CHUDLEIGH HEATH.

By Annie Ashmore,
Author of THE BRIDE ELECT, FAITHFUL
MARGARET, BEAUTIFUL RIENZI,
BISHOP’S DEBT, etc.

(“Why Did He Marry Her?” was commenced in No. 24. Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

 

 

 

MR. GREY STANDS REVEALED.

When Mr. and Mrs. Harold Schmitz entered the private
office of Mr. Grey at ten minutes to ten the next morning,
they observed that already a stranger was present with
the lawyer.

A lady, elegantly attired in silk and velvet, with a pure,
snowy brow, and burning cheeks, and eyes that lingered
on the new faces with a strange, yearning expression
hard to be withstood.

‘Who is dat bootiful gal??? whispered the Dane inquisi-
tively of Mr. Grey.

“One who is invited to be present on this occasion,’
returned that gentleman. ‘The houris about to strike.
take your place, sir.”’

Alice sat down opposite that lovely creature, regarding
her with compassionate interest.

Mr. Schmitz dragged a chair to his wife’s side, and sub-

sided, staring solemnly at Mr. Grey.
» Mr. Grey was singularly pale this morning. His eyes
were quick and eager, his fingers trembied as he began
to untie the ligatures which bound up a square of parch-
ment. :

With his eyes fixed upon the office clock, until the last
minutes should run out, he explained matters to his
audience, first drinking a half tumbler of water to stay
his energies.

“T called yesterday atthe Brent street bank for the
sealed packet, according to instructions. Mr. Maynard
handed me also a letter, addressed to the firm of Keating
& Grey. Upon examination this letter proved to be a list
of the persons interested in the reading of Mr. Gregory
Blount’s secret trust. Those persons, as far as 1 can pro-
duce, are here. Those who .cannot be here can learm
what concerns them again. This letter was written by
Gregory Blount himself, and addressed to Mr. Keating,
who drew up the codicil at his command. Being Mr.
Keating’s successor in the business, I have the sole right
to act upon the letter. This then, relieved of ali its wrap-
pings, is the codicil itself, with its seals unbroken. It was
deposited in the Brent street bank on the 16th of August
last, and only produced yesterday. I have not the remot-
est idea of its contents—none but Mr. Keating, who wrote
it, and Mr. Blount, who dictated it, ever knew what was
written here. There is something written upon the out-
side, I see. Ah, I will read it aloud.

‘This document is to be read before such persons as are
mentioned in my letter of instructions, by George Keat-
ing, solicitor, Carew street, Schofield, eight months after
my decease, and is to be considered conclusive, and to be
held sacred as the last wishes of me.

August 16, 1869. GREGORY BLOUNT.’

“Being the only survivor of the firm, I possess the right
to obey these instructions. Hark! the hour is striking—fI
will now break the seals.”?

Pale as marble, but with glittering eyes, James Grey
broke the seals with trembling fingers, while the group he
had gathered to witness him watched every motion with
devouring interest.

AS the last stroke of the clock rang out the hour, the
sheet was spread on Mr. Grey’s desk, under Mr. Grey’s
two shaking hands, and after one lightning glance of
terrible anxiety down its length, he began to read in a
loud and formal voice:

THE CODICIL TO THE WILL OF GREGORY BLOUNT.

“T, Gregory Blount, having resolved that my long-hoard-
ed wealth shall not be enjoyed by those who do not de-
serve it, write this codicil, and deposit it in the Brent
street bank, unknown to living soul except to George
Keating, my trustworthy lawyer, who will read it eight
months after my decease, before such of my heirs as can
be collected to hear it.

“To Alice Blount, my wife, I bequeath the whole of my
secret hoard, accumulated during a long life of strict
economy, and to be enjoyed by her forever, namely one
hundred thousand pounds, upon conditions——”’

A scream of half-frightened delight Hurst from Mrs.
Schmitz, her husband sat bolt upright, gazing at her with
astonished gratification.

Mr. Grey bestowed a flashing glance upon the pair, a
furtive one upon the silent lady who sat apart, and re-
sumed:

“Upon conditions. First, that she do continue to in-
habit my house Grimward. Second, that she have kept
the vow which I shall require of her upon my deatli-bed,
namely, that she remain in perpetual widowhood. lonor-
ing my memory.

“Upon these conditions only, shali Alice Blount inherit
my fortune.”

Another cry came from Mrs. Schmitz, this time a cry of
horror; while a roar of consternation burst from Mr.
Schmitz. Without giving them time to recover them-
selves, Mr. Grey hurried on, asif he was a talking-ma-
chine.

“But, knowing well the vain and inconstant mind of
my wife, Alice, from a ¢lose study of her weak character
during the ten years of our married life, and desirous of
returning her appropriate reward for whatever line of
conduct she may pursue after my decease, I proceed to
point out those who may profit by the wealth of the oid
man whose memory Alice Blount may despise.

“I wish, for reasons of my own, to pass over my brother
Jasper, and to devise my money to my wife’s relatives, if
she fails in inheriting it.

“It will be found, however, that I have studied te be

 

and I will give you the information which you desire,’’
said the erest-fallen gambler, humbly.

strictly just, and that, as circumstances will happen, my
brother Jasper will haveno ground for complaint.

villain like yourself, nor have I any time to waste, so if

CHAPTER XXI. sai

 

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I TN FED

  

 

  

“Unknown to my wife, Alice, I have discovered several
of her relatives, of whom she is not herself aware, and my
choice has been directed by an honorable intention to ben-
efit one who has a twofold claim upon my consideration,
through her connection with my wife, and through her
prejected connection with myself. My wife’s parents,
‘Amelia and Gabriel Lee, died long before my wife was of
age to understand their family history. I have studied it
long enough to trace some lost connections of theirs. Ga-
brie! Lee hadasister called Clara, who married Marcus
Lester, only issue, their daughter Rose. ie

“Passing by intervening female relatives—(no males are
to be mentioned in my codicil)—passing all by, because I
cannot trace them, and declaring honestly that if there
was a nearer relative | would put her name im place of the
name I have inserted; I declare, that wishing to reward a
dutiful daughter and a disinterested woman as she de-
serves, I do bequeath my secret hoard—one hundred thou-
sand pounds—to Rose Lester, upon condition: ie

“Pirst—That she be married to the man of her choice,
and be living in harmony and obedience with him. :

“Second—That she sign with her own hand, in the pres-
ence of two witnesses, the declaration which will be found
watered inside of this codicil.

“Third—That an umpire, chosen by the lawyer who
reads this codicil, declares himself satisfied with the con-
jugal harmony which exists between Rose and her hus-
band, which satisfaction he will prove by appending his
name as witness at the end of the said declaration. :

“Hoping by these conditions to reward Rose Lester, if
she have proved faithful to her lover; and to give Jasper
Blount no room to call himself defrauded; as well as to
prevent a repetition of my own unsatisfactory life with a
wvife in whose constancy I had no faith; I entreat eaca
one of the conditions to be carried out to the letter,

“Should Alice Blount die before the end of the eight
months, Rose Lester shall benefit by her decease. ,

“Should Rose Lester die before the end of the eight
months, I devise the whole of my fortune to be employed
in building and maintaining an alms-house, to be called
Blount’s Charity, upon the site of Grimward, which shall
be torn down immediately after the reading of this codic)l

1pon condition: :
: EeFiret—That only lame boys, under fifteen, be admitted.

“Second—That they be taught the rules of economy 1
all things. :

“Third—That they have as much white bread and good
ale as they can eat and drink, every fourth Sunday even-
ing, perpetually, in memory of their, benefactor, Gregory
Blount.

“Finally, the heir, whoever she be, shall go, or send an
agent, the same day that this codicil is read, to the oilice
of Hugh Carrol, solicitor, Schofield, and demand from him
a strong box.

“Then she or agent, shall go to the Brent street bank,
and demand a key, placed there for security, on this six-
teenth of August, by me, with the concurrence of Mr.
Maynard, manager of said bank. j

“Having thus scattered my instructions, papers and
property in different hands, each person intrusted being

 

 

ignorant of the meaning of that they held, and unconscious
of the existence of his coadjutors, 1 hope to accomplish my
intentions in defiance of the fraud that isin the world, and
to surprise my heirs when they least expect it.

“This trust being dictated by me, and written by G
Keating, my lawyer, in token of my entire conc
with all that is therein, I do append my name

“Witnessed by (Signed) GREGO:

“JAMES COSBY, :
“WALTER LAIRD.”

James Grey’siron tones ceased ae

Alice Sciimitz sat, pale and agitated
the floor, thinking. Y

Her husband was scowling like a demon.

Rose, the beautiful unknown, who had been dragged
thither, why she knew not, to hear this extraordinary
document, sat upright, like a haughty empress, regarding
her husband.

He had staked high, had he not? and this moment he
was to learn whether he had lost or won.

No wonder he turned a livid face, upon which a false
and cringing smile was playing, toward the woman, who
by a stroke of her pen, could give hima hundred thousahd
pounds! ‘

No wonder he poured himself ont another glass of water
and gulpedit feverishly. He felt as if on burning coals,
as long as this nightmare of expectation lasted. Why
didn’t she speak, and end his suspense ?

Why was she looking at him so fixedly? She looked as
if cut out of a block of granite.

‘My dear Rose,” faltered he, crayenly, “I can scarcely
speak from astonishment. Letme congratulate my noble
wife, whose virtues have been so justly rewarded.”

There was a cold pause. e

Then Rose, chilling, scornful, left her chair, and stand-
ing before her quailing lord, said:

“Sir, I have discovered your scheme.
codicil, and you stepped into my lover’s place.
have very nearly triumphed, but not quite.
you, in spite of all your cleverness!”

Mr. Grey’s eyes, fixed at first fawningly upon her’s,
grew hard ,and serpent-like; a mean and determined
Cruelty added aterrible brutality to his look; he went to
the door of his office and said a word to one of his clerks.
Returning to the ghost-white trio, he remarked:

“J must prepare myself to be cruelly misjudged, I sup-
pose, by you all. Still, appeasing myself by the Knowledge
of my entire innocence in this matter, I wlll strive to
maintain my calmness.”’

He stretched out his arms as if to show the purity of his
heart, and Rose drew back with a glance of disgust, as if
she had read it.

“You'll hear more about dis,’’ cried Harold Schmitz, in
a thick voice, and rising, with his little fists clenched at
his sides, “You had some black toughts against my vife
de day I married her; do you tink I forget de words you
spoke? No! you tanked my vife for putting herself out of
your way; you tanked Kate Fitzroy for de part she had
taken in de affair, telling her dat you would profit by what
she had done. And last of all, you tanked me for ridding
youofa woman who was in your way. I say, Meestare
Cray, you knew tam well what yas in dat godicil, and vas
in a creat hurry to get a claw into it.”

Mr. Grey looked down at his blustering enemy with a
smile of amusement.

“My good fellow, you are forgetting several very im-
portant facts said he coolly. ‘Ifyour wife has confided
all her secrets to you she will have told you that I was
once a suitor for her hand. If I had known the contents
he codicil is it likely I would have attempted to induce
Mrs. Schmitz to take the course which would inevitably
have defrauded her of her lawful property? If you
or y other person,’’ (with a side glance at Rose)
“suspect me of marrying my wife through a_ know-
ledge of what is contained in this Secret Trust, I
have but to remind that person of my wish to marry Alice
Blount, to prove their suspicions without reasonable
foundation. J defy all the lawyers in England to deprive
my wife of her fortune, through any fault of mine.”’

Again Rose confronted him, with a cold and disdainful
indignation.

“You have acted a cautious part, sir,”’ she said, ‘but you
shall net profit by it. You are not the husband of my
choice, and I will never say that you are.”

“Be silent, my dear wife, until I have leisure to explain
matters clearly to you,” said Mr. Grey, approaching her
with stified fury.

She shrank back, mechanically taking her stand beside
Alice Schmitz, who looking up and seeing her ghastly face
timidly took her hand and patted it, in spite of her own
deep affliction.

From behind all his plausible excuses and gentle court-
esies, Rose had beheld the demon face of Guilt look out
upon her, with its murderous fangs gnashing at her re-
sistance.

A shadow of what might come to pass shimmered before
her: she telt the terrible and vague disquiet ef one who
begins to see that she is lost. Shuddering from head to
foot, she allowed her husband to pass her hand through
his arm and to lead her out to his carriage, which he had
hastily sent for, feeling the necessity of preventing her
making known her true sentiments in regard to himself.

Yogether they drove off, while Harold Schmitz, and his
wife stood dreaming on the parchment, gazing after the
unhappy woman who had defrauded them of one hundred

thousand pounds.
CHAPTER XXII.
ROSE BECOMES REBELLIOUS.

It is two hours later of thesame day. Scene changes to
Mrs. Grey’s parlor, at Crowlands. Dramatis personte: Mr.
James Grey, unnaturally affable. Mrs. James Grey, pale
and agitated.

Mr. Wilmot Cotton, a personage unknown as yet to our
readers, but to well-known in Schofield.

Mr. Cotton had made his mark as a pettifogger of the
foggiest-genus; and bore about with him unmistakable
traces of his work; to wit, a tricky pair ofeyes, a- voluble
tongue, a pushing manner, and a conscience as elastic as
his funds.

According to the instructions in the codicil, Mr. Grey
had looked abroad for a man of probity and unbiassed
judgment, to judge between him and his wife; and from
among all the worthies of Schofield he had picked this
irreproachable Mr. Wilmot Cotton to fill the appointed
position.

Mr. James Grey has some time since spread a sheet of
paper before Mrs. Grey, andis waiting for some sign of
life from her, for she is sitting like a statue with her eyes
riveted te the words inscribed.

What is it that Rose reads with such an outraged gaze?

Mr. Grey has read it over with his friend, Cotton, and

hey are waiting with extreme impatience while Mrs,
Grey has her turn. .

Itis the declaration of her happiness which Rose is
reading before she signs it.

“T declare that Ihave married the man whom I virtu-
ously love, and am living with himin great comfort and
peace, desiring no other friend or companion. I declare
that ever since the day of our marriage I have done all
that in me lay to prove an affectionate and obedient wile;
and that I intend to continue my affection and obedience
as long as God shall grant me life to cherish and honor
my beloved husband.

“Signed
cwitnessed by,

“Wilmot Cotton, Umpire.

“Rachel Craine.”?

“Now, my good lady,’ said Mr. Wilmot Cotton, break-
ing in upon her outraged reverie in a thick, oily voice,
“put your name here, under ‘beloved husband.’ Easy
done, isn’t it?”

fe gallantly dipped a pen inthe ink and handed it to
her.

She waved him aside with aslight start,.and fixed her
thrilling eyes upon James Grey.

“What do you call this document??? demanded she in a
low but scornful voice.

“Oh, only a form, ny dear, ouly a form,’ returned he;

orge

ler eyes upon

You knew of this
Sir, you
I will foil

   

3.19

   

 
 

 

 

   

“you have nothing to do with the sense of it, it is only
necessary that you sign it.”

“J call it a deed of gift which presents one hundred
thousand pounds to the handsomest woman of ry ac-
quaintance,’’ leered Mr. Cotton. oy

“] call it a cruel lie, cried Rose; “and I will not
sign it.” .?

‘Ha! ha! ha!” roared Mr. Cotton, ‘come, I enjoy a ma-
trimonial squabble!’ and he lolled back in his easy chair,
in order to enjoy it the better. F , :

“Make haste, my dear, your pen 1s drying,” said Mr.
Grey, with a diabolic look into her eyes.

For a moment she quailed beneath the look that she had
learned to fear; for a moment she thought helplessly,
‘“what is the use of beginning a battle that { cannot sus-
tain 2” and her tremulous hand took up the pen and hasti-
ly traced in its appointed place, the word ‘‘Rose.”

But the pen, as if it would refuse to play so weak a part
left no mark—the ink had dried upon its point. She threw
it down as if it had stung her, and pushed away the pa-

 

per, not appearing to see the inkstand which the officious
Cotton pushed toward her. ; ‘

She raised her calm and dignified eyes witha haughty
look, and said firmly to Mr. Grey: ;

“No; I refuse to put my name to what is so sad a moe
ery of my real feelings. I will not sign @ Lie Es

“Ho! ho! Glorious!’ shouted Mr. Cotton, throwing
self about in his chair. ‘She'll show her claws ne)
say, Grey, I envy you the possession of such a little
‘pon my soul she’s delicious.” :

‘Her spirit is quite remarkable,” quoth Mr
those suppressed tones, which, with him, alway,
place of frank bluster, “but it will soon be tam: a
Rose.” ; ae

He ‘once more arranged the paper before
pen in the ink, and offered it to her.

She rose precipitately, saying, “No, ne

He caught her by the wrist, and put ft
chair.

 
  

   

             
    
        

  

  

 
 

  
 
  

The furious pallor of his face, am of his
eyes, the cruel gripe of his cold, uck dread
{o her soul, such as she had nev erienced.

 
 

vith an instine-
fting eyes, the
fe sensuous lips
ndder of disgust.

1ind Suddenly rushed
preferable to commit-
but one weapon lett—

Involuntarily she turned tows
tive cry for protection. The fa
bold, insulting leer, the coars
drove her back upon hersel

The intrepid courage of
to her assistance; feeling th
ting a dishonorable action,
despair, which fears not

She looked icily
persecutors, saying,

“For the last,
Henceforth, Iv
you may make
that you onl
famous plo
sult, thre
will ney

et yx

  

 
 

  

 

 
  

 
 

 
 

  

he other of her unmanly
ce:
use to sign that falsehood.
“any notice of any endeavors
me to break my word. I know
ny signature to succeed in your in-
never shall succeed. You may in-
me as you please, Mr. Grey, but I
4d into becoming your accomplice in

able loathing, and the undaunted resigna-
iv womanly face, struck Mr. Grey with panic.
Decan to fear that his victim was beyond his power;
t he might never more exercise his tiendish influence

ran to fear that after overcoming so many formida-
obstacles, after having worked so dextrously, so
y, so silently to reach this supreme moment, at last,
st, just when the golden victory was almost his, this

s
S

mise
hurl him down to ruin.

A cold sweat bathed him from head to foot, he glared
at her as if he would have murdered her on the spot,
which Mr. Cotton seeing, he spoke up:

“Come, come,” cried he, briskly, ‘this won't do at all.
We can’t wait for all your little tempers, madam. Don’t
be spiteful, my dear, but sign this nice little bit of bosh,
and be one hundred thousand pounds the richer! What's
the oddsif it is a whopper ?—only you and your husband
and I know that secret, and none of us would be such za-
nies as to expose you.” ;

Rose drew back indignantly as the fellow tapped her
familiarly on the arm with his dirty fingers.

“Sir,?? said sheto Grey, ‘‘since you are my husband, or-
der this fellow from my presence; [ decline to be insulted.”

“Go, Cotton,” said Grey harshly, ‘‘you only make mat-
ters worse.’? \

“Not—at—all!? drawled Mr. Cotton, with unruffied
good humor, ‘“‘being the only uninterested party Ican see
how things are working; and, haw! haw! they’re making
devilish poor speed! Suppose you take me round the
grounds, Grey, and show me everything; and meantime
our nice little hostess will be thinking overit. Such a
pretty head can’t remain topsy turvy long; and by the
time we drop.in fgain, I bet two to one we'll find her cry-
ing penitently overher late iniquities, and sitting with
the pen in her hand, ready to sign a dozen Rose Grey’sif
we wish. It would be such a pity to lose a pile dike that
merely to spite her husband, when he could get it almost
as easily withont her help!”

At the conclusion of this speech the attorney hooked his
arm within Grey’s, and drew him forcibly out of the room,
locking the door behind them. :

Rose sat gazing into vacancy for some time, apparently
sunk in apathy. She was not thinking of her sinister mas-
ter and his friend, or of her helplessness and danger.

No, with a curious persistency her mind went back in
that hour of despair fo the happy home from which she
had been stolen, to suffer this; to her mother’s doting ca-
resses; to her father’s august white hairs.

When these tender and sacred thoughts lad stirred her
frozen heart, she threw herself upon her knees, and hum-
bly put herself under the guidance of her Heavenly Fath-
er, meekly offering entire submission to His will, however
hard it might be to bear it.

As if calmed and strengthened by a miracle, she rose,
and taking her station at the window, watched James
Grey and his accomplice walking up and down the emer-
ald sheet before the mansion, and eagely conversing. See-
ing that they were coming to some conclusion, she rang
the bell for a servant.

In due time some one tapped at the door.

“Ts the key not in the lock ?”? demanded Rose.

“No, ma’am,’? answered the voice of Craine.

“Very well,” answered Rose, and the girl went away.

She laid down her bonnet and shawl again; since she
was a prisoner she must be patient if she would escape
from her prison.

She went back to the window, and read the brightening
faces of the men.

“What did that wretch mean when he said that Mr.
Grey could get the fortune almost as easily without my
assistance??? murmured Rose.

The murderous glare of Grey’s eye recurred to her; she
felt her heart stop beating, and quake with the natural
shrinking terror of a woman, when death, secret and
treacherous, menaces her.

“Tf I were to sicken suddenly, they could forge my sig-
nature, or force me to give it on my death bed, and then I
og be out of his way,’? thought Rose, sinking upon a
sofa.

In spite of her fears, in spite of her yearnings for one last
glimpse of her beloved parents, in spite of her youthful
love of life, she put away all thoughts of saving herself by
a fraud, and since earthly friends had been cut off from
her, and all hope was gone, she crept closer to that best
Friend, who succers all who trust in Him; and never had
He seemed so mear her as in that hour when first she saw
the shadow of murder waiting behind Grey’s hatred.

In a few minutes more Mr. Grey and his friend returned
to see what reflection had done for the cause.

“My good wife,” said Mr. Grey, showing his teeth,
“have you decided tobe sensible ?”’

“Of your own danger,’? added Mr. Cotton, laughing up-
roariously at his own quip.

For answer, she pointed to the declaration.
it kay upon the table, torn in two.

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND LOST.
Mr. Wilmot Cotton had taken his departure.

 

 

The night was dark and airless—not a leafin the thicket
of Chudleigh Heath moved.

The dogs under the balcony, recovered from the drowsy
effects of the drugged flesh which the burglars had thrown
them, emitted now and again long and desolate howlings,

Craine, while undressing her mistress for the night, had
said, with a shiver:

“Them dogs makes my flesh creep. I’ve heard say that
when a dog owls like that, some persing is sure to die be-
fore the moon is out.”’

Rose now sat in her ded-room alone, the door and win-
dow locked.

When the sun had first gone down, she, sitting by her
window, behind the curtain, had seen Mr. Grey walk
across the plat of turf to the edge of the thicket, without a
hat, as if in his abstraction he had forgotten it—and stand
for five minutes under a tree, apparently examining her
window. Then he had walked back slowly, thinking. As
he came near the house, she could see his face distinctly.

If ever sullen hatred prophesied vengeance without
words, it loudly spake it by his scowl, and upward furtive
glance at her window.

He had walked back to the edge of the trees again, stood
a minute as before, and recollecting himself, paced back
again toward the house.

Again she read his face—it said plainly,

“Shall I erush her?”

Once more he took his restless way to the woods,
back to the piazza. His face said,

Yes, but how ?”

Back he went, and came again, and still with lowering
brow and cruel eye he asked himself,

“Tow 277

The night fell, the darkness
footsteps went and came.
fatal question ? a

In vain Rose peered from her casement, the lowering
face and skulking figure of her foe were blotted out on
the dark page of night.

Still the footsteps went and came, she heard them now,
the footsteps of the unscrupulous and cunning plotter who
felt her life to be between him and his victory.

; Hark! he was speaking—could some one have joined
nim? ;

The dogs tore out with a yell.

It was a stranger.

“Ah! i were only dear Jasper Blount, so kind and
honest-hearted!

But alas! his kindness had cost him so dear that he was
as helpless as herself.

If it were her mother, come to beg five minutes inter-
view. Ah! she would never allow her to go away with-
out her poor Rose!

‘ But oh, what hateful voice is that ?
er?

Alas! no friend for hapless Rose, only Grey’s accom-
plice, Wilmot Cotton.

 

*
and

rew deep, and still the
Had the answer come to that

What hoarse laugh-

 

Her heart grew sick within her, for as they approached

able girl would glide between him and his prize,and }

 
   
  
   
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
   
   
 
   
   
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
   
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
       
    
     
 
      
     
       
   
 
       
     
    
   

she fully recognized the thick and unctuous
ontemptible foe.

prought him there so late? It was long past
and all the servants were in bed.

have brought him so late to speak to
the resolve to arrange undisturbed, a

ny was so necessary to them as forcing
to sign the declaration?

r softly opened and shut. She knew
r. Grey’s room, which was directly be-
emor caused by the shutting of the

they had e
neath hers,
door.
There was
the dark, str
voices which 0

lience, during which Rose stood in
ears to catch some tone of their
est to her the subject of their con-

bhed so wildly that she gasped for

hise in her body thundered so loudly

near a sound.

thrilling howl rose out of the night.

; ream and grew frightfuily faint,
tled.

afterward the howl was repeated,
ing. She breathed again—it was only

breath, and ey
that she @ a

herself, she heard a sharp voice un-

“Quiet, O
. Mr. Grey

The wom:
upon the imp
penetrate tt

Instantly s
a large, thic
only in her ¢
ment she lig

It ran along
at each ,corne
double locked,

It was as se
as the pillar
ful locks bewe

But Rose wa
ing to Overhear
of her foes.

She crouche
ear against the

A confused m
cackling laugh

@nce more the long, loud howl of the dog resounded
in the grim silence, and was echoed by his companion.

Immediately she heard a window: dashed open, the
shutters thrown back, and a step on the piazza right be-
low her. :

“Gonfound you, what do you want, you brute ?? angrily
burst‘out Mr. Grey.

“Unehain ’em, and have ’emin for company,” bawled
the coarse voice of Cotton, ‘it won’t do to wake up the
whole house to join in our confab you know.”’

Sounds of clanking chains, the glad scurry of the liber-
ated dogs, and Rose heard them follow their master into
his room. ;

She looked down, attracted by a glare.

“A bright.and steady sheet of light lay upon the gravel
beneath the balcony, and upon the sheet she saw distinct-
ly traced the shadow of a man leaning against some sup-
port, and the shadow of another man, wearing a hat,
bending over something which the other held.

In the absolute quiet which reigned she strained her
ears with sickening anxiety to catch what they said, and
started violently as the first words were uttered, so near
the voice seemed to be to her ear,

It was the cool, incisive voice of Grey which spoke.

“What a deal of trouble the old miser took to humbug
us, and how signally he failed after all. The idea of put-
ting the box of money with Hugh Carroll, the key with
the bank, and unravelling his little surprise eight months
after death. Giye us the key now, Cotton.”

Rose breathed more freely. They had not met to plan
her murder. °

“What d’ye suppose is in this box?’ quoth the slippery
tones of Cotton.

“Oh, securities, bank stock, and so on.I fancy. Old
Blount knew well how to increase his hoard. Was Carrol
willing to giye up the box?”

“Of course. He did’nt dream of disputing the great
Grey, of Crowlads, orders, and as soon as I said I was
your agent for your wife’s property he lugged it along
without any palaver. Maynard, too, forked over the key
without a word.”’ RS.

Ashort silence during which a key grated ina lock,
Then a cry of dismay from both the men. oe Rte

“Why, there’s nothing here but a minute-kKey, and ‘this
bit of paper. More precautions. Shell within shell, ‘and
still no kernal! The old man must have spent a consider-
able fortune in boxes and keys and parchment. Ah, this
tells us at last where to look for his hoard.”

A pause ensued, the shadow which leaned against the
window post, held something before his eyes, the obber.
shadow threw itself into a chair and eleyated its feet to
the table.

The shadow of a dog Game and put its nose on the arm
of the chair, and a voice said ia oily cheerfulness,

“Good dog! eh, good dog!’

This scene was distinctly reproduced upon the smooth
gravel under the balcony, by the accident of the light be-
ing placed upon the table, andthe two men being between
the table and the window.

Their shadows were Sharply defined avainst the Jamp-
lit gravel, 4s the shadows ia a magic lantern are defined
upon a sheet. ‘ :

“Good Heavens!" uttered the yoice of Grey, with sud-
den vehemence—‘“‘ail is lost!**

Rose started; the pictures on the gravel changed their
postures, both sat bolt upright, manifestly stunned.

“What is it?’ hoarsely cried Cotton.

“Ivs ruin!’ groaned Grey. ‘We may iet the woman
upstairs go home when she pleases; she’s of no more use.
This accursed paper tells me to go and look for an old dis-
patch box which I will find in a niche above the fire-place
of that chamber in Grimward where he died—but read,
read, oh, curse him! he has outwitted us after alll”

Cotton’s shadow seized the paper, and Cotton’s voice,
hurried and horrified, read these words:

“Take this key to asmall iron door which you will see
above the fire-place in my bed-chamber; find a secret key-
hole in the lower left corner, unlock, and the iron plate
will sink down, exposing a niche containing an old dis-
patch box, which is notlocked. In it you will find a large
key only, with which you will unlock the iron doors on
either side of the fireplace. You willsee some old coats
of mine hanging on pins inside the closets; in one closet
you will, by ripping out the seams of the coats, find fifty
thousand pounds, in twenty-pound bank bills; in the
other closet you will find the same amount; total—
$100,000.”

“Oh, the old dotard!’? screamed Cotton, and broke into
most blasphemous oaths.

“And Grimward is burnt to ashes,” faltered Grey, in a
voice of anguish, ‘‘and with it the fortune that I toiled so
long to secure. With my own hand—oh, heayens! with
my own hand I have ruined myself!’

“Yes; curse you, and me too!” howled Cotton, while his
shadow writhed like a wounded serpent; ‘‘to gratify your
fiendish spite you made use of the secret passage that I
discovered; and filled the celiar with combustibles and a
jar of nitro-glycerine, and all to blow up the Widow
Blount in her bed because she ‘wouldn’t have you. Oh,
my man, Pll be revenged on you yet!’

The shadow of Grey’ sat crouching forward with its
head upon its hands. Only ahusky groan responded to
the fierce threats of Cotton.

“Losi! Losi!” muttered Grey.

(To be continued.)

  

ng in the dark, with her eyes fixed
chaos of night, saw a faint pale beam
the blackness.

ced the casement, groped about for
which she or herself in, being
obe before, and opening the case-
d out upon the balcony.

/ Of the house only, stopping dead
very window except her own was

  

    

   
   

airing place for a female prisoner
‘op of which the lady of the beauti-
elf so many years.

ntemplating escape; she was hop-
ected some of the cowardly plots

   
      
      

      
 
     
        
         
    
   
  
     
  
   
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 

upon her knees, and pressing her
lings, listened anxiously.
rof voices reached her, broken by a

i

 

—_—_——————_>- 9-4—__

 

YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

 

HAVE YOU TRIED?

BY MRS, M. A. KIDDER.

 

Is the statement that you made me
Bona fide?

That you never will pursue it;

For you know you cannot do it!
Haye you tried?

Haye you put both nerve and sinew
To the test?
Have you set your wits to working—- 4
Have you, brother (never shirking),
Done your best?

Have you braved life’s stormy river,
Deep and wide?

Have you wrestled with the billow?

Have you pressed a sleepless pillow?
Have you tried?

Did you rise up with the dawning
Of the day?
When the east was bright with beauty,
Did you go forth to your duty,
Brother, say?

If through deepest tribulations,
And through pain—
If in joy as well as sorrow,
ou have tried, why, then, to-morrow,
Try again.

— PO ~~ -—---- ---

The Boy Miner.
A TALE OF FEATHER RIVER.

By Edward Minturn,

(“The Boy-Miner” was commenced | in No, 29.
may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union. ]

CHAPTER XVI.—(CONTINUED.)

The Indians, now all huddled together, partially rose
and then seeing the back of the Boy Miner, as they sup-
posed, sank down again for a whispered consultation.

The plan of attack now apparently formed, they all rose
and stood ready with their bows, while the one with the
gun crept closer and laid the muzzle of his gun onthe
window-sill, pointing directly at the head of the supposed
boy.

“Be ready to shoot gun all into the heap, when he fires
—me kill him myself!” said Charlie, as he took aim with
Eddie’s rifle at the Indian near the window. :

Eddie cocked both barrels of his buck-shot loaded gun
and asecond afterward as the flash of the Indian’s gun
was seen—jired!

Of all the screeching and howling he had ever heard,
that led off!

For the Diggers were so huddled together that every
shot told, and as their leader fell dead from Charlie’s un-
erring aim, there was no one to direct them, while now
both Eddie and his brave friend, from their convert
poured in an equally deadly fire from their revolvers.

The terrified wretches only recovered from their confu-
sion sufficiently to fly when two-thirds of their number
were stretched on the ground and it was scarcely likely
that of those who fled any got away entirely unharmed.

The surprise and the repulse was so complete that the
few which did get off were not likely to return soon, if in-
deed they ever did, for the Indians are very superstitious
and always have a horror of approaching any place of
battle where they have not been victorious.

Among those who were ‘aid out,’? Charlie found a few
who were not yet dead. It may readily be inferred that he
did not allow them to suffer long. The process of scalping
was then gone through with, while Eddie went in to re-
joice with his parents and sister oyer their triumphant
escape from this last peril.

“J teli you what it is, mother!” said the proud boy;
“Charlie is worth more than his weight in gold to us!”

‘He is, indeed!” said Mrs. Morris. ‘Here he comes—
were he not so good and brave, he would be repulsive,
with all that blood upon him!’

“Me wash—me been taking scalp—not worse than
butcher hog! Me go wash!’’

And he disappeared inthe direction of the lake, which
was buta few yards from the house.

In afew moments he returned, and,.then Anna, handing
him his new revolver, with the two empty barrels which
she had discharged, Said: -
aefiily brother bought this for you at the Bar, to-night,

fey
mas

 

Back Nos.

goed Charlie, It has been christened, for it was that
V1 fired when the robbers attacked us to-night.”
“The fobbers!? cried’ Mrs. Morris. ‘Have you been in

peril, other than. ‘tonight?’ ;
A detail of the attack and Charlie's timely assistance
was now given to the mother, who could not find words

to express her joy at the preservation of her children and

her wonder at the strange impulse which led Charlie to

think danger was lurking im their path, and to go where

indeed he was needed.
CHAPTER XVII,

Grizzly Adams, clad in a complete buck-skin suit from
head to foot, beaded and fringed in a style which wouid
have captivated a Cheyenne dandy—he had killed the deer,
tanned the skins, and made the suit himself—looked every
inch a border chieftain, as he rode up to the house of
Amalek Cohen, on his noble black horse—a capture of his
own on the far-off plains beyond the Black Hills.

“And so thought the disguised Lady Amaranth, who, in
her Californian disguise, at the same moment galloped up
to the house, followed by her page, Emerald.

“Pretty fair looking chap for a Greaser!*) muttered
Adams, as he dismounted, while a pony with a fresh slain
deer strapped to its back, trotted up alongside of him.

Tne hunter took the deer from the pony, just as Miriam
and Ben appeared at the door of the house.

‘Here, Ben, you black sarpint, tote that deer into the
kitchen—it is ready dressed—it’ll Keep you folks a chaw-
in’ some time, I reckon. How’s your father, young
lady ?”?

Miriam, blushing more beneath the impassioned gaze of
fhe page than anything else, replied that her father was
getting better, and, though she knew she would be scolded
for it, she asked both the hunter and her former visitor
into the house. {

Ben, grinning till his head seemed about to fall apart,
carried the deer to a kitchen adjoining the main building,
saying as he went: ‘

“Djs am jess de fattest and de biggest deer dis nigger
ebber see, ’cept one, and dat one he kill his own self.”’

“How do you feel, senor?’ asked the disguised Lady
Amaranth, in a gruff voice, as she grasped the wrist of
the Jew. ;

She spoke in Spanish which he well understood, as he
did several other languages.

“J feel as if I’d like to be let alone,’’ he growled. ‘What
do you want here?”

“To inquire into the health of Elnathan Samuels, and

7

“Holy Moses! who—who are you? Hush—do not speak
that name again—do not—do not!’

And the Jew rose, with a face expressive of the wildest
alarm, to a sitting posture.

“Be silent and I will not,” said the stranger in a lower
tone. ‘Now that you know me—you will treat me re-

 

Read ‘Mebel Carrington, or Waiting Two Years,” by
the Peeriess Author, now running through our columns.
gis eee a ag
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

THE FIGHT AT DAME ECROPA’s ScHoOoL, with thirty-three II-
lustrations, by Thomas Nast. Publishers, Francis B. Felt &Co.,
New York. Mr. Nast, who illustrates so eapitally the ‘Josh Bil-
lings Papers” in the New YORK WEEKLY, and whose caricatures
in the Phunny Pheillow have been universally admired and ex-
tolled, has, in the work before us madea very decided hit. He
may well be styled the Prince of Modern Caricaturists. ‘The
Fight at Dame Europa’s School”’shows, as the title-page expresses
it, “how the German boy thrashed the French boy; and how the
English boy looked on.’”? The illustrations are all good, and re-
plete with meaning, particularly that in which John Bull is seen
in his neutral workshop building a privateer bearing the name of
Alabama. Large sales have already been made of this clever lit-
tle tale.

HARRY LORREQUER;

with His* Conresstions. By Charles

Lever. Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. The
stories of Charles Lever are universally read and admired. The
book before us has a portrait of the author on thecoyer. It is

the third volume of a new, cheap and popular edition of his
works.

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO. A companion to Dumas’s
“Count of Monte-Christo.”” Pubiishers, T. B. Peterson & Broth-
ers, Philadelphia. This is pronounced by some crities to be one of
the most wonderful works of the age. It is issued in a large oc-
tayo volume, with a picture of ‘The Countess of Monte-Cristo”
on the cover.

 

TRIED FoR HER LIFE. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Pub-
lishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. This is a sequel
to “Cruel as the Grave,” and is as full of startling incidents, mar-
yelous adventures and novel situations as any of Mrs. South-

‘| worth’s previous sensational works.

VALENTINE Vox; THE VENTRILOQUIST. By Harry Cockton.
Publishers: T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. This popu-
ar work is issued in a large octayo volume, with a picture of the
roasting of Joseph onthe cover. Taken as a whole, we have
never read a more amusing autobiography.

Tom BURKE “or Ours.’ By Charles Lever. Publishers: T. B
Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. This is a new and cheap edi-
tion of a favorite work of a popular author, It is issued in the
best style of the enterprising publishers.

 

  

THE SOUTHERN REVIEW FOR APRIL, Published under the
auspices of the M. E. Church, South, by Poisal & Roszell, Balti-
more, and Triibner & Co., London. A. T. Bledsoe, L.L.D., editor,
The contents are varied and interesting.

1871.

04

KATIE WAITING AT THE Door. A songandchorus. Words and

 

music by A. T. Gorham. Publishers, Root & Cady, Chicago.

spectfully, at least.”

“But 1 do not know you—your face—it is not one Il
know!’ F

“Then let it suffice that I know youw—knew you years
ago, When your name was as great at Charing Cross as
that of any other man on ’Change—knew you before your
hand ity

‘“Hush—hush man, what you know, if you know it, con-
ceal! Iam poor—but I’ll give ——”

“Me nothing! I am not here for that. All I wish to
know is—is that girl ——”’

‘Hush, do not ask about her now. There is another
present. Whoever you are, come to me when] am better,
come to me alone and I will tell you anything, everything
—do what you wish—ior I am in your power.”

“Jt is well. 1 will come again—but your wounds need
dressing, and after this stranger has done his business I
will dress them.”

All this conversation took place between the Jew and
the Californian in such a low tone that no one but them-
selves could understand what was said.

‘A stranger here? Oh, it is the hunter they call Grizzly
—what you want, eh, mine goot friend? You come to
trade mit Amalek Cohen ?”’ asked the Jew, striving to look
cheerful, but it was an effort.

“J prought you a deer—young and fat, as a present.
For your nigger isn’t much on the hunt.”

‘ore de Lor’ jess hear dat!’ muttered Ben at the door.
“pidn’t I done killa buck rabbit dis berry day all by my
own self. Me notahunter? Why I killa skunk wida
stone de odder day! Golly—I guess ole Grizzly don’t know
dis chile!’

“Thank you, mine goot friend. Thank you for de pres-
ent. Iam very poor, orI should puy game of you, like
de rich miners do, but I am very—very poor !’

“Oh, I don’t want your money, Mr. Cohen; but I have
a favor to ask you. Weare going to have a ball up at

3idwell’s Bar, on the Twentieth of October, with none
but good people to attend it. No bad characters, you see.
Now women folks are terrible scarce around the diggin’s,
so we want you to let your daughter come. I'll see her
safe there, and safe back again, and -

“She shall not go—you hear, she shall not go!’ cried
the Jew, furiously. ‘She shall not mingle with the un-
believers—no—Nno!”’

“Claws and antlers! You needn’t flare up quite so
rough as that!’ said the astonished hunter. “I made a
civil request, and ought to have a civil answer.”’

“And you shall!” said the ‘Californian. Then turning
to the Jew, he spoke rapidly in Spanish, which was not
understood either by Miriam or the hunter.

The Jew in an instant sank back, apparently under
some mysterious control. And then the Californian, ad-
dressing the hunter, said: .

“The young lady will attend the ball, but as her father
objects to your taking charge of her, perhaps you will
extend an invitation to me, as her escort, to also attend!’

‘“Sartin, stranger, sartin! for you look as if you were all
right, and it is a big favor to have her there, the angelical
is so scarce, you see!”’

 

 

 

“Am not I to be consulted?” asked Miriam, drawing up
her superb form haughtily.

 

 

“Waddie is to be there!’? whispered the hunter... A

“But I do not know as it matters,’ continued the young
girl, quickly, ‘‘if father wishes me to go, I will go!”’

“Yes—this—this cavalier “4 :

“Don Fernando de Montano,’’ suggested the Califor-
nian, in a.low tone. ’

“Don Fernando de Montano will escort you, and it is
my wish that you go!” said the old man, in a husky voice.

“Then that is all settled, so good-by. I’ve got to kill
meat for the supper and must be off. Come early—Don—
Don Diablo!’ cried the hunter, ,

“You've not got my name quite right, my brave hunter
—rather a natural mistake—but try to remember that it
is Don Fernando de Montano.”

“Thankee—I’ll try to remember it, but claws and ant-
lers, it’s a jaw-breaker,’’ said Adams as he went out, won-
dering what could possibly changed the Jew’s mind so
suddenly in regard to her going.

“That chap is a powerin there!’? he muttered as he
mounted and rode off. ‘Maybe he is after the girl him-
self. If he is, 1 must put Eddie on the guard. For I
know the boy worships the ground she treads upon. I'll
give him a hint and when the ball comes off he can judge
and act for himself. For I like that youngster, He is
grit from the uppermost hair on his head down to the
soles of his feet. Heis only a boyin years, but when it
comes to work and to fighting he'll shame ninety-nine
men out of ahundred. Claws and antlers, but lwish he
belonged tome! But I’ve neither chick nor child, and
don’t suppose I ever shall. have any. I wasn’t made to
hitch on to anything angelical, 1 suppose! If I had been
she’d haye been alongside me before this time. For what
is to be, will be, that’s assure as My aim on a@ gfizzly
when I can see his eyes. aa

“J must ride up to Dream Vale and tell Eddie what nck
I’'ye ad. It will tickle him terribly.. Hallo—who’s that
coming on a lope behindme? Why, it’s that Greaser—
Don—Don—there, I’ve forgot his name again. J’ll check
up and see what he wants.” 4

In a few seconds the Californian was close to the hunter,

“I thought, as you were riding up the river, 1 would
accompany you a little ways, for a hunter Jike you must
know a great deal about the country,” said the Califor-
nian, as he brought his horse to an equal gait with that of
Adams.

“Yes—I see a good deal of the country,’’ said Adams,
fixing his eyes admiringly on the splendid animal which
the stranger rode. ‘But it isn’t often that 1 see sucha
piece of horse-flesh as that which you are on.’

“Weis pretty fair—a mixture of the Arabian and Anda-

 

lusian. I bought him in Mexico,’’ said the other, care-
lessly. ‘I have a good deal of fine stock on my ranche in

the lower y
Marysville, which I brought up for sale.’»
“Oh, you raise stock, then?’ ~ Die
The stranger assented by a.bow.
‘4#didn’t know but you were a trader, you seemed to
know the Jew so well.”’
“Oh, Imet him long ago. I havesome claims upon him

untry, and haye a cayallado down near

 

which places him ina position that makes him exceed-
ingly obliging to me.”

‘“Yes—I saw that, when he gave in to you so quick after
he’d snubbed me short enough to break my neck. But
look, sir—do you see them elk—I can’t be quiet when
‘meat stares me in the face that way! Claws and antlers!
Aren’t they handsome ?”’

And the hunter turned his horse off the trail, and rode
along a ridge so as to keep out of sight, and gefto leeward
of a gang of noble looking elk, that were feeding in a val-
ley, just out of rifle range.

“That man is my fate—that man is my fate! Without
knowing why, I feel it!’ said the Lady Amaranth, as she
gazed upon his retreating form.

She watched him till he was out of sight, and then she
heard the crack of his rifle. The finest elk in the gang
gave one leap and fell, while the others, not seeing whence
the shot came, looked around, almost without alarm,
seeming to wonder what made their companion fall.

Again the rifle cracked, and another fell—and so until
six were slain. Then the rest trotted away. ;

“Wonderful—wonderful! I must know mere of him.
Not a single shot missed, and he must have been two hun-
dred yards away, behind yonder range of rocks. If he
were only one of us, such blunders as Tom Manx has
made would soon be remedied.”’

And now, as the hunter rode gut to bleed his game, the
disguised lady waved her hand ju token of adieu, and rode
on. .

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

The startling incidents which have made Dream-Vale
anything but dreamy in our story, did not in the least
check the ardor of our BOy MINER in his labor—he was
“pound” to make Miriam’s weight in gold, in a hurry, 80,
leaving Charlie to dispose of the dead ‘‘Digger’s” the
morning after the night-attack, he hurried to the dig-
gings, raised his ditch-gate, and, as soon as the water ran
swiftly through his sluice-boxes, began heaving in the red
dirt and grayel with a lively hand,

Charlie came after a while to handle the pick, and after
the breakfast dishes had been washed, and the cabin set
to rights, Anna showed her rosy cheeks and bright eyes
to one who was always glad to see them. ;

“Oh, Eddie, you’ll kill yourself working so hard!’ said
the loving sister, as she saw the sweat run down his face

 

in streams.

“Then [ll be like General Warren at Bunker Hill!’ said
Eddie, with a cheerful laugh. “Vl die doing my duty.
But never fear, sis—never fear—I shall llye to marry my
Miriam, and——”

“And what, Eddie ?” } os

“Oh, be so happy, while you grow up a Sour, peevish
old maid!’*

1 “Oh, Eddie—why
me 9?

“Oh, who'll want a girl that would rather climb a
mountain than sif in a rocking-chair, who wants to know
all about algebra, atid rhetoric, and Greek, and Latin, and
has.a book in her hand every mintite when she is not
doing what she hates—housework ?”

“Who will want me, Eddie, with all these jfaults ?
Well, I'll tell you, and I'll meet him yet, just as sute as
you have met your ideal in Miriam. J shal meet: a man
with the stamp of intellect on his brow—a man who dares
do right even in the face of opposition—who is brave,
without boasting, and kind without ostentation—who will
love me for myself, and for what God. has made me!’ . —

The boy stopped working, and leaning upon his shovel,
looked up in wonder at his sister, for neyer before had
she looked to him as‘she did then.

Her slender form seemed. to swell ito womanly pro-
portions—her dark eyes, liquid with feeling, sparkled and
flashed, till they spoke as well as her tongue—the rich
color mantled her features, she looked like one inspired—
aspirit of beauty, all aglow with the fire of Heaven’s intel-
ligence, ; :

“*Yes,"? she continued, ‘here amid the grandeurs of na-
ture, I shall meet him, love him, pledge to him my very
soul ina life’s devotion! Ishallsit by his side, look up
into his blue eyes—’’ :

“Blue eyes, sister? Have you picked one out?’

“Oh, why do you interrupt me, Eddie? Iam describ-
ing my ideal, for | have seen such a man in my dreams!’

“Your dreams must be pleasant, indeed!” said Eddie;
“but [ have not time to listen to more of them at present.
Sister, will you do me a favor?’

“Yes, Eddie, gladly."

“Then take your precious self off into some quiet nook,
and leave me to my work, or Ishall have a poor ‘clean up’
to-night. Now do, that’s a darling!’

Anna smiled, for she loved that last little word, it ex-
pressed so much, and she sauntered on, book in hand, up
the hill-side, to a soft bed of moss under the limbs of a
Wide-spreading oak. A gliftering brook scattered its dia-
mond spray over the grass close by her feet, and a'gentle
wind kept up a dreamy rustling of the leaves overhead.

It was a sweet spot, just fitted for that beautiful
dreamer. ‘ asiot oo

ao you predict that horrible fate for

  

CHAPTER XIX. ¥

“Claws and antlers, youngster! How youwwork!: Why,
there isn’t a miner down at the Bar that could give you
one in the game and come out even!”’ : .

Eddie did not know that any one was near him until he
heard the well-known voice of Grizzly Adams. For it
was almost sun-cown, and he was rushingin the dirt
just before the time to clean up. ;

Looking around, he saw the hunter, who had dismount
ed from his black horse a little way below, and come up
quietly in his moccasins, for the hunter learns a step, in
seeking game, which makes but little noise.

“Tam glad tosee you, Mr. Adams, and as soon as I
clean up we'll go down to supper and then we'll havea
long talk. I’veagreat deal to tell you—much that. will
make you open youreyes wider than you would if you
were drawing a bead on a grizzly!’ cried Eddie.

“Open my eyes—why, when I] draw a bead, boy, one
eye is shut and the other drawn to a focus, I believe that
is what the book-whackers call it... But I'l) helpyou clean
up, and we'll talk while we’re at work. Soshut off the
water from the boxes. I’ve got good news for you—
though maybe after all it’s rather mixed. Atany rate the
good partis that Miriam is coming ‘to the ball.”

“Then I don’t care a fig for any of the bad,” cried Eddie,
as he ran and turned the ditch from the boxes into the
waste channel.

“How did you manage it, Mr. Adams—how did you ever
get the old Jew’s consent ?” :

“That is where the bad comes in, Eddie. It wasn’t I
that got it atall, Iasked the old hawkbill, and—claws
and antlers, how he snapped me up! ‘No,’ he yelled loud
enough to be heard amile. There was a young chap who
got there just as 1 did, a young native Californian, but a
heap better lookin’ than the generality of greasers, who,
itseems, knew the old coyey somewhere else, and he
spoke to himin Spanish, and the old bear settled right
down as quiet as acoon in cold weather, and said she
might go with him. Well, I thought to have her there any-
way would please you, sol invited the greaser to the ball
,and he isto bringher. Didn't I do right, boy 7” c

“Who is this fellow—this interloper?’ asked Eddie,
stopping his work to ask the question.

‘“‘Why, he says he isa stock-raiser in the lower country
—has a cavallado of horses to sell, and he rides the finest
gray lever saw ina gallop. He dresses rich, puts on a
heap of airs, and has a youngster, a little less sized than
you, dressed allin green, to wait on him and hold his
horse when he dismounts.”’

“Does he carry shooting-irons ?”’ ¥

“You bet he does—as nice a pair of revolvers as you
ever handled.’’

“Then he’d better keep his distance from my Miriam, or
[ll try what he is with such tools at twenty paces,’ said
Eddie, turning to his work again. ‘“I’ma boy in size, but
powder and lead are as strong in my hand asin his—he
may just look out for squalls when I’m around, as Uncle
Ned—that’s my sailor uncle—used te say when trouble
was brewing.”’

“Claws and antlers, boy—but you’re wolfish. But I

 

 

reckon she don’t care for him, and does care for you. I
think I can prove it just as easy as a Sum in addition.”

 

 

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ra

“Haw, Mr. Adams, how??? And the boy again stopped
is work to listen. : ;
Mint tell FOU, and then no more talk till we’re done
cleaning up, or you'll not get through before dark. Claws
and antlers, what a claim you have here—a clear six
ounces to the pan, if there is a grain.” .
“Tellme what you was going to, Mr. Adams—don’t mind
eo w.?? ,
oe ‘and antlers! [ will mind the gold when it turns
out this way—but I'll tell you what made me think she
liked you. When this .chap got her father to say she
could go with him, she flared up like a porcupine with
its quills out, and wanted to know if her w ill was not to
be consulted. Just then I whispered to her that you’ a be
atthe ball, and you should have seen how quick the
wills come down. ‘I’m willing to go—if father wishes,’
she said, but her eyes told me, ‘I'd go, father or no father’

‘How shall I thank you—how shail I ever pay you, Mr.
é s!? cried the happy boy. _ :
\By inviting me to your wedding, boy, when it comes
off, and now not another word until we're done cleaning
up! : ’

“Only just one,’’ said Eddie, with
raaeen n and get a oe for the oo

‘veto hayecompany forsupper!’?

Waipon’t you tell her any such thing, for ifm company
l'iget on my horse and put for camp!’ cried the hunter,
as the Piute hurried away on his errand. is
‘Neyer mind then, we'll not consider yon company!”
said Eddie, amd now he went into his work earnestly.
’ By the tine Charlie was back with a pouch for the gold
it was all ‘leaned up” and there was at least as muchas
Was take out the day before.

; CHAPTER XX.
The miners of Bidwell’s Bar—the hardy men who
worked, and those who dealt in provisions and merchan-
dise—not the gamblers or those who lived on what they
could pickup, were the ones who made the arrange-
ments forthe grand October ball, as it was now Called.
eThese arrangements were made on a liberal scale.
ouch Inmber was scarce and high, for men with timber
ound them would not fake time to saw it, a large
icing platform was built under an immense arbor of

alaugh. ‘Charlie,
and tell sister Anna

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

“The puppy!? muttered Eddie, indignantly. “I wonder
how you could endure his company a moment!”’

“Who, Senor Montano, Eddie?”

“Yes, Senor Montano, aAnna!”’

“Why, Iam sure he is very agreeable, brother, and the
very best dancer I ever waltzed with. Mr. Adams intro-
duced me, and I know he‘loves you too well to introduce
me to an improper person!”’ ° "

“Well, never mind, I suppose I’m jealous of him, and
jealousy makes a fool of any oue—but here is my Miriam
—Miss Miriam, my sister!” i
The hands of the two lovely girls met, and then their
eyes, and, as if involuntarily, their lips too.

‘J couldn’t help kissing you, you look so sweet and so
good!’ cried Anna. : i
“And I could not keep my lips from yours either!’ said
Miriam. “Oh how much you look like your hoble
brother!”?

“Wait till [cultivate a mustache, and then the resem-
blance will not be so strong!’ said Eddie, with a laugh.
“And now, girls, sit right where you are while I go and
get some lemonade for you!’ ‘ ;
“Wine, rosy wine, would suit the occasion better!’’ said
the Senor Montano, coming up at that moment.

“No, sir—neither my sister nor myself ever have or ever
will touch wine!” said Eddie, quickly. “You have read,
if you ever read the Bible, that ‘Wineis a mocker, and
strong drink is raging.’ ”’ ’ <
“Yes—and 1 have read out of the same valuable histori-
cal volume that out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
thou shalt hear my praise!’ said the Californian, with the
slightest shadow of a sneer.

“You may consider me a babe, sir—but I have been un-
der the tuition of those who ‘teach the young idea how to
shoot.’ I may prove this to you before long!’ said Eddie,
bitterly.

“Brother!! cried Anna, in alarm.

“Oh, Eddie, for my sake!’’ said Miriam, as her eyes fell
imploringly on the angry face of the boy. § eis ’
“My young friend, 1 really couldn’t help joking with
you—but on my honor it was only a joke. You quoted
Scripture, and I thought I’d turn the tables on you. But
now, for the sake of these amiable ladies, whose feelings
I would not injure 0D any account, I say again, accept an
apology from me, and let us be friends again!’

“J accept your apology, sir, for the sake of those you

 

een branches—tables for the supper were put up under
notherarbor, huge trenehes dug near by over which the
was to be barbecued—a stand erected for the music,
iast but not least, a dressing-room for the ladies, ar-
auged, The men in those days were not quite as dandi-
edas now, and did not require any room in which to fix
p their toggery. ‘

: er noon, on the twentieth, all work was stopped in
-diggins, for it was deemed best to make a holiday of
ave time to make all preparations, and that those
ad partners to bring from other camps could have
sto go after them. ;

re night the camp began to show a great influx of
sitors. The big tent was full, a very unusual thing, be-
rethe candles were lighted, and the proprietors, espe-
cially those who sold drink and kept the gambling tabies,
were rejoiced to see among them a large number of stran-
gers. For they had a sure thing on the earnings of the
majority of the residents and every newcomer looked like
a clear profit to their trade. ,

Soon after night set in, the dancing-platform began to
receive its living freight, the floor committee, of whom
Grizzly Adams Was one, receiving and attending to the

ladiés. In a little while the music struck up and the ball

 

vii

 
 
 
  
 
 
 

Rddie and his sister arrived early, coming alone, for the
_ boy would not now listen to his parents being left alone,
for the Diggers were as reyengeful as they were coward-
ly, aud would doubtless seek a chance for revenge when
they could get it without too much risk. Therefore Char-
lie remained at Dream Vale. :

“Has she come,’? was the first question Eddie asked,
when Adams grasped his extended hand, ‘Has Miriam
come 7”?

“JT haven’t seen her yet,’ said Adams; ‘“‘but don’t fret.
She issure to be here. She wouldn’t miss seeing you for
—there, there she is now, riding up at a gallop!’

“Take care of Anna till I get back!’’ cried Eddie, “I
Will help her dismount.’’

And he hurried out to offer his hand to the lovely Jew-
ess, who had just reined in her horse in front of the arbor.

But the young Californian, leaping lightly from his
noble gray, pushed the boy aside, and as he lifted the
sweet girlfrom the saddle said in a tone of cool contempt:

‘-Boy, your offices are not needed here, whoever you
are. This lady is under my protection!”

‘‘The protection of a black-muzzled greaser is——”’

“Eddie, for my sake do not insult him/ - Were it not for
him, J could not be here!’ said Miriam, imploringly, in-
terrupting Eddie before he could launch out the full force
of his reply. :

Then turning to the cayalier'sne said:

“Senor Montano, if you had been aware that this was
the dear friend who sayed my father and myself from the
murderous hands of the robbers, you would not, I know,
have spoken to him so rudely.”

allude to, but as to your friendship, keep it for those who
can value it more than I!’ cried Eddie, as he turnedaway
to get the refreshments he had spoken of.

‘Really, ladies, I regret to have so angered this young
fire-eater. But, under the circumstances, I think I can
account for it. I believe, Miss Miriam, that he is in love
with you, and most wnnecessarily jealous of me, as he
will learn by-and-by, if my.own plans are as successful as
L anticipate. But I will not annoy him any more, and I
will even consent that he, instead of myself, shall be your
escort home after the ball has closed.”*

Miriam blushed, but she did not feel at all displeased
with the last remark made by the senor.

“Master Eddie,’? continued the Calitornian, as the lat-
ter approached, preceding a waiter who brought refresh-
ments, ‘‘I know you to be the very soul of bravery, and,
though a boy in years, every inch a man in the use of
weapons and in daring conduct. You need not blush,
sir—I know more of your conduct than you suppose. And
what I say is not meant as an idle compliment. Iam
aout to confide in you, to a certain extent, that you may
be prepared to act in a way that will not jeopardize your-
self, or those two fair beings by yourside whom you prize
so much.’’

“Sir, I do not understand your meaning,” said the puz-
zled boy.

‘Neyer mind, you will comprehend it, by-and-by, and
have a hearty laugh at yourself for having been jealous of
me. And now, sir, do me a favor—a personal favor,
which will greatly benefit your sister and Miss Miriam.”

“I will do anything, honorable, for them, sir.’

“J know you will. Excuse me, ladies, if I ask our
young friend to step a pace or two aside with me while
you sip your lemonade!”’

Eddie walked afew yards toward the side of the arbor,
yet where his eyes still rested on Miriam and his sister.

‘Now, Master Edward, promise to keep secret what I
tell you for just fifteen minutes—see it now lacks just that

 

 

 

cadmas a a

point, among their friends, until they were below the
passes filled with their mangled dead.

Night drew on apace, and the red fire, leaping through
the clouds of ebon smoke, made the passes look like huge
caverns yawning for the dead with demons struggling in
the flames.

Espinosa would have died, for he would not retreat, but
by main force some faithful followers bore him off more
dead than alive—bruised with falling rocks and-half stifled
in the smoke.

It was terrible—the scene, even below the fatal gorges!
More than half, ay, near two-thirds of that vast army
were dead or dying. Up amid the fire human fiesh was
crackling seething in the flames—below, with broken
limbs and crushed bodies, hundreds strove to drag away
from the horrors yet in front. _

No joyous note of trumpet now—no cheering shout of
victory—the groan of pain, the shriek of agony, the low
moan of dying wretchedness—these were heard on every
hand.

And this, through all the long, long night.

When day once more dawned on that disheartened host,
Espinosa gazed toward the distant hight.

What could it mean? The banner of the Triple Cross
no longer there? Sure some new trick was to be tried by
his terrible opponent.

Surely, with all the vantage of the day before, he would
not now retreat. In truth, where could he go. Was not
the sea, the rolling sea behind him? How, even ifhe
wished, could he retreat ?

The fuel burned away, the smoke and flame in front
died out, and though fearing some new destruction wouid
fall and overwhelm the remnant of his army, Espinosa
once more entered the gorges with all whom he could per-
suade to follow.

These, shuddering as they passed over the scorched
bodies of the dead, found no opposing arm in front, and
when at last over the horrible debris, they reached the
hights they had vainly sought to reach the day before, not
even a single foe was there to meet them.

No sign of dead or living men, except the ashes of their
fireS—the tracks where they had stood.

Espinosa, rushing to the topmost hight, where the
standard of the Triple Cross had been, looked away to-
ward the sea, and his eye fell on what first looked like a
flock of white-winged gulls.

Then he knew what they were and how the outlaws had
escaped. ‘

Full fifty of those small, swift ships, which the mer of
the Ballearic Isles knew so well how to handle, were
speeding from the coast, and those ships bore Carlos the
Terrible and his devoted band.

In vain rage old Espinosa tore his snow-white hair, and
groaned in agony of soul.

“Tam ruined—I am ruined! Had I but slain him and
conquered, losing every man I had, the king would have
heaped his kingdom’s wealth upon me. Now—I am lost.
For full two-thirds of my army slain—Carlos the ‘errible
escapes, ready to swoop down on some unprotected point
more fearful than ever he was before. I am lost! I am
lost!” :

The battle-field at last was theirs. The enemy was gone.
But from that dejected host no shout of victory was heard.
All felt alike that, while terribly punished, they had not
even forced this retreat upon their enemy, for they saw,
if he had chosen so to do, he might from that ground have
slain all who dared to strive to reach him in his eyrie.

‘Who will be my herald to the king to bear this dreaded
news ?”? asked Espinosa.

On the day before he had not twice asked who would
be the messenger. Now not one replied in willingness to

The old count sighed. {

“T am too old and weak to bear the rapid journey, yet
have I nothing else to do!” said he. ‘Edgardo de
L’lands—go you as herald to the king. Tell him when
demons battle against a Christian host, as demons fought
us yesterday, heaving down the very mountains on our
heads, and sending lakes of fire on dying, helpless men, a
victory is impossible.

“Tell him our dead speak for our valor—teil him the
few who live envy those who died! If he hath anger, that
our foes, escaped, are bounding o’er the wavelets of the
sea, tell him to let that anger fallon me, Life is the last
poon that I would ask of heaven or man, and were it not

 

time to the hour of ten—and I will tell you an important
matter, which for the sake of your friends I think you
ought to know!”’

“Well, sir—I promise.”

‘Very well, in about fifteen minutes, when from a cause
at present unknown to you, nearly or quite every person
here present will be huddled up together, except yourself,
sister and Miss Miriam, who, with you, must remain seat-
ed where they now are, and where no harm will come to
them or you, a band of disguised men will take possession
of this platform and hold every one upon it as prisoners
until certain financial demands, not affecting you or
yours, are complied with!’

“What, sir, a robbery—I must ”

“On your honor, Keep silence on this subject for fifteen
minutes. I trust that honor, sir! Rejoin your sister and
Miriam and remain with them!’

 

 

“Maldita! No; lowe him an apology, and I makeit as
quickly as I resented what I thought at the moment to be

hand. : poets :

Eddie would rathera pistol had been in it, and he wit
another at ten paces, but the apology was so frankly offer-
ed that he could not refuse the proffered hand, and it was
taken, + wet

“To add to my punishment, my brave yonng friend. I
wil! resign to you my pri “as her escort to have the
‘irst dance with Miss Miriam. So now Jet us be friends. It
is an honor to possess the friendship of one who has ren-
dered such eminent services to those | love!”

“He loves!’ muttered Eddie, in a low voice, and with
grinding teeth. “I'll make him sear me before 'm done
with him!’ ba

But he aceepted the favor, and the arm of Miriam press-
ed his tenderly as they moved forward to take their places
in the dance about to commence.

The band struck up a waltz, and amoment later they
were whirling over the floor in happy bewilderment of
everything but themselves.

Eddie was a good dancer, for his sister was a perfect
sylph in the art Terpsichorean, and was continually prac-
ticing with him when there was no work to do, and he
found in Miriam a partner quite ap easy to dance with, as
Anna.

At last—fatigued, they paused, and Eddie's eyes flashed
‘angrily as he saw what we will speak of in the next

chapter.
ot CHAPTER XXI.
The sight which met the eyes of Eddie Morris, was his
sister Anna, gliding through the mazes of the waltz with
the young Californian who had brought Miriam to the ball.
His hat and serape were now thrown aside, revealing a
figure of faultiess elegance, made the more noticeable by
his rich and peculiar dress. His jet-black hair hanging in
short glossy ringlets as fine and rich as threaded silk, con-
trasted with the soft brunette hue of his shapely face—
and smiling, as he talked with her, he revealed teeth of
dazzling whiteness. On his small hands appeared two
rings. ‘nat on the left was a solitaire diamond of large
size andunusual brilliancy—that on his left was a seal ring
with a cdronet surmounting a coiled snake—probably a
coatofarms. —

e wore a jacket of black-velvet with slashed sieeves—
sly arnamented with buttons of solid gold. His
oohswere snowy White, wide at the bottom, almost
us his small feet. “Around his waist was a sash

sO silk, spangled with golden stars.
irtaf the finest cambric, richly ruffled at the wrists
d collar, lay open at his white, weil-shaped
a ribbon-like scarf, fastened by a diamond full
his finger was seen.
ke much notice of anything but
er wasdancing with aman whom
ed however that he had left her
ly Adams, and then readily the
tL ca@ie--she needed a partner when the dance was
le Was ye ay—most likely Adams knowing the
an introduced her, and the consequence was na-
srould dance with him.
1 b> the last time!*? he muttered, fierctly, as the
some couple swept past him and Miriam. She
ree with him again.”
iS that lovely girl dancing with the Senor Mon-
kea Miriam.
Ama, my dear sister!" said Eddie, proudly,
his annoyance in the pleasure that his Miriam
aware of his relationship, thus single out his

=

     
 

wean ar

rould st
imal.) 2
am. stopp

more t

a girlshe scems tobe. I wish
antto know her—to talk to her

  

blushed, as if she had been
meant to,
7 am ?’? asked Eddie, in

T I have talked with her.
heart!’

eart for me!’’ said Ea-
nd what is that man

is himseli Don Fernando
ANOWnN my father before,

peak of him. He exer-
only parent—such an

an act of impertinence!’’ and the Californian extended me

(Carlos, the Terrible;

(To be Continued,)

 

OR, THE

SIGN OF THE. TRIPLE CROSS. '

Judson. )
BUFFALO

By Ned Buntline, CEE BOC:

Author of LITTLE BUCKSHOT,
BILL, ete., ete.

 

‘Carlos, The Terrible,*? was commenced in No. 25. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER XXXI.

Not long was Carlos de Aguero allowed time for con-
verse with his sister on that bright and sunny morn, for
Espinosa whose eye burned with fierce anger as he gazed
on that defiant banner of the Triple Cross, gave his troops
scarce breathing time before he pressed them upward to-
ward the mountain hight on which the outlawed leader
held position.

The latter held with Garcia and Eduardo de las Amad-
ores a brief consultation, which led to distinct duties be-
ing assumed by each, and then each hastened to do the
work laid out for him.

Careful that none should see or understand his plans,
by refraining from moving until the battle began, Garcia
assumed the duty of moving the woman and children to
oni ace and conveying the property of the band also
thither.

Eduardo, leading the light-armed archers, and the
heavier arquebussiers, went to the extremest front which
Carlos meant to hold, and there menaced the advancing
foe with a well-sheltered line of death-dealing men.

Carlos, with the rest of the fighting men, and some huge
burly peasants, took an overlooking post, whence when
his own skirmishers had retired he could roll down huge
rocks upon his enemies, and when the time came, set fire
to the dry heaps of fuel which should throw flame and
smoke in their path.

Eduardo de las Amadores had orders to receive no flag,
listen to no heralds, but to oppose the enemy the instant
they came in reach.

Espinosa confident ifhis veteran experience and in his
immense force, pressed on. His troops refreshed with
food and drink, urged too by great rewards promised tor
success, rushed wildly up the rugged steeps, and when the
burning rays of the noon day sun fell hot upon their heads
were so near that both bowmen and the gunners of Don
ree opened from their rocky coverts with a deadly
fire.

Men fell fast among the crowded Spanish ranks, for
neither arrow or bullet could miss some man among so
many, but encouraged by the knights, and by the great
Espinosa himself, whose banner was seen in the very
front, they pressed bravely on.

The outlaws, as directed, retreated from bush to bush,
and from rock to rock, neyer needlessly exposing a form
to danger, and their pursuers, finding every step more
difficult, grew weary as they moyed on, meeting continual
death in their eager ranks.

Espinosa, fearing they would falter, ordered heralds to
prociaim one hundred doubloons each to the first ten who
tues the mountain crest where the dreaded banner
waved.

Men will fight and die for gold they cannot bear away
if dead, a fact too long known to be denied; and this in-
centive how sent hundreds to the front, who else had been
laggards in the battle.

Pressed so fierce that to hold his own he must lose
many men, Eduardo <le las Amadores, as agreed in coun
cil, now fell swiftly back, and the Spaniards seeing his
men rush up thedark gorges and the deep ravines, be-
She: their work almost done, and rushed forward to com-
plete it.

Soon, in the narrow passes, massed, yet struggling up-
ward, their wild shouts of supposed victory were heard.

Loudest of all, old Espinosa cried:

‘The cowards run—they will not stand to meet a sol-
dier’s death! On! on! and hew them down! Let not a

 

 

 

1 0 Ise possess. Thereis a
Inystery about him which I cannot fathom.’
“Some people like mysteries. Sister Anna is sucha
dreamy, poetical soul, that a mystery would charm her!’
_ “Well, 1 do not think I am like her in that respect. In
fact, I prefer to see everything open and fair!”
“Then you dénot like thismysterious stranger, Miriam ?"
“Oh—the musie stops, run and bring your sister, quick
before anybodyelse engagesher for the next dance—
quick, Eddie, quitk!’,
die went toget his sister, wondering if Miriam pur-
posely evaded answering his last question.
“Oh, brother—I haye had such a splendid dance—are
you acquainted with Mt, Montano?
me have that honor, and wonder that he should not have
told you 80!’’ said Eddie, coldly, as the Californian yielded
her to his arms, saying: °, a
“f had searce time to think of
was 80 enthanted ty find
rude assotiations.”
, ‘Come, sister, My\Miriam jg wild to get
With you!” said Eddik, laying a
“ony Miriam,” i
le did so.
“Ab, yes—and that temind? me th
are by her fath

of it, my young friena—]
80 perfect a dancer among such

acquainted
] If astress on the expression
and lovking Senor Montano fullinthe eye

 
 
 

at, placed under my
car her, I rust Not he neglectiul of her. You
willfina her a Charmitg girl; Miss Morris—a lovely gir]
indeed, Sey to her, plase, not to engage herself for the
he Xt dance, for Iwill jon her in a few moments!’ said the
alifornian, as he turn@? away to acdress a few words to
ageltieman whom Eddb did not know. : ah

 

single outlaw live to boast one spark of mercy here filled a
Binet eye! Oh, on! for Spain and for my murdered
sons!’

Ah! what makes the eager foremost halt ? Why do the
van-men stop? Down froma hundred cliffs great rocks
come leaping, thundering, with dust and fire rolling
wherever they strike—down with a force noghield or coat
of mail an instant can withstand!

Down, crushing as they come, the rocks in dreadful av-
alanche are crushing scores of the foremost men.

“Press on! press on!? cried Espinosa stiil, and thous-
ands closing up, forced those on who could not retreat
over the lance points held like hedges in their rear.

On, amid the crushed and mangled forms, like them to
die, they came; and for hours, till his own men wearied
with the labor, Carlos the Terrible saw his foemen die.
Then came a signal from the sea.

Garcia had performed his work—their loved ones all
were safe, their wealth was all aboard; now he was ready
to receive the men. tie f

To hide retreat, and keep the Spaniards still at bay, was
how an easy thing, so well had every preparation been
made. The wind, sweeping down from the chill mount-
ain top in furious gusts, was in the right quarter, and
when the huge piles of resinous pine were lignted, the
horrible flame and smoke rolled down among the dead
and living in a fearful volume, adding a new horror to
the scene, :

: Human courage could endure no more. Stified and dy-
ing from this new terror, the Spanish forces no longer
strove to press on: they fell back in wild disorder. forcing

a coward’s act, mine own bright blade should dind a
sheath within my breast. Go, good Edgardo, go, and do
not strive to palliate my shame. Tell King Phillip all,
and as it was!”’

The cavalier bowed low, and kissed the trembling hand
of the brave old man, then mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER XXXII.

“Cielo! This is grand—this is beautiful, this is even
more lovely than our mountain home!’’

Thus cried Emalita, the fair-haired hand-maiden of the
Lady Isadora, as in one of the swift ships of the Contra-
bandistas, she was borne over the dancing waves of the
Mediterranean.

Not far from her side, pensive and thoughtful, sat the
Lady Isadora, while still further on, Garcia de Cordova
and Carlos de Aguero held low but earnest converse.

Alone, as she ever remained, closely vaiied, the queenly
wife of Garcia sat gazing on the mountains in their rear.

Leaning against the after mast, his eyes fixed on the

 
  
  

 

  

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ore, all bruised and
st his banner and
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conde, tol-
ed him—he
t last the

 
   
  
   
  
 
 
   
  
  
 

ing Christian knights warriors, hath he fought with
demons until two-thi f his army melted as snow melts
in the hot sun of summer. He tought while the very
mountains rolied d rr pon his weary columns. He
fought while fire scorelivdynd smoke stifled them. He
fought all through the. ong day, and till the sullen
night came on, and only: ack from crushing rocks and
eating fire, when but one-thikd of all his force was left.
He even then did not retreat, Gid not despair.”

“Heroic condé! Most noblé\g@eneral!’’ cried the king.
““Go on, brave cavalier—go on. \ —

“When morning dawned on
battered as he was, he bade the
Strike once more for Spain and y

“Glorious Espinosa—hero of 0
valiant cavalier.” = ©

“Up the great gorge-full of roasted, mi
over huge rocks and hot cinders, climb
lowed by his worn warriors. No horror
paused at no obstacle—but went fiercely 01
mountain hightwas gained.’ ¥

“And there the bodies of the outlaws told |
work was done—is it not so?’ cried the king e

“Alas, sire—no. Not one, living or dead, could
but afar the sea was white with the sails of s
bore them from the coast. All had escaped!?

“Wretch—thou liest. They could not all escape.

And the king’s face blazed with fierce anger.

‘Pardon, sire, Ispeak the truth. The Conde Espi
bade me break it as best I could, and I have doneit.” |

“Coward. Ay, cowards all! Better had ye died before
the enemy than have lived to tell your shame. ,
Espinosa—away, aud bid him go seek the outlaws on the
wave, for never will we see his face until he doth bring
the outlawed Carlos to our feet. Begone, lest we degrade
thee even as far as thou shouldst have been advanced had
thy news been what we expected it would be.”

* Edgardo de L’lands was a brave, true knight, and his
soul yearned to speak to the selfish monarch in tones as
indignant as this gross injustice deserved.

But prudence forbade, and he retired, pale with both
fatigue and pain of mind.

The king sat thoughtfully a few moments, seeming to
ponder on what steps next to take.

‘Espinosa began too well to last!’ he murmured, after
this pause. ‘He was too confident.’

The princess of Ebolispoke.

“Sire,” said she, “has not Spain got ships of war in
every port and on every sea. Are thine enemies safe
from thy power because they trust their fortunes on the
wave?

“Thou art right, sweet princess. Thou recallest us to
our senses. Would that Arglos were once more here, he
knows all about our ships and fleets, and hath a sense of
What can and should be done by them.”

‘He is near, oh, sire, but will never offend thine eyes
until called to thy counsel by the royal will.”

“That will we utter instantly. Leta special officer go
to Espinosa and demand our signet ring. Too long have
we left it in an unworthy hand. Sweet princess, go thy-
self, go find Antonio Perez, Duke of Arglos, and say we
need him now. Haste, for each instant of delay is a cen-
tury to us!’

The princess did not pause an instant now, but hurried
to the quarters, where Perez, yet weak and wan with suf-
fering, waited for a change in the royal temper which he
had not expected half so soon.

AS she went out, another messenger from the Conde de
Espinosa arrived, in even hotter haste than the previous
one had come, asking instant admission to the presence
of the king. .

‘‘The Conde de Espinosa is not in favor now—his mes-
senger will not receive the king’s attention!’’ said the
princess, as she hurried on.

Had she, who knew so well how quick the fickle-minded
king could change from hot to cold, from cold to hot,
known what news that messenger had for the king, she
would have stayed him with a dagger’s point rather than
had him break it ere Antonio Perez was once more in
favor.

But the herald held his peace and only asked to see the
king on matters most important. And thus unwarned
the princess hastened on to the man whom she indeed
most loved all else on earth.

(To be continued.)
—_—_>_9+______

THE INJURED HUSBAND.

By Helen Corwin Pierce.

 

CHAPTER L.

Claude—Lord Neville—had marked out his course. He secured
the best counsel London could furnish, to begin with, and he made
no attempt to deny that he had been connected with the Twelve.
The plea he set up was that he had joined the league as aspy. He
claimed es) he had deliberately set that trap for them at Neville
House, and himself sent Felice to the Chief of Police.

No one of the prisoners showed any disposition to turn Govern-
ment evidence, and save himselfat the expense of his comrades,
and an idea had also obtained pessession of them that if Claude
got clear, on whatever plea, there was a chance for them.

The queer countess, as she drove regularly to and fro between
her splendid residence and the court-room, began to look anxious,
eyen through her goggles. :

 

   

lovely face and fairy form of Emalita, stood Eduardo de
las Amadores, the hero 9 ast, perate resis

look.
Loying—that was no name forit. It was adoring.

The ships on the gently undulating sea, moving off with
the wind abeam, every bit of canvas set, their pennons
waving from each mast-head, were a picture by them-
selves,

- But the groups upon their decks were also fitting fora
painter’s pencil. er

The island seamen, in their peculiar dress, armed to the
very teeth, the mountaineers and peasants, their wives
and little ones, some sad at leaving homes once happy,
others joyous that they were free as the winds above or
the waves below—all these combined, if fully described,
even in pen-picture would interest all who love romance
tinged with nature’s vivid hues.

From the ships’ decks as they sped away from the shore
the gathering of Spain’s shattered army on the mountains’
crest could be dimly seen, and many a grim smile flitted
over the faces there, as they remembered how many sol-
diers slept the sleep of death among the blood-stained
rocks beyond.

The ships sped proudly on and more dim grew the shores
behind, while afar off before like clouds on the horizon lay
lovely isles, which each lessening mile made more and
more plain to the eager glances of those who never had
seen them before.

Timidly, lion-like as he was in the battle’s gory front,
Eduardo de las Amadores, approached Emalita as she
bent over the vessel’s quarter, gazing down into the wa-
ters, how growing blue as her own peerless eyes, as they
deepened out to sea. 4

“Sweet lady, is not this like new life to thee?’ he asked
in a low tone.

“Tt is like heaven,’’ she answered. “My heart bounds
light as the waves—for we are free and out of danger!”?

“Ay, dear lady, for the time. But Span hath a thousand
armed ships and we are an outlawed people. We may,
for atime, have peace and rest, but where our noble
leader rears his standard, there in time his foes will sure-
ly follow!’

“Don Eduardo does not fear them %’

“Eduardo de las Amadores for hizaseif never knew a
fear. But——”

The young cavalier paused and blushed confusedly.

“But what?» Why doth not Don Eduardo proceed in his
discourse ?”’

“I feared, lady—I hardly know—but perchance my
speech might offend thee!’

“Nay—not if it were courteous; and never have mine
ears heard or eyes beheld aught that was not courteous in
thee.”’

“J feared my language might be bold, dear lady. I
would have said, though no danger might appal my heart,
thy peril or thy discomfort were everything to me!”’

Now dropped the lady’s eyes, and a flush fell like the
bright setting sun from brow to bosom. <A tremor too
ran through her lithe, her perfect form.

Yet no displeasure hardened the light of her azure eyes,
her full, red lips breathed out a sigh, but no anger was on
her breath.

In truth she looked like one lost in a new, sweet pleas-
ure—one Waking in joy from a blessed dream.

It is ever thus, when love, begetting love, finds discov-
ery mutual.

“Most noble cavalier, thou art indeed kind to think thus
of the poor orphan girl!’ she said.

“Am not Lan orphan, who but for the brave opportuni-
ty our lord hath giver me, might yet be friendless and all
unknown! Oh, Emalita—how much I love thee!’

“Not more, brave youth, than thou art loved! More, a
maiden dare not say, and this, perchance, had best have
been unspoken!’?

“Ay—let it be but as a dream!”

Like a low, sad moan from coid and dying lips, came
those words from beneath the ebon yail of Sabrina de
Garcia. x

And as both the lovers started back chilled by her words
and tone, she pointed to a bank of clouds swift rismg in
the chill northeast, and cried: Pes
“Behold—a storm will come and then these barks must
separate. Soin your future lives, though borne along on
the same resistless tide, seek not one to be more to the
other, than ye are now! If ye do—the storm will over-
whelm ye both!’ < x
Emalita shuddered at these ill-omened words, and the
young cavalier frowned angrily. But the noble lady did
not shrink and might have spoken more, but the signs of
the coming storm had met other eyes than hers, and the
seamen hurried to and fro to gather in the canvas, and
prepare to meet it ere its wildest fury burst upon them,

  

 

CHAPTER XXXIIT.
The king was full as eager now to hear more news from
the noble Conde de Espinosa, as when that came which
he Ifad so nobly rewarded whem he knighted the happy
bearer.
He could scarce restrain his patience as Edgardo de
L’lands entered the audience chamber, with bloody helm
and garments stained with many a sign of battle.
“Speak, herald, speak! Whatnews have ye from our
brave general, the Conde de Espinosa!’* cried Phillip,
eagerly.
“Alas, sire. The news is heavy !"’
“Heavy? Is Espinosa slain ?”
“No, royal sire, he prays for death in vain!”
‘Not defeated? No—that cannot be! Such an army—
the very flower of Spain’s chivalry in his train!”

 

 

 

 

their own way with sword and ax, with mace or lance

 

“Sire—he was not defeated. Yet, as a Christian, lead-

  
   
 
   
   
 
 

“There is no use in dallying along this way,” she said to herself,
she left her carriage one night, When the trial had been going
week; “‘Bohun must be made to speak.” = __
here were-hard, stern lines about my lady’s lips as she lowered
e trap-door and jooked in at her prisoner,

ohun had‘not‘borne his captivity well. His face looked -fur-

ie worn; but he answered her ladyship’s question with a
muttered curse. -

*Pve told you twice a day ever since you put me in your trap
that I didn’t know where Salaris, the Jew, was.”

~My lady tapped the floor with her staff,

“Pon’t swear,” she said, lightly; “you have held to that lie
very, consistently, Better than your wooden lord has stuck by
you. .

. Bohun only shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t you know we women are very hard to balk of what we
want, Carlos Bohun?” asked the countess. “I shall find where
Salaris, the Jew, is,.and you willtell me too. Mark my words.
You may tell me now, or you may leaye me to make you tell, as I
can.’

When the countess left her prisoner she found Zeno waiting in
another room for her. :

“Zeno,” she said; ‘‘there is only the one way left us.”

He looked at her with a half-fearful expression,

- “Tes the a we talked of.”

Zeno shook his head slowly.

“My lady I hope not.”

“Don’t contradict me. I tell you there is no other way, posi-
tively. The rascal imagines he is haunted by Seymour—the man
who was found with his brains blown out. I’ve an idea Bohun
knows more how he came by his death than any one. He is wast-
ed terribly, but when I tell him he shall go the instant he tells me
where Salaris is he laughs in my face and swears he doesn’t
know.” '

“Possibly he doesn’t.”

“He does. Tam ascertain of it as though Ihad seen him turn
the key on his victims.”

“Te is perhaps bound to secrecy by some fearful oath he dare
not break.’ ,

“So much the more need of this desperate remedy. Say that you
consent, Zeno.’

“T do not like it, my lady.”

“NordoI. Yet it must be done. Desperate emergencies like
this require desperate remedies. And you have seemed to love
your old master well enough to do even this for his sake.”

Zeno bent his face upon his hands some moments. When he
lifted it he said, simply: | i

“I consent. I will do it to-night.”

Zeno left the house. When he returned he brought back under
his cloak a glass alembic and a quantity of rubber tubeing; also a
leather case like a small valise.

Her ladyship led the Way through a passage, the door of which
she locked after them, to the apartment adjoining that in which
Bohun was.

The alembic being deposited upon a velvet spread table, my lady
observed for the first time that there wasin the bottom a little
heap of yeHowWish green crystals.

‘Is the ventilator’closed ?” Zeno asked.

My lady bent her head.

find the gas turned off ?”

*Yes.”? '

“Phere is nd fire in the room 7

“Not so much as a match.”

No more was said.

Zeno now softly undid the rubber tubing he had brought, and
looked inquiringly at my lady, who with a gesture of acknowledg-
ment approached the ornamented wall, and removed from it
what looked like a little silver knob. A small circular aperture
was disclosed into which Zeno noiselessly fitted one extremity of
the rubber tube, carefully stopping it abeut, with some soft, waxy
substance, he had in the leather case. The other end he attached
to the back of the alembic, and then watch in hand, slowly
dropped through a tiny opening left for that purpose, a smail
quantity of a milky looking fluid, Which he also took trom the
leather case.

My lady watched him with something more than curiosity,
Zeno’s eyes never moyed except to alternate between the watch,
and the alembic, as the milky drops slowly trickled down upon
the yellowish green crystals at the bottom.

Thenthe surface of the glass became obscured; the alembic
seemed to contain nothing but a dense vapor, which was clearer
as it entered the head and passed off through the rubber tube.

rene continued to watch, and to drop the liquid upon the
crystals. i

The silence was oppressive, tervidle. My lady found it unendur-
able, and whispered to Zeno:

“Tell me something to do or I shall‘ lose my senses with wait-
ing.”

“Listen,” the still and watchful old man said scarcely above his
breath.

There was a faint sound from the room beyond.

Zeno ceased to drop the liquid, and waited with his eyes upon
his watch.

Presently he began again.

The sounds from the next room grew.

The countess crouched down upon the carpet, and covered her
ears with her hands.

Without pausing in his work, or looking at her, Zeno spoke:

“Ts this a time to lose your courage ¢”

My lady rose to her feet instantly.

“T am ready,’ she said in a steady voice.

“Give me your hand,” said "Zeno setting down the bottle to take
it in his a second, but without lifting his eyes from his wateh he
let the hand go again!

“Go now up to the Black Saloon, and stay tiil I come.
ber what I have told youto do there. Remember also there is
no danger there. Whatever is, is here. Go my lady.”

In the Black Saloon, to her dismay, the countess found Lucy
Brice, with her cheek to the marbie floor, listening to the sounds
from Velow, with eyes distending with horror, and soft lips turn-
ing white.

She started up, as the countessscame in, with a piteous wail.

“What is it, what is doing down there? It is Carlos, and I be-
trayed him.”

The countess, taking Lucy by the arm, said:

“Come out of this room at once. You don’t know what youare
talking about.’

Lucy fell on her knees.

“Let me go to him, only let me see him, my lady. He is suffer-
ing—hear him.”

The countess could not help a terribly chill, scared feeling her-
self, though she tried with all her wonderful self-control to rise
against it, and yet the sound these two heard was only a long,
monotonous moan, half whose terror was in its unearthliness. —

Zeno had before described to my iady the various phenomena
of the desperate experiment they were trying, and she knew from
that description that no danger was imminent yet. Still she
found it hard to control her terror at the weird, unnatural sound

She did control it, however, and spoke so to Lucy that the poor
girl, overborne by her resolution, was fain to confine her demon-
strations to sobs, stifled forthe present in her apron. A little
while after she fainted dead away.

My lady kept her senses all through, and met Zeno, when he
came after an interval to the door of the Black Saloon, with a face
ashen. through the enamel on it, but? exultant.

Remem-

 

“He has told?” questioned Zeno, drawing a deep breath.

 

Away to |}

— Sen a ae

“Yes. Westart for Castle Bruce in an hour, Zeno, if you fee}

able. Sdlaris is there!”
CHAPTER 1.

It was the closing day of the trial of Claude Revere—called Lord
Neville.

His lordship, or his lordship’s money, was going to win the day.
On no preceding occasion had the court-room been so crowded.

That morning a party of four left Castle Bruce. But fora slight
accident to the train on which they were, they would have been
in time. As it was, the false and wicked Lord Neville had just
been ‘‘acquitted” as they dashed up to the door with the horsés at
a furious gallop.

Every man and woman in the house rose as the party from .
Castle Bruce came slowly forward.

The crowd swayed right and left, to’ permit them to pass
through.

Zeno went first. Next came two, arm in arm, one of which at
least few had difficulty in recognizing, changed as he was. The
soft, lustrous black eyes of Salaris, the Jew, surveyed the throng
with enough of their old imperiousness to be unmistakable,
though they shone out of such hollows as were frightful to note,
and his hair and beard had turned white as the drifted snow.

Some knew the face of the woman who clung to his arm with
pitiful, seared eyes, mild in their blackness, and the story of woe
and suffering they told.

It was Royce, Salaris’s wife.

Last of all, came one of whose death the conviction had been
so prevalent, it was difficult to believe it washer very self stand-
ing there, with deep lines graven on the sweet, bright face, bright
still, though so pale and thin. There was the old charmed dash
and slightly daring manner that had once captivated all hearts
without repelling any, and thered, sensitive lips, if sadder, had
never looked half so sweet.

» It was indeed Lady Audrey Saville, and as the astounding con-
tion forced itself upon the minds of all, a half cheer rose, and
hushed as Salaris’s calm, impressive, musical voice fell om
ir.
im I too late to testify, my lord?” he asked.

case is closed, Mr. Urswick,” responded the judge with
riosity and surprise.
ask how ?”
erdict of acquittal for Lord Neville.”
o without altering his position, turned his deep, large,
solem
counsel with\ach an expression of craven, overwhelming amaze-
ment, horror and fear graven upon his delicate face, as seemed
to blot out all ifs fair, womanish beauty. Even his eyes had

Sn

   
 
 
 
   
  
   
   
   
 
 

 

grown blar colortess.
Salaris looked mo’ t. Every glance followed his. Then he
again addregs and tuld his story. e
Claude h mustered that desperate courage of his.

He came fi
Lady Audrey
“This ts ¢
by this gent’
sneer, ‘does
inventing fa

not daring, however, to glance toward
of the merest self- possession.

‘that mysterious disappearance put in
vO years since,” he said, with an open
gain a lost and dishonored position by
ing better men ?”

very quietly, not speaking especially loud
the hall heard him. ‘

‘zal testimony to your villainy to-day, it
0] 0 Wait till to-morrow, or as long as:is neces-
sary. be able to raise another gang like the Twelve to
abduct or murder me, in the short time that is left you: My lord,
I beg your pardon for this untimely detention.”’

Salaris bowed in his courtly manner, and left the hall, with
Zeno leading the way as before, and Royce and Lady Audrey on
either hand.

Somewhat to the amazement of those who discovered .the fact,
the entire party drove at once to the magnificent residence of
the Countess Pheefaux.

Claude was tree, free to go whither he would.

He was handsome, rich, and popular, and congratulations upon
his acquittal poured in upon him from his numerous acquaint-
ances among the throng, notwithstanding the little occurrences
ar narrated, and which were of such a startling nature in them-
selves.

On arriving at Neville House he told a servant to ask Madame
Revere to come to him a moment before dinner.

The man stared, and told him madame had gone away some
days ago.

My lord’s face darkened like a thunder-cloud.

“Send Felice here.”

The man came back after the briefest absence.

Felice 1.ad quitted the house with all her effects an hour before
his lordship’s return.

My lord dined upon that with what appetite he might. The
costly viands, served upon elegant plate of gold and silveras they
were, did not, somehow, tempt him as usual. A seasoning of
tears will make the most epicurean ofrepasts bitter.

 

 

CHAPTER LIT.

Later in the evening Madame Revere made her appearance 6
mufiled and disguised that the very servants over whom she had
queened it, and who admitted her, did not recognize her. —

She showed change even more when, alone with Claude, she
dofted her wrappings, and showed the broken, humiliated wreck @
few days had made of her pride and haughtiness. '

The two compared notes, without masks wholly, this time.

Madame had come to propose that they should take whatever
they could put their hands upon, and flee the country.

 

But Claude felt his courage rising again since dinner. Little as
he had eaten, he had quatied generously of wine, and his spirits
were much elevated in consequence.

He spoke to madame eagerly.

“Tye got quite standing room enough left to fight on,'and Pil
fight it out, I’m not sure, but I hold better cards than they do
now. The more that I’m not feeling so particular ag I have some-
times as to what measures I take to secure what I want. Tomo
row morning we'll go and see these people and tempo
them for a little, till we can turn round.”

“Not I, Claude. Neyer again will I of my own wi
face with that hag of a witch, the Countess of Phe
went there, you know, straight from the court-room.’

“No ??? exclaimed Claude blankly. “Then the count
bottom of it all. I suspected it.” p'

“You may as well give up the fight. You'll only ge
en,” madame said drearily. y

“I don’t know about that. There is only a life—
criminal at that—between me and the title.” Claw
voice. ‘‘Beside, possession is half, and I mean to h
of steel to what I’ve got.”

Madame shuddered slightly. \

“You won't try to harm Sir Angus more than
Claude.”

He threw up his head, a sneer on his lip. p

“Why not ?” ; - Tey
Madame put her hand to her throat as though s se
her. She spoke hysterically. 5

“T can never—never quite get over that—that terro Hatter
all Sir Angus is my son.” ;

Claude swore audibly. —~

“I wish you would prove it, madame,” he said, in a furious
wrath. “It would simplify matters materially for me.’

Madame sighed heavily.

“You will promise me, Claude ?””

“Not to harm Sir Angus? Who said I was going to harm him ?
Of course I'll promise if that'll do you any good.” «

\ Madame felt the wickedness in his yoice, but she tried to believe
lim.

As she arose to go, resuming her wrappings, and muffling her-
self in her vail, Claude stared. ;

“You’re not going out again to-night ?”

“J dare not stay here. The countess told me the last thing if
she found me here after a certain time, I should leave in charge
of the constables. She'll keep her word.” ‘

Claude was all the more bent upon seeing Saloris the next day.
But when he went in his elegant brougham to eall he found the
oo of the queer countess’s magnificent residence closed against

nim.

Ciaude’s countenance feil, and his anger rose.
that he had entertained over night assumed all
proportions.

He had the money yet that he had drawn to pay to the Twelve.
He drove from the Countess of Pheefaux’s residence to the ottice
of lawyer Upsden and went in without ceremony.

Upsden was not glad to see him. He let him see that very soon
but when he broached old matters the lawyer was génerous
enough to warn him. -

“If you’ve got anything to leave with, you had bettertake it
and go,” he said with an air of conviction; most distasteful to the
false Lord Neyille.

He leit the lawyer disgusted.

He went next to see his counsel in the trial just over. But he
found him with his hands full, early as it was.

Rutger’s trial, which had lain oyer some days, waiting for some
witnesses Sir Charles had summoned from a distance was comine
on, and Carter, that was the lawyer’s name, was on the defense.

Suddenly Claude bethought himself of Vance.

That faithful servant had a mother living somewhere in South
Lambeth. She was, or had been very ill, and herson, who was de-
voted to her, had been there now for the month past, not even
coming to his lordship’s trial, of which perhaps he had not even
heard yet.

Claude resolved to go and see him.

Lord Neville’s man, Vance, was quite as mucha gentleman as
his master, which, to be sure, is not saying much, unless we judge
the gentleman merely by his outside. oe

Lord Neville had picked up Vance abroad, and had earned the
man’s gratitude by helping him out of a bitter strait at that time.
Vance was the son of an artist of some note and an actress of
more beauty and heart than stage talent.

The one passion of the valet’s life was his actress mother. He
was at least a good son. For the rest, there was a congeniality
between him and the false Lord Neville amounting to positive in-
timacy.

The wontine between Lord Neville and his man Vance was
characteristic. They shook hands like old friends long parted.

“You neyer came near me,” said my lord, reproachfully.

“T could have done no good, and Iwas most needed ‘here. I
thought I could have done some good here, but I haven’t.””

Vance spoke gloomily.

My lord was watching him narrowly.

“Pye been thinking, Vance, that if some of those French sur-
geons could see your mother. They do such curious things over
there, and a friend of mine, Sir Clifton, you know, was telling
me of a very singular operation one of them performed ina sim-
ilar ease, I am sure.”

‘And the patient recovered ?” cried Vance, his dark face light-
ing strangely. 7

“Yes,”

   
    
 
  
   
  
  

The evil thought
at once gigantic

The man meditated a moment, his features working, while the
other watched him with keen though covert anxiety. —

“It would cost.frightfully!” Vance said, slowly, after a pause,
“you would have to help me to the money.” }

“Yes, it would cost,” Lord Neville said, weighing every word.
“Certainly I would help you, only I am inabad scrape invself.
liable to have my own supplies cut off any moment.” — .

“Ts that so?” Vance asked, with some anxiety,

He was in his lordship’s confidence only to a certain extent.
Claude only told him that proceedings were afoot to establish Sir
Angus Saville’s innocence of the crimes of which he had been
convicted, and prove him the rightful heir of Neville.

Vance’s anxious and even distressed face as he told his story
gratified him. ‘

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, when his lordship be-
came silent. ‘‘You’ye only to tell me what Iean do, and—help
me to save her,” pointing toan inner room, where his mother
lay dying of some mysterious disease, which had so far baffled
the wisest London physicians,

Lord Neville hesitated a moment, and then took out his bundle
of Bank of England notes.

“There’s a hundred and twenty thousand pounds in there,” he
said, slowly. ‘It is yours, Vance, on certain conditions.”

The glow that flashed into the man’s face, told how he was moved
by the magnificence of the offer.

“The conditions ?” he whispered in an awe-struck voice, looking
up into Lord Neville’s. eyes. Q

What he saw there, made even him who was not over scrupu-
lous, whiten with something like a foreboding of what-was com-
ing.
Lord Neville bent and whispered in his ear.

Vance did not speak for some moments. He was shocked for
once well as he know his patron.

Lord Neville’s blue eyes darkened with wrath and disappoint-
ment as he saw it, and he thrust the notes back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry Iasked you,” he said, angrily. “fcould have found
plenty of others for a quarter of the money.’?

Vance took a long breath,

“Wait,” he said, “let me think of it.
devil, are not so bad as they’re painted.”

Claude watched him, as he stood with his hands gripped to-
gether before him, his eyes bent upon the floor.

Suddenly a voice from the inner room spoke his name—a musi-
eal, foreign voice—weak with illness.

Vance started at the sound. Some tremor passed over his face
and he coyered it a moment with his hands before he answered
the voice.

With a bare gesture of excuse to his lordship he went in to his
mother’s bedside.

He was not gone more than ten minutes, but when he came
back, all doubt and irresolution had vanished from his face,

He spoke without looking at bis lordship.

“She'd rather die than have me earn the rmoney, ‘to save her
life that way, I know.” he

Lord Neville muttered an oach.

“Vou won’t, then?”

‘*Wo,”?

Without a word his lordship pulled his hat over his scowling
face and went away, ‘

Some things, like the

 

(fo be continued))

 

 

s slowly upon the guilty wretch, who sat beside his .

 

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PON tt com

 

 

Ow,
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eee

—

ie

le oom mre

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

zt

in. blue and silver:

 

 

 

'TW4s ONLY TWO OLD LETTERS.

BY JANE GRAY SEAVER.

 

‘Twas only two old letters left—
Of fifty—more or less,

Which breathed a soul’s devotion,
And told of happiness.

‘Yes, only two love missives left,
Which now before me lie,

To bring the pallor to my cheek
And moisture to my eye.

Their fellows to the flames I cast,
With wailing, heart-sick cry;

And in my jewel-casket clasped,
Their sacred ashes lie,

While on my heart inscribed is fixed,
In blazoned ietters plain—

The love he poured into my ear,
And which I nursed in vain.

The tears upon my cheek have dried;
Their impress though is left,

To tell a tale of utter woe,
A life of joy bereft.

But now a dearer one has come
From God alone to me;

And at my feet His jewels cast
lis love most tenderly.

Oh, Father, spare this love to me,
And with Thy blessing seal— ZA

Let faith, and trust, be ever hy
And joy and bliss be real.

Let storms and sorrows come no more,
To wreck my bark of toed

‘Grant peace and happiness on earth—
A life of rest above.

>-o+—____

THE CHALLENGE.

BY LEE TRASK,

 

 

“Vil do it,” said a merry voice from the midst of a group
of langhing girls to whom a young man was eagerly talk-
ing—<“I’ll do it!” 2

“Will you, Miss Nelly?” he asked. “But you must re-
member that I shall conceal myself somewhere, so as to
witness the performance.”

“O dear! I should not like that,’
Speaker.

“What is it?’ inquired a young girl just entering. “You
coon to be all in solemn conclave met—what is it all
about ?”’ /

““O, Sue, Mr. Willard offers ten dollars to an y girl, who
will go into his brother Arthur's office and kiss him,”?

‘Yes, but 1 must be present to see the ‘Tun,’? added the
young man. a

“Y’li do it,?? said the new-comer, tossing back her gold-
en curis—‘“T’ll do it!—that is—what is your brother like 7—
what is the matter with him 2? ;

“Why, he’s awfully afraid of the girls, Miss Susy, and
won't go near them; and I do believe he’d faint at the
idea of kissing one.”

“7 don’t know,” said the merry girl, a little dubiously;
“I think these dreadfully shy fellows are somewhat unre-
liable; they develope in the most startling way some-
times. Howeyer, I’ll do it—that is, unless I am interfe-
ring with prior claims,’ she added, looking round laugh-
ingly at the other girls.

*‘No, no,” they all answered; “‘we leave you mistress
of the field, and wish you all the necessary courage to car-
ry the thing through successfully.’

“Well,”’ said Sue, “when shall it be, Mr. Willard 2?

“as JI know that you will be dying with impatience,
Miss Marwin, I appoint to-morrow for the tender ceremo-
uy. i will let you know when Arthur is alone in the of-
fice, and then I will manage to secrete myself so as to wit-
ness it all; and I shall provide myself with a good supply
of camphor and sal volatile, for I feel very sure that it will
be needed.”?

She looked very incredulous, but showed no disposition
to withdraw from the agreement.

The next day, Arthur Willard sat in his office, busily
Writing. He was a fine, manly-looking fellow, not hand-
some, but with eyes soft, large, and tender as a woman’s,
although they could flash sometimes, when their owner

3 irritated or indignant. As his brother said, he was
y difident in the presence of ladies, and for that reason

1 very quiet, secluded life, as regarded society, but he

ted himself to his profession, of which he was quite a
“aut ornament. Yet, although he avoided ever meet-
ing igdies, he had his own romantic dreams in regard to
them} and many a bright-eyed, frivolous girl would have
been 4stonished, and perhaps a little conscience-stricken,
had site Known with what reverence this young man look-
ed up to, and silently regarded her; for these merry,
laughing creatures seemed almost like divinities to his
admiring eyes.

On the morning referred to, as he sat busily writing, all
at once he heard a light step upon the stairs, He raised
his head, a little surprised, for his female clients general-
ly came In more ponderous shape than that soft step
would indicate. ;

His astonishment was very much increased when, after
quite a long pause, the door was opened in a hesitating
manner, and a fair young girl stood before him. Very love-
ly she looked, too, as she remained transfixed to the Spot,
rosy as Aurora herself.

Arthur Willard looked so tall and manly as he advanced
a step to meet her, his face flushing in pleased surprise,
and his usual awe of gentle maidenhood, that she heartily
wished the floor would open and let her through. But no
such blissful rescue came; the floor remained firm be-.
neath the feet of the lovely girl and the young lawyer, who
stood with faces scarlet and embarrassed, silently regard-
ing each other. He was the first to break the awkward
silence.

‘Is there anything that I can do for you?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” faltered she; ‘I’ve got myself into a very
silly scrape, and I want you to help me out of it.”

Certainly,’ replied the young man, recovering his self-
possession somewhat, as heconcluded that his services as
attorney were required; “I am entirely at your seryice.’?

“I suppose Lmay as well tell you all aboutit. A young
man here offered me ten dollars ifI would kiss a certain
Bentieman living in this town, and I accepted the chal-
lenge without thinking what I was doing, and now I feel
very much ashamed, and would like to get out of the bus-
iness. Will you tell me how I can do it?’ she asked, look-
ing up in his face in the most innocent manner.

“J see no other way for you but to fulfill the contract,’’
he replied, trying very hard to preserve his gravity.° “It
certainly would be an aggravated case of perjury if you
‘avithhbold the Kiss now.”?

“But don’t you know who it is ?””

«How should I?’ he inquired.

“Well,’’? said she, blushing furiously, ‘‘it’s—it’s you /"

“Then I repeat the advice that I gave before,” he said,
his shyness seeming to disappear very rapidly, she
thought, as the undertaking grew more and more formi-
dable. :

“But,” she said, ‘I never felt so silly in my life. What
will you think of me?”

“J shall consider mysely the luckiest fellow in creation,’’
he said.

“Well, I suppose I may as well do it first as last,’? mur-
mured poor Sue, advancing toward him.

‘J think so, certainly,’? was the encouraging reply.

“They would all teaze me to death if I didn’t do it.”

jae course they would. You would never hear the last
of it.”

“But you must sit down,’’ she Said, almost ready to cry:
“you are so tall that I never can reach your face.”’ uf

“Certainly,*’ he replied, Seating himself, with a beam-
ing countenance, and the sweet, red lips of the trembling
girl lightly touched his forehead. But what's this? To
her utter consternation, she felt two strong arms clasped
losely round her, and two masculine lips returning her
kiss with compound interest.

At that moment a roar of laughter was heard, and Sam
Willard burst from his hiding-place, fairly shrieking with
delight.

“Sue, Sue,’? he exclaimed, “I think it is you who will
need the hartshorn and camphor.” :

But that young lady had slipped out of the Office, and
was going down the Street at an alarming pace.

‘SO, Arthur, you sly fellow! you rogue! who would haye
thought it! I must go and teil the boys.”’

‘Sain, for the young lady’s sake at least, keep quiet.’

_ ‘For the young lady’s sake! You are wonderfully con-
siderate all of a sudden. It’s a pity you hadn’t been a lit-
tle more so a minute ago!” and with a threatening ges-
ture the laughing young man left Arthur to himselt.
atter did not resume his writing for some time.

ah unusual light in his dark eye, and a pleased
played around his lips, as he sat idly gazing out of
Ancow. After awhile he took up his pen again, but
aying it aside, he seized his hat and started off fora
long % all, astonishing his brother, upon his return, with
the announcement that he intended going to Mrs. Allen’s
party that evening.

_ “Why, Arthur,’ exclaimed Sam, ‘‘that kiss deserves to
pe pu. on record, like the one given to the sleeping prin-
cess. If] were only a poet now, I’d immortalize it. Sue
Marwin has accomplished a wonder—produced a revolu-
fion. That's true—I must pay her the ten dollars.”

_ As for the young lady herself, she went home in a most
indescribable state of mind, her cheeks fairly burning with
Shane and indignation.

“The impudent fellow!’ she muttered to herself. ‘But
what splendid eyes he has got! Very diffident, to be sure
—i'1m certain he kissed me a dozen times, I never shall
Want to look in his face again, and yet Lam gladit wasn’t
anyone but him. One thing I can ‘comfort myself with,
though—I never shall meet him anywhere but on the
street, and thensI will pretend not to see him. There is
Some consolation in that.’

In the evening she attended Mrs. Allen’s party, dressed

2 blue her lovely curls fastened back with
gustening butterflies that looked light and airy as if
Wrought from sea-foam. She was very beautiful, with the
rich bloom on her cheeks that had not left them since the
merning’s escapade.

‘‘Ah, Sue!’? exclaimed the girls, as she entered Mrs, Al-
one “how pretty you do look! Did you win your

replied the first

 

   
  

 

 

  
  
  

 

 

_O, girls!” pleaded: Sue, “don’t Say anything more
about it! I never was so ashamed in ali my life.”

“Why, there he is!’ exclaimed one of the group. “As
sure as the world, Sue Marwin, he has come to see you—

 

Sue looked rosier and prettier than ever as she met the
admiring gaze of the gentleman, and turning quickly
from the girls, she stole off into another room; but there
she was quickly joined by Sam Willard, who handed her
the ten dollars. : ;

“Now, Sue,’ said a young lady, joining them, ‘you
must treat with that.” :

“No, Mary,’’ she answered, “I am going to buy Mrs.
Bond a nice, warm blanket shawl, and tell her it is a pre-
sent from Mr. Willard. I mean that some good shall re-
sult from this ridiculous performance, and hope that a
little charity may restore my peace of mind in a mea-
sure.’? ¥

“Why, MissSusy,’’ said the gentleman, ‘‘you ‘mustn’t
take this matter so seriously to heart, you have done a
great thing, you have waked my brother up, and I, for
one, feel yery grateful. He would never have come here
to-night but for that kiss. You didn’t expect that he
would pay you back so generously, did you, now ?””

“Now, Mr. Willard,’? she replied,=‘if you say another
word to me about this affair, I never will forgive you.”

Seeing that she was really in earnest he commenced an
animated conversation about something else. :

His brother tried hard to get a chance to speak to Sue
| during the evening, but seeing at last that she studiously
avoided giving him any such opportunity he concluded
that he had incurred her dislike, and so turned his atten-
tions to another young girl, who was evidently very much
pleased to receive them.

Our heroine went home feeling very low-spirited, she
could not tell why, although she had reigned all the even-
ing as the belle pam excellence, still that consciousness
afforded her no happiness whatever.

“T don’t see what he found so attractive in Sarah El-
liott,’’ she said to herself. ‘I wish I had let him speak to
me. He was dreadfully impudent, and yet if he hadn’t
kissed me back, I should haye thought him a perfect
sheep.”’

The next morning, at the breakfast-table, her father sud-
denly turned toward her, saying:

“Sue, what is all this, | hear, about your kissing Mr.
Willard, is it true 7’

“What did you hear, papa?” asked the poor giw, in a
faint voice. ;

“Oh, itis true then? You do not deny it. Perhaps I
had better send you back to school again, but I should
Suppose that a girl nearly twenty years old might conduct
| herself with a little more propriety. I wish to know all
about it,” :

’ Striving hard to keep back her tears, Sue told her story,
her father trying to look yery stern, but ‘finally he burst
into a laugh, and saying: ‘‘Sue, never do anything of the
kind again,” he left the room.

Then her mother commenced, and gave her a long and
severe lecture, and poor Sue felt very unhappy, but all
these things together only made her think the more about
Arthur Willard—in fact that.gentleman occupied her mind
pretty much all the time, and one day as she sat at the
window she saw him pass by, talking in a most animated
inanner to Sarah Elliott. :
Somehow the sun did not seem to shine as brightly after
that, and in the evening when a friend came to escort her
to a party she pleaded a severe headache, and excused
herself from going.

Arthur went purposely to see her, and was sadly disap-
pointed when the evening passed away, and she did not

 

 

 

 

appear.

‘I believe she avoids me,”’ he thought. ‘‘Well, it was a
happy dream, but soon past. I will not trouble her any
more. I will go back to my office, and not drive her from
the scenes where she shines so brightly.” And sad and
discouraged, he went home that night, determined to keep
his resolution, hard as it might be.

Thus several weeks passed and they did not meet, al-
though each had watched, and sighed, and longed to see
the other. She went to several parties hoping that he
would be present, but she was always disappointed. One
evening Sam Willard said to her:

‘Miss Susy, I wish you would kiss my brother again, he
has retired into ‘his shell once more, and, I am afraid,
never will come out again, unless you repeat that tender
little ceremony of which: was a delighted spectator.”’
“You had better get Miss Elliott to do it,” answered Sue
quickly.

“Oh, no,’’ he said, ‘‘I do not think it would produce the
same effect. But, Sue, [hope Arthur did not offend you.”

 

 

 

“wish you would not say anything more about it,” Sue.
replied, looking very much as if she were going to cry.
Sam saw this, much to his dismay, and began to tell a
funny story that soon chased the tears from her lovely
eyes. at

After several weeks, and even months had dragged by,
Sue thought one day that she would go toa neighboring
town to procure some things of which she was in want.
Just as she was fairly ensconced in the car, who should:
enter it but Arthur Willard, his eyes meeting hers almost
instantly. ,
From some unaccountable impulse, she turned her head
quickly away, and he, looking offended and hurt, seated
himself at some distance from her.

She felt uncomfortable enough during her short ride,
and when the car stopped, she started off at a rapid pase
for the store to which she intended going. But it hap-
pened to be very slippery, and she had not proceeded very
far before her foot slipped, and she lay, a helpless mass of
femininity, upon the ice.

Looking quickly around she saw Arthur Willard ad-
vancing toward her to render his assistance; but just as
he was about to raise her, he also slipped, and fell equally
helpless by her side. sent

This was too much for Sue’s gravity, and she burst in a
ringing, merry laugh, that was quickly re-echoed by her
companion.

They could not move for a few moments, but finally Ar-
thur regained his footing, and lifting Sue from the ice, he
drew her arm through his. ;

“Miss Marwin,”’ he said, ‘“‘you must let me help you
over this ice, or you will fall again.”’

“Supposing you should fall too,” she replied, looking
up saucily into his face.

“I shall try my best to keep from it, and now, Miss Mar-
win,” he continued, ‘“‘as I may not have anether oppor-
tunity, | want to apologize to you for my rudeness the day
that you——””

‘‘Kissed me,’? he was going to say, but suddenly stopped,
saying:

‘rhe day that you came to my office. I know that I
was very impertinent, but still—I really could not help it,
and,’’ he continued, giving her a look that made her drop
her eye-lids very quickly, “I am afraid, with the same
charming provocation, that I should do it again.”

Here they reached the store where Sue intended to stop,
and much to the regret of both parties, they parted, not
however before she had summoned sufficient courage to
invite her escort to call and see her—which invitation he
eagerly accepted, giving her hand a tender pressure which
brought the roses quickly to her cheeks.

She was in wonderful spirits when she went home, so
that her father advised her to go to more trequently.
“Did you see any one that you knew??? he inquired.
She hesitated a moment, and then tried to answer care-
lessly,

“No, that is, n0 one with whom I am very much ac-
quainted. Mr. Arthur Willard was on the cars.”’

“From the acknowledgement you made to me, a few
weeks ago, I should consider him a pretty familiar ac-
quaintance,’’ said her father, looking at her somewhat
suspiciously. <‘‘I hear that he and Sarah Elliott are going
to make a match. Is it true?’

“I don’t know,” said the young girl, and she rose quick-
ly from the table and left the room. ©

“T am afraid, Mary,’ said Mr. Marwin to his wife, ‘‘that
Sue is fond of Mr. Willard. The match would please me
very much, for he is a most excellent young man, but if
this story about him and Sarah Elliott is true, our darling
is doomed to disappointment. It may be all. village gos-
sip, but I think perhaps it would be as well for Sue to go
away for a while, Change of air is as good for disordered
hearts, as for disordered livers or stomachs.”’

The next day, a young friend of. Sue’s called to see her,
and in the midst of their merry gossip, she said:

“Do you really believe it’s true, that Mr. Willard and
Sarah Elliott are going to be married?’

“I don’t know, I’m sure,”’ she answered, feeling very
cold. ‘

“I teazed her the other day about him,*? continued her
unconscious friend, ‘“‘and she blushed and laughed, and
didn't deny it, but if seems a little queer that he should
have retired into obscurity again.’

__ When the young lady left, Sue went up to her room, and
indulged in a good cry, after which she made up her mind
that she would go away, as her father had proposed.

“‘T cannot stay here,’? she murmured, and see him de-
voting himself to that silly girl, it is more than I can bear.
I believe he is a flirt, notwithstanding his terrible shyness.
How he did look at me. I hope he did not see how much
I cared for him. I will get ready and go to-morrow.”’

So she began her preparations immediately, and the
next day lett the village, with a young house, in the shape
of a Saratoga, sufficiently filled for the necessities of a
long visit, and that very evening Arthur called for the
first time to see her, and much to his surprise and dismay,
heard that she had gone away for a long visit.

_ His brother found him that evening with his face buried
in his hands, so lost in thought that he did not hear his
approach.

“‘Arthur,’’ inquired Sam, “‘is this all true about you and
Miss Elliott?

“1 don’t know what you mean,’’ was the reply.

“Why, it is reported all over town that you are engaged
to that young lady.”
“Nonsense, Sam.

 

I have spoken to her three times, I

believe.”
“Three times! That is enough then, to make an en-
gagement. You know, my dear boy, in a town like this,

you cannot speak to the same young lady three times with

impunity. Twice, perhaps, is admissible, but three times

—that is enough to compromise you seriously. But, Ar-

thur, what in the world is the matter with you? You

seem to be dreadfully down in the mouth.”

‘‘Nothing, Sam, nothing.”?

“But I know there is something, and you have got to

tell me at once. I believe that kiss was too much for you.

Are you in love with the charming Sue ?”

“Yes, Sam,” replied Arthur, in desperation.

“Well, what is the use of being unhappy about it? Why

don’t you tell her that you love her ?”’

“I went there, last evening, expressly tor that purpose,

but they told me she had.gone to for a long visit.”’
“Write to her, then; or go and see her,”

“Do. you suppose, if She cared for me, that she would

have gone off in this way ?”

“I think, probably, that it was for that very reason she

went away. She has of course heard this story of your

engagement to Miss Elliott.’?

ss ane Miss Elliott,’ exclaimed the young man, impa-

iently. ‘

“Well, my advice is, that you follow Miss Marwinimme-

 

 

iknow. Here’s a romance #a our humdrum village’’

 

 

 

 

 

‘ right!?

 

 

Sue Marwin was standing before a long mirror, just
completing her toilette for the evening, when a servant
came and said that a gentleman in the parlor wished to
see her

“Didn’t he give you a card ?”’

“No, miss; he said he wouldn’t detain you but a mo-
ment.”’

“Who can it be?’ she asked herself, as she descended
the stairs. Her surprise and embarrassment increased
when she opened the door, and saw Arthur Willard stand-
ing, eager and impatient for her appearance.
-. “T have followed you, Miss Marwin,” he said. “I called
to see you last evening, and they told me you were here.’’

“How is Miss Elliott ?’ inquired Sue, with a little toss
of her head.

“O, Sue,’’ replied the young man, ‘do you believe that
Silly story

“I saw you walking together,” she stammered.

“A mere accident.”

“But you seemed to like her yery much at Mrs. Allen’s
party.”

“Because. the one I went there purposely to see, would
not 100K at, or speak tome. You were very cruel, Miss
Marwin. I thought you disliked me.”

“I do not think I gave you much reason to think that in
the morning,” said she, blushing deeply, and yet looking
most charmingly mischievous.

“Sue, if you look at me in that way, I shall be tempted
to do as I did then,”’ said Arthur, impetuously.

“Be careful, sir,” replied the young girl, laughing like
a happy child.

But his arms were round her, and there seemed a fair
prospect of the office scene being renewed.

Mr. and Mrs. Marwin were both surprised and pleased
to see their daughter returning the next day to her home,
accompanied by Mr. Arthur Merwin.

So much for a kiss,

: , JOSH'S
LETTERS

E WEEKLY

 

certain verses the wording are almost identical. 6th. He is dead.
7th, Fair.... William Steavenson.—Apply to the Am. News Co....
Mirtie Dill.—This correspondent writes us a letter on ‘“‘Woman’s
Rights,”’ in which she says: “I do think when women do the sa
kind and the same amount of labor, they should receive the sate
compensation asmen. Our lady teachersand lady clerks labor the
same nuinber of hours for just about one-half of what the lords of
creation get.” That is where you are right, Mirtie, and we will
oin hands with you in this view of ‘‘Woman’s Rights” with all our
a oe P. D, A.—‘‘Gulliver’s Travels” was written by Dean
Swift, as a satire on society and human nature...... W. A, W.—I\st.
We cannot say why the young lady will not let you kiss her lips,
Perhaps she is reserving that privilege for her intended husband,
We think we should try and steal one. You know the old saying,
“Stolen fruit is always the sweetest.” 2d. New York city an
county comprise the same limits........@. 8. Inquirer.—lst. The
first House of Commons of England was ¢alled t ther by the
Ear! of Leicester during the reign of H enry ITT., in 1258. 2d. We have
no knowledge of a tidal waye which makes its a pearance annu-
ally on the Pacific coast........ A Subscriber sends us one of the
circulars of Samuel Davis & Co., 34 Liberty street, another branch
of the counterfeit money swindlers, with the request that we will
notice it for the benefit of the unsophisticated. If any of our
readers wish to invest in a box of sawdust, old paper or blocks of
wood, they may do so by sending $30, $15 or $20 to the above
named firm of swindlers for a package of counterfeit money......
F. L. Mark.—There is no truth in the story that cents of a certain
date contain gold. It is so absurd that we are surprised that per-
sons can be found to believe it. The high prices obtained are
Owing to the soatety of perfect copies of certain dates........ Al-
Sred @. Lacy.—Charles Dickens died at Gadshill, England, June 9,
1870. Cal. I. Fornia.—We have no personal knowledge of the
institution....... 2.—We cannot infarm you where,you can
buy a Shetland pony, nor the price..... ... Heathen Chinee.—Eat
rare beef and mutton, and anything containing Sugar and starch
in large quantities, such as beans, potatoes and corn; also drink
fresh milk, and you will gain both flesh and strength....F. W. R.
—Ist. Canals are artificial water courses and are generally con-
structed just wide enough for two boats to pass. The
trouble with regard to steamboats is that the swell caused by the
revolying of the wheels washes away the banks. 2d. We know
nothing of the sum offered for new motive power..... Helen Hope.
—We know nothing of the indiyvidual....... Sam Devere.—if your
employer will not give you an Oppeanity to learn your trade, go
to one that will....... P. E. H.—If the articles were presented to
her she has a perfect right to keep them.......... Citizen.—As the
item would interest no one but Bostonians, suppose you get some
bills printed and have them posted around the CLbY 5. v<4e C. G. O8-
mond.—*‘‘Notches on the Stick’? will cost sixty cents...... Johan-
nes Perkins.—Where the policy so reads, the insurance cannot be
collected if the person insured commits suicide. Some compa-
nies make no stipulation of this kind........ E. M. S.—We cannot
make any engagements with parties to furnish us poems. Be-
side our regular contributors, we are in recei pt of a large number
gratuitously, many of which we are compelled to decline for want
of space.:.... A Reader of Weekly.—With a little practice.....:.,
A. L, T.—I\st. Probably if you relate the facts to an author, he
might work the material into a good story. 2d.- It would be neces-
sary to make your story plain to the Chancery Court, and then
file your application... .:.. A, Howard.—Kansas is said to be as well
adapted for farming and stock raising as any part of the country.
ates? Long Islana City.—In case of a road being cut through your
property, the damages are estimated by a board of arbitration,
and the town awards the amount settled upon. If you feel ag-
grieved by their decision, you may appeal to the proper court,
Which will appoint appraisers to determine whether the award
was a just one..... Phi Mu.—\st. Apply to a manufacturer of

 

 

 

 

THE JOSH BILLINGS PAPERS.

INK LINGS.

Truth iz like the burdocks a cow gits onto the end oy
her tail, the more she shakes them oph, the less she gits
rid ov them. e

Thare is 2 kinds oy men in this world, that i don’t kare
about meeting when iam ina grate hurry. Men whomi
owe, and men who want to owe me. :
Thare iz always one chance agin the best laid
man, and the Lord holds that chance. ‘ ’
Mi private opinyun.about ‘“‘abscence ov mind’ is, that
9 times out ov 10, it iz abscence ov brains.

The flattery that. men.offer to themselfs.iz the most dan-
gerous, bekause the least suspekted. :
Take a kitten that kan hardly walk on land, and chuck
him into a mil pond, and he will swim ashore—enny boddy
Kan apply the moral in this. ;

The best philosophers and moralists i hav ever met, hay

plans oy

trinkets. 2d. See “Knowledge Box.”.:....Reader.—We cannot
inform you. Why not go and settle in one of those already
established?...... W. U.—list. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d. The

United States has the largest number of miles of railroad. . Great
Britain is next. 3d. Among the finest streets in Paris are the Rue
de Rivoli and the Rue de la Paix. 4th. We cannot ROS. Sia J, ows
NV. L, H.—Leander was a young Greek of Abydos, who used night-
ly to swim across the Hellespont to visit his mistress, Hero, a
priestess of Venus, at Sestos. One sturm y night he was drowned,
and his body cast up on the shore, on secing which Hero threw
herself into the sea. You will find the account in works on Gre-
cian mythology...... Jim.—If the gentleman was in good stand-
ing at the time of his death, his widow will experience no difficul-
ty in obtaining the desired relief...... Linder a Reader.—S, Bing-
ham & Co., 31 Rose street, will furnish the composition for rollers
already made...... er of Reading.—lst. We would advise you
to stay away from Buenos Ayres for a time, at least, as it would
be almost certain death for a native of a different climate to go
there while the fever is raging. 2d. Good, but not a business land.
Nannie W.—The expression ‘‘Heaping coals of fire on her head,”
is not be construed in its literal sense, but means returning good
for evil, and thus filling your enemies with shame and mortifica-
tion... Charles Kaiser.—See “Knowledge Box.”’............
0. B. D.—‘Bravye and Bold; or, The Fortunes of Robert Rush-
ton,” by Horatio Alger, Jr., will be completed before this notice
reaches the eye of the reader, and commenced as soon thereafter
as possible...... U, No.—See reply to “H. M. A.?...¢.... W.

 

oe)
ee -

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly ca able of co
ward making this column an attractive feature of the Nant YOR)
WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for publication any
pene. woh mney deeme a ons ficient interest for general pe

3 is no essary that the art i
scholarly style; so long’ as they are oe ng kor eemed i
amusement, minor defects will be remed!

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS—No, 42.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

The folks to Barberryville sent Mr. Marley, one of their fri
to meet us at the depot. For my part, I like to be ek to ca
pot. It makes you feel as if you was welcome, and of enuff con
Sequence for the people you are going to see to put themselves
a little for you, we all like to think that we're of some con.
ence in the world, and the m jine p
the best ae make us think so. a J nereiaene tiem -
was five or six miles to Barberryyille from t i
there had jest been a bigrain, and ry in the rare and
and if ever any of ye has been in Pennsylvania you know that
the roads there will average eleven or ht feet of mud deep all
{hrones the menter one oping. The is awful, and if I Riod
uere I should go to New Yorkin the fal! ,
the sqalieem and striped n sodas heat of the year the same as
ney come after us wit hosses it w y
&@ waggon would have been swallowed ur ace ina about A
minutes. Anything would have been ¢ at had kept still, All |
that saved the horses was because they didn't stop w ” The |
hosses was all plastered with mud, ai had their tai i in |
a knot, percisely as old Miss Skillit us to te her hair Up wash. |

ing: ie
My hoss’s name was Jerry, and he was tath
ful fraid of white things aside of the roa wae tol. eet
Hadad thos, “ana! thet Kept hin anergy pee
a ghost, an i . :
ancaae g ept him allers on the lookout for
Iwasa leetle stiff in the jints with the rhumati
setting in one physician so long in the kears, ang ie bss acme j
a of eee to hist une onto that hoss. i
ney € animile up toa crate of airthen ware 4
store, and I climbed onto it by the help of a board ai eon nag ;
and jest as I was a going to jump into the saddle a fly hit Jerry.
and he wheeled suddintly, is hinder parts where :
forud parts had been, and inocke me all aback
“Give a spring!” sez Mr. Mar ey, leading of him ight
agin, and I did givea spring, and that care busts nd eh
and down I went in among the cups, and Sarcers, andgrayy bowls,
and sucha cracking I guess you never heerd.
Marley and Beniah they fished meout, with some Othe depot
jnanis help, and be Ger brung pa sass round agin,ind Marley
1eld his head an niah held his hin yand thed
histed ery, ) elbows. — co 1
Annie she had never rid a hors befor and she screech d
throwed up her hands, and made a drea tul fuss of it, In nah

ributing t¢

ae likely to creat

 

{
{

 

 

5 ~ 7. M—
The highest rank in the United States army is general, held by
W. ‘T: Sherman: ...5 2543 Delta.—ist. See “‘Work-Box.” 2d. Sée
“Knowledge Box.” 3d. By accustoming yourself to rising early
as a habit you will get over the drowsinéss incidental to occa-
sionally doing so, beside feeling much better, as lying in bed late
has a tendency to make one indolent and sluggish. “Early to
bed and early to rise, ete.,” is one-of’the truest of maxims. 4th.
We cannot say. 5th. ‘‘Nichts komm’ heraus” is a German slang
expression, signifying refusal. 6th. Very good. 7th. Various sal-
aries are paid. 8th. Smith & Sons, or Messrs. Smith & Sons would
be correct.. 9th. They are slang phrases the erigin of which
cannot be traced........ G.—The symptoms are not indicative of
consumption.’ Consult a physician. ..... Deaf Mute.—ist. Apply

 

he had to pat her, and coax her; and kiss her, and act liké a si:
pleton ginerally. But she was on at last, thank fortin.,

_ I hung my bag of turnoyers on the horn of the saddle,
it was pritty much all bag and no turnovers; took my am
one shoulder, and we sot sail. -

The horses’ legs went into the mud aboutas far as they had
any legs, and it took’em about three minnits and a halt to ull a
leg out, which allowing for four legs, made our gitting ahead
rather slow. 3

The mud flew all over everything, and it took me full halt the
time to rub my eyes clear enuff of it to see the way. At last we
come to a remarkably muddy spot where everybody had @rted
all the mud they hadn’t any use for, and Jerry he got discun agedy 5
and sick at heart a looking for the promised land of good ¥ rads, |
and his hind feet kinder cayed in under him, and he sot down jest
like a cat, to rest a spell. p .

I clung round his neck with ali my might, and managed tohang
on. Beniah and Marley they got some rails off from the fence, 2"
and pried us up, and after a spell got us a: ing agin. ‘

The hors that Annie rid was a narvous, ffisiry little beast and!
when we was a passing along the bank of a Stream, that horgteok |
it into his head that he should like.to havea drink. And éf he F
went down over the bank after it. Annie she screanted, and
pulled, and hollered whoa, but. she. might as well haye sayej her)
breath, for the hors’ knowed she warn’t of no account, ani he |
never noticed her. Jest ah Benet to the edge of the brook-hig? |
forred feet slipped, and Annie bounced over his head rite into thé _
water, jest like a rubber ball. = f
Beniah he put spurs to his hoss, which means that he dug bis
heels into the annimil’s ribs, and follered her. ata mad decanter,
And I sot out to do the same, but jest at that minnit Jerry he
seed a pig on ahead, and he begun to dance and cut u jest asif
that was all the pig in the state of Pennsylyania, and the roads
warn’t full of ’em.

I made out to cool him off after a spell, and then I went back
and seed Beniah a hugging Annie, all dripping as she was, up to
his shirt buzzum, and a ta ing on over her as if she had n
about been drowndid, and the water where she fell in warp't
more’n six inches deep!

“That is the house,” sez Marley, pinting one eut a mile or so e.*
and I thought I'd jest cut across the fields, where the fences were
down, and git there first. So Jerry and I sot off as fast as we
could, with the muda flying, and byme by we cum to a hill where
the grass was dreadful green, and the ground terrible shakey.
Jerry he acted as if he was ateard of it; but I hit him a cut wit
m y ampbrill, and he sot up hhis head and tail and dashed forrud.

Suddintly the fust thing:I knowed; the airth opened under us,
and swallered us up, and down Jerry and me went, through dirt,

ough »&
it over

 

:

 

at the institution. 2d. Could be improvéd. 3d. “Blanche the
Brave,” is out of print. 4th. We believe there are writing classes
at the Cooper Institute, but do not know whether they are open
during the summer months......:. C. K.—Go there at once.......
Frank B, M.—Ist. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d. We do not furnish
covers nor bound volumes of the NEw YORK WEEKLY...... Three
Times Three.—As you were not engaged to the lady you certainly
had no claim on her society. Inreturning the ring she probably
Supposed you would misinterpret her feelings if she retained it,

 

 

been. thoze who. had plenty. to eat, dnd drink, and had

 

hor imitated bi grate men.

money at interest. ; ;

It takes a wize man to safer prosperity, but most enny
ool kan suffer adversity. ©
. Pride, after all, iz one ov our best friends—it makes us
beleave we are better and happier than our nabors.
Before yu giv enny man advise, find out what Kind oy
advice will suit him the best.
Knowledge is like money, the more aman gits the more
he hankers for.

and having become engaged to Mr. Jones, from motives of dehi-
éacy did not feel at liberty to accept it as a present after her en-
gagement became known...... H, M. A.—tThere is no way to
strengthen the beard or to cause it to grow except by frequent
shaving, all manufacturers of onguents to the contrary notwith-
standing...... Constant Reader.—lst. You would fare better in cer-
tain pouiine .of the West where females are scarce than you
would'in the diamond regions of Seuth Africa. 2d. The fare wi ld
be about $100. Unless you could procure pas in a vessel bound
from this port, which only leave occasionally, you would haye-to
go to England, aud from there sail in one, of the regular line of

 

 

The vices and phollys ov grate men aré never admired
The trew art oy kriticism is tew excuse faults rather
than ridikule them. 2

We hay no more right to laffat a deformed person, than
we hav at a crooked tree—both oy them are God’s arki-
tekture.

How strange it iz that most men had rather be flattered
for possessing what they hav not, than to be justly praised
for having what they possess.

Suavity ov manners towards men iz like suavity ov mo-
lassis toward flies, it not only calls them to you, but sticks

vessels. .... Mary Mattson.—Mrs. Holmes is at present engaged on
a new story, which we will'commence as soon as iomnplanet sve |
Lockport Reader. —IstPbpre isno particular art in shaving ex-
cept having the face well | athered and the razorin good condition.
After the first few times. you will have no difficulty in shaving
yourself as well as a barber can. 2d. See “Knowledge Box.” 3d.
The art of pleasing lies more in manner than in conversation. In
your dealings with customers, a pleasant word at an opportune
moment will do more than a volume of senseless talk...... Broth-
er Van.—ist. We cannot inform you. Consult a “Traveler's
Guide.” 2d. The average temperature of Jerusalem in summer
is about 73 degrees; in winter 49 de S. 3d. The climate of
England is not so oppressively warm as that of this country
Frank.—I\st. See “Knowledge Box.” 2d. If in the evening, he
should accompany the lady home, if agreeable to her. If in the

 

them fast after they git thare.

Thare iz a grate deal ov charity in this world so koldly
rendered that it fairly hurts, it iz like lifting a drowning
man out oy the water bi the hair ov the.hed, and then
letting him drop on the ground.

Exchanging kompliments is another name for exchang-
ing lies.

The greatest thief this world haz ever produced iz Pro-
crastination, and he is still at large.

Religion iz nothing more than a chattel mortgage, exe-
cuted, and rekorded, az sekurity for a man’s morality, and
virtew. .

daytime, it is not necessary. 3d. The circulation of the New
YORK WEEKLY is over 300,000...... iV. G. R.—We cannot say......
Emilie.—Ist. You will need to improve considerably before you
will take a place in the front rank of poets. 2d. Fair....z G. Z.
—We do not know the gentléman’s address. ..... E. M. C.—Ist. See
“Knowledge Box.” 2d. reply to “Constant Reader, No. 4,”
in No. 28...... Johnny McC. McConald.—ist. We cannot say. 2d.
Mark M. Pomeroy (known as “Brick”’ Pomeroy, which title, we
think, was given him by the late George D. Prentice) is the editor
and proprietor of the La Crosse, Wis., Democrat. 3d. Umbrellas
were by the ancient Greeks and Romans; they have also
been in use among Oriental nations for centuries. John Hanway,
the philanthropist, was the first person who carried an umbrella in
England, about a century ago. For a long time it was considered a

 

White lies are sed tew be innocent, but Iam satisfied

that enny man who will lie for phun, after a while will lie

for wages.

The most valuable thing in this world iz Time, and yet

people waste it as they do water, most of them letting it

run full head, and even the most prudent let it drizzie.

The devil himself, with all hiz genius, allways travels

under an alias—this shows the power of truth and

morality.

If a dog falls in love with you at first sight, it will do to

trust him—not so with a man.

One oy the hardest things to do is to be a good listener.

thoze who are stone deaf succeed the best.

If you don’t kno how to lie, cheat, and steal, turn yure

attenshun to pollyticks, and learn how.

' Thare are men who seem to be born on purpose to step

into eyery thing, they Kant set a common rat trap without

gitting ketched in it. :

A sekret iz like an aking tooth, it keeps us uneasy until

it iz out. :

~ Thav larn’t one thing, bi grate experience, and that iz,

I want as much watching az mi nabors do.

__The only only way to larn sum men how to do enny

thing, is to do it yourself.

-1 don’t reckoleckt now ov ever hearing ov two dogs

fiteing, unless thare waz a man or two around.

A wize man is never so mutch alone az when he iz in a

crowd, and never so mutch inacrowd as when he iz

alone.

lam satisfied that thare iz more weakness

than malice.

Thare jZ N@ man in the world so easy to cheat az our-

selfs. “4

I don’t kno 6¥ éiinything that Will kilia man so guick

az praize that he don’t deserve.

Repentanse should be the effekt ov love—not fear.

The soul haz more disseases than the boddy haz.

Things that we Kant do wouldn’t be ov enny use to us,

if we could do them.

Amongst animals the most ignorant are the most stub-

born, and i wonder if this ain’t so amungst men.

A phool seems tew be a person who haz more will than

judgment, and more vanity than either.

The fust intimashuni had that i waz gitting old waz, i

found myself telling tomifriends the same storys over
ain.

hi repenting ov sins, men are apt tew repent oy thoze

they haint got, and overlook thoze they hay.

A dandy never yet fell in love—only with himself.

Revenge sumtimes sleeps, but vanity always keeps one

eye open.

Thoze folks who expekt to fail in an enterprise, most

generally do.

A man with only one accomplishment kant expekt to

interest us long.

Weaill zit tired pretty soon looking at a goose standing

on one leg.

among men

-eo~«

_ TO CORRESPONDENTS.

{The answers to all questions of the nature of recipes and rem-
edies, will be found in the department headed “Our Knowledge
Box.”’ Questions of etiquette, and all matters relating to the
fashions, whether of dress, manner of wearing the hair, etc., will
be answered in the ‘Ladies’ Work-Box.”’ Those of our corres-
pondents who find some of their questions unanswered in this de-
partment will bear this in mind. Questions of a personal or busi-
ness a will be answered in the department headed ‘“Per-
sonal,’’}

4a GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
“Anxious Lily’’ will find her questions answered in the “Knowl-
edge Box.”... . Bill Sikes.—lst. Brian Boru, or Boroihme, king of
Munster, after expelling the Danes from his kingdom, in 1002, was
crowned king of Ireland, when he again attacked the Danes and
drove them from the country. Heeffected great reforms in the
overnment, founded churches and schools, and made many pub-
ic improvements. In 1014 the Danes again invaded the country,
and were defeated in the battle of Clondarf, but Brian was attack-
ed and killed in his tent by a party of the flying enemy. 2d. The
Lloyds are boards formed for the transaction of various business
connected with shipping and for the diffusion of marine intel-
ligence. The name originated from the circumstance that the Lon-
don board of underwriters originally met at Lloyd’s coffee-house.
3d. Fingal was a noted Scotch prince and warrior of the third
century, whose deeds are celebrated in the poems of Ossian, his
son. 4th. It is impossible tosay. Painting was practiced as an
art among the Egyptians many centuries before the Christian era.
5th. There are no two chapters in the Bible that we know of exact

alike. There is asimllarity in many of the epistles of the New

 

mark of effeminacy for a man to use one. 4th. We cannot say who
isthe richest man in the world. 5th. The first Baptist Church was
established in London in 1608, although the creed of the sect is
said to be traced back to the third century. It is further claimed
that all the Christian churches of the first two centuries after
Christ were founded and built on the principles they profess......
R. H. R.—As your capital is rather small, the best course would
be to enter a quarter section under the Homestead Law, and use
your ready money to stock and improve it..... One-Eyed Riley.—
ist. See ‘‘Knowledge Box.” 2d. Africa is classed as one of the
grand divisions of the Eastern Continent. 3d. Should be im-
proved by practice...... Revere.—It will be time enough three or
four years hence for you to commit matrimony. In the interim
there is no harm in your indulging in the blissful anticipations of
“Love’s young dream.” It is as wellthat you have entered into
no engagement, for there is no telling what changes the oles.
of time may effect in the feelings of both the lady and yourself.
As there is nothing to be ashamed of in your love for the young
lady, it may benefit you to take your mother into your confidence.
Indeed, she could advise you much better than we can..... .....
Joe the Charmer.—‘‘Sol Slocum”? is out of print..... Ivanhoe.—The
population of New York State by the last census is 4,370,846; of
Massachusetts, 1,457,351. 2d. The population of British America
is about 4,000, Hiram Jones,—Ist. The late President Lin-
coln was born in Hardin county, rere Feb, 12, 1809, That
portion of Hardin county in which he was born is now included in
Larue county. 2d. John Quincy Adams was born at
Mass., July 11, 1767...... Joseph Dobson.—A skating rink is an in-
closed and covered pond...... The following MSS, have been read
and accepted: ‘A Lady’s Letter from Paris,’ ‘The Aged Outcast,’
‘Woman,’ ‘Florida,’ ‘Follow Me,’ ‘Selling a Birthright,’ ‘Love,’
NORMS The following will appear in a new mammoth month-
ly soon to be issued from this office: ‘On Whom was the Laugh,’
‘Robin’s Lament,’ ‘Come, Kiss and Make Up,’ ‘Love in Camp,’
‘June,’ ‘The Music of Birds,’......The following are respecttully
declined: ‘Pen Sketches of My Life,’ ‘Tyrant,’ ‘Somebody’s Dar-
ling,’ ‘Neyer Kiss and Tell,’ ‘The Mariner’s Dream,’ ‘Fortune’s
Reyerses,’ ‘Bury Me in the Sunshine,’ ‘The Last Gift,’ ‘The Maid-
en's Prayer,’ ‘Music,’ ‘Lost to Me,’ ‘Maritana,’ ‘Washington’s
Tomb,’ ‘Mother has Breathed her Last,’ ‘The Flag on the Waters,’
‘Norah O'Neil,’ ‘Bury Me at my Cottage Home,’ ‘The Blossom is
on the Tree,’ ‘The Trees,’ ‘Embarrassment,’ | ‘The Sewing-Girl at
Work,’ ‘Playing Seamstress,’ ‘The Lost Gift,’ ‘One-Eyed Bill,’
‘Rest, Sister,’ ‘My Betrothed,’ ‘Waiting Two Years,’ : you
Think of the Days that are Gone,’ ‘Grandma,’ ‘The Orphan,’
‘Maud’s Dream Fulfilled,’ ‘A Half-Hour among Wits,’ ‘Gull Catch-
ers,’ ‘An Adventure with the K. K. K.,’ ‘The Fortune-Hunter’s
Mistake,’ ‘The Smiling Lackawanna,’ ‘A New Version,’ ‘Inyoca-
tion,’ ‘An Experience of my Father's Life,’. ‘The Return of the
Wanderer,’ ‘Making Her Speak,’ ‘The Dead Alive,’ ‘Sentis the
Bold,’ ‘Perseverance,’ ‘My Laddie,’ ‘Parting,’ ‘The Woodcutters,’
“Grandmether,’ ‘The Heiress.’ :

> ee
PERSONAL,

T. R. Fenton.—From this correspondent we have received the
following letter, which contains an excellent suggestion: “I am
an admirer of Ned Buntline’s stories, and haye read all ot his pro-
ductions as they appeared in the New YORK WEEKLY. © His tem-
perance stories have been the means of reforming at least two of
my acquaintances, and for this I shall ever consider him a public
benefactor, I have also heard him lecture on temperance, and
listened with enraptured ear as he graphically portrayed the
downward career of those addicted to that greatest curse of man
—rum. I have longed for a picture of the gentleman whose tem-
perance stories, as published in the NEW YORK WEEKLY, have un-
doubtedly been the means of reforming many a wayward son,
brother or husband, and therefore suggest that a picture of Ned
Buntline in the NEW YORK WEEKLY would certainly be appre-
ciated by his thousands of admirers. Now, Messrs. Street &
Smith, please give this suggestion your consideration, and let the
public gaze upon the likeness of the man who has done, and is
doing, so much for the benefit of the erring.” Our correspondent
1s informed that Mr. Judson (Ned Buntline) is now out of town on
a trapping excursion. When he returns this suggestion will be
laced before him, and we hope he will consent to gratify his
riends.

a 3 Walker writes as follows from Portsmouth, Va.: ‘Really,
as a reader of your truly great paper, I must congratulate you
upon the success you richly deserve in reaching the hight your
NEW YORK WEEKLY has attained in the opinions of our people.
As a family paper, void of politics, it is appreciated and perused
by agreat many, and ifa continuation of stories exists in its col-
umns as are now being published, you may look for a large in-
crease of orders from news-dealers in this section.”” We can as-
sure this correspondent that we shall endeavor not only to keep
the NEw YORK WEEKLY up to its present position as a leading
literary publication, but if possible, furnish the public with still
more attractive and entertaining reading matter than we have
yet published.

F TO. Schooley, in a letter from Uhrichsyille, O., says: “T have
just finished reading ‘Abner Holden’s Bound Boy,’ in the NEW
YORK WEEKLY dated June Ist.. I wast to thank you for that
story. I always haye tried to live an honest, temperate life, and
Iam sure that such stories will benefit thousands of others, as
well as myself. I am young and beginning in life, with nothing
but the credit my good name brought me, and I am anxious to
maintain it, and thankful for help. I wish all the young men in
the land could read ‘Out of the Dark,’ ‘True as Love Could Make
Her,’ and ‘Abner Hofien’s Bound Boy.’ Go on in the good work.
Expose ignorance, error and crime, and battle for the.temperance

 

Quincy,

 

 

 

 

 

 

diately, and I firmly believe that you Will find I was

 

estament. Take, for instance, the third chapter of Colossians
and the fourth chapter of Ephesians. The train of thought andin

cause, and thousands will bless you.

 

R. F. Adams.—¥ouw subscription expires with No. 34.

and water and mud, clean to nowhere—and everything was as
black as night and as cold as December! And when I looked
the hole that we’d_ made a coming through, looked about as Be
as a star and about as far off. : ; oF

For a secont Edidn’t seem to realize it, and then I knowed that
we had fell into acoal pit! There’s hundreds of ’em in this coun-
try, laying round: loose, to swaller up Yankees, and folks that
don’t kuow about ’em!

IT thought my hour had come!

Iwas carm. So was Jerry.
wise.

I remembered that all the extinguished people I had ever rgadd-
about allers made dying speeches, though to tell the truty, [
never heard but one dying feller mortal Say anything, and that
was old Peter Flint, over to the Ridge. He got drunk and fell of
from a saw mill ruff, and broke some of the candelebras of liiy
back bone, and when he was a dyin he sez to his son Sam, sez he:

“Cuss you, Sam! give mea swaller of cider!”

I could only murmur, faintly—a leaning on my ambrill:

“Farewell, Jonathan! Dm a giine! Don't. sell the spatted
heifer! Let Mariah Smith alone, and as for the widder—Sprig-
gins—I’ll ”’ my will failed me, and as the novels say, “I knew
nomore. Adieu, J. RUGG PERKINS.

WASTED COUNSEL.

So, John, you’re a goin’ to be married, I hear. 7
Eh ? take some tobacco! well, wimmin is queer,

And pesky proyokin’ sometimes; but I find, J
In the long run of life, men are seldom behind. j

It was too dark for us to be other-

 

Now there’s my old woman—that’s her—Polly Drake;
I thought her an angel dropped here by mistake,
Until Pd been married a month, when, I swan,

I wish she’d been dropped a few rods further on!

How wasit? Wall, little by little, you see, “

I come to know Polly and she to know me, q
And neither was pleased with the other. Phetight

So parfect in courtship, with marriage grows bright,

And shows up the flaws in our pictures so plain
That we itch to return them to shadows again. i
But the gallery’s bolted, and husband and wife,
Alone with each other, are out, and for life,

r
Wall, it ain’t because either is wuss than they wWeye,
That she haggles with him, and he imitates her,
But only that both are themselves—and appear »
As humans—no latter day Jobs. Now come hers,

And I'll tell ye a secret worth knowin’: you se@~ ry
We've jogged along pleasant like, Polly and me,

For forty odd year—and, deny it who may—

In times like the present, that’s su’thing to say.

The way that I fixed it was this: when at first

I found that my angel was comin’ to dust,

I raved, (a bad habit I’ye tried to correct),

And Polly got flustered—what could you expéot?

And the way she pitched into me then (with her tongue)
Was cur’us to witness: “Now, John, youare youl)

But remember this fact, and then heed it with sense,
The tongue is a woman’s sole means of defens?.””
And of course she has learnt how to use it; but then
It is easily stopped with a ki Wall! and when

She finally quit with a sob andasneeze, ~

I slunk to the barn-yard, as meek as you please,

And thought the thing over; sez I, “Eben Drake,
You've shown yourself simpleton now—0 mistake.’
For I measured myself, and I found thatggale
To scold at the woman that Polly could be ™
Was wuss than the toad’s finding fault with the hare,
And this is the bargain I made then and there: : fF
“Tl leave her alone fill I see plain and true, f Z
That Iam the wisest and best of the two.)
So, as every one knows we're a peacea
And the rock all young fellers izxe you :
Is that of forgetting that women, like mn,
Is likely to falter, and drop now and ther: ? oh
Now Ruth is as good as the average. Pshaw! sae
Don’t look so disgusted! ‘tis true as the law, ;
That sometime you’l] find she is human, and mourn—
Of course—now I’ye got to the sermon—hbe's gone.

R, W EASTERBROOKS.

 

 
 
  
 

. MIRTHFUL MORSELS, “ t.
Many a child sings ‘‘I want to be an angel,’ who would be mores,
Satisfactory if he wanted to be a good boy. _ Soby
“J’ll give you the slip,’’ as the gardener said when he promised ;-
a friend a cutting. got :
The following 1s ati epitapli on the death of a yonng lady en
gaged to be married: : z
“The wedding-day appointed was, 7
And wedding-dress providee;
But ere the wedding-dar,
She sickened and she die did.”
Out in Missouri they are making wine from parsnips; but Do-
rabella says wine always was pa’s nip,
NO KISSING IN HEAVEN,
Swipes is a widower ‘‘withou' umbrancé,’’ and, like most of
his sex, has a weakness for the #/Aety of ladies, one of wliom has.
claims on his special attention % pry Sunday evening. Last Sin-
day night they were en; intcne ne task of maki
other supremely happy by smal\ talk, innogent amusement, qd
endearments, such as true love?r} are 2 wich indulge i
: a

:

 
 
  
   
   

  
  
  
 
    

 
 
  
  

 

    

 

_4

 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
  

  
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
   

    
 
   
 
 

  

    

the conversation turned upon a sermon which the lady. ;
day heard, describing Heaven, inven ployménts and enjoyme:
and she very innocently remark

 

      
  
    
   
 

 

n
: “My dJear,savyhen we xe
Heaven, your first wife will be there, and claimifou as her }
ful husband. Will you kiss her then as sweetlyas yoy k
now ?” hes. if .

Swipes is particularly fond of kisses, especially real love-kiss
and this was a home question that fie was bof quite prepared ¢
but remembering a little of the Bible he hadsread in his youthfu?
days, he replied, that “in Heaven they neither marry nor are.
given in marriage,’ and on “There Wall be Bo husban

i there; no kissing in Heaven.” iy : € 2
wghe instantly and indignantly. ph Pte Be if there is te be

kissing in Heaven. I domt want to go thre! Pek
a ‘thought the joke too good to keep, And so I got al of it.
7 ae

 
  

  

   
  
  

  
  

   
  
  
    
 

 

GETTING RID o A sor sencedtee

Superintendents of railways are the worsé bo class ie
in the world. One of them, who had been much worried e
applications of a young man for a situation, relates his e ~
ence as lollows: ‘“There was one chap why would never take & re-
fusal, but called repeatedly, day after day juntil he became < ,
fect annoyance. Finally I got tired of hinj, and determined ® fi
him. When morning came, he was aftd me as usual, an) in
quiring abou: the prospects. I replied, pulling out my watch:
‘Let me see; it is now a quarterofnine, You wait here an
and a quarter, and you can hayea positim. Theten o’elock fra’
always brings in two or three dead hand, who have been Kill
on the road, and then you will be all rigit,”. The fellow sli
has not been baek since”? i MW

A NATURAL SPEAKING TRU MPET.

Old Peter D— was yery deaf, and, Jike most deaf pe
thought that everybody around him was as hard of hearin
not only bellowed in stentorian tones, buf he talked “thre
his nose.” After little Sammy had seen and heard him he,
this remark: “I s’pose he thinks ey, ry bod) as deat as he-
he uses his nose for a speaking trumpet! N. DBA ,

To P. P. ConrRipuTors—*. HW. L. Vinton.—Thanks for the
formation. If will prevent a repetition onthe act........ The
lowing MSS. are accepted: ‘How He Inte ded to Fix Them ,
satisfactory Experiment;? ‘Escaped Convict;’ “To Make a Ne
LOOP r, - . .cpae The following are respectfully declined: “Lik
Frogs;’ ‘On the State;’ Epistle from Kromax; ‘An. Apro
‘Beggar's Petition ;’ ‘Kick Their Hind Leas; ‘Devil’s | Vis
Objections;’ ‘Train of Cars;) ‘Very Crue! ; ‘Fiannel cakes
con;’ ‘The One Not Dead;’ Catalogue of My F ets)” His
Last; ‘Curious Dialogue; ‘When it’s Growed Up; Col,
Insanity ;? ‘Striking Out the Five: ‘A Joke on Jimmy

  
 
 
 
 
 

  

   
    

  

  

 

 

 
   

  

  

 
 
 
 
 

 

 
 

  
   
 

   

  
  
    

  

 

   
  

 

    
  
 
  
 

   

  
 
 
       
 
  
   

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

   
  
   
      
  
    
   
  
  
   
  
 
 

 

 

 

   
  
 
 

 

  
 
 
   
  

   
  
 
  
   

   
 
  
   
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

it
Be
ie