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ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1871, BY STREET & SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. C. r
aes a oar OM A A COCR IN a
FRANCIS S, STREET TDN I , TH n/ we Ole i Three Dollars Per Year.
VOL. Xx VI. FRANCIS S. SMITH, *} Proprietors. N KW y ORK, SEE z EMBER ( 5 187 5: TERMS Two Copies Five Dollars. No. 43,
ta was conversing with his master. I have been waiting
Rat, THE NEWS BOY, here some time, Conrad.’’
ON THE LATE FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT. “My brave little girl!’’ said the officer, clasping the mai-
den nearer with a yearning, passionate tenderness. ‘You
BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH. LY are a worthy daughter of Crete, Zulime. Did that scoun-
— \\\ drel, Kelegi, dare to talk of love to you?”’
My name is Jimmy Connors, which they calls me Rat, for short— ay “He said that as soon as he is hoe reealled to Tur-
I’m fourteen, weigh a hundred pounds, iikewise I’m fond of sport. : e Key, he should take me into his keePing,’”’ faltered Zu-
I’m a newsboy, and a bootblack, and I carry bundles too— OS lime, with burning cheeks. ‘He said that it might be
In f I skle y job that I am fit to do. : : NS é best for the present to leave me with my unele, for I
Meee cee . : NSss should then be a decoy by which he should entrap you.”
WY ‘“ 39 -aneata. » ” Y ys, > ni ; iq y
You ask about the accident that happen’d at the ferry— NSS iis oe oe the young Greek, Knitting his brows
I'd rather talk of something else—it makes me feel had-~very. SSS S ~ «He is anxious, above all things, to revenge himself on
I can’t drive it from my mind, sir, oh, it was a fearful sight! SSS you, dear Conrad, for the punishment you inflicted upon
I’m thinking of it ail day long and dream of it at night. SSS. him last spring. He cannot forgive you for being a bet-
ter swordsman and a stronger man: than he. His hatred
But as you seem to wish it, I'll tackle it once more; of you is a monomania.”’
And tell you, near as possible, exactly what I saw: “JT would ask nothing better than to meet him in a fair |
‘Twas Sunday, as you know, sir, and nearly one o’clock, ee = Pie og Foe iat Fas hg ila
: « Geindh ni ac fachiees) om ‘He said to-day,’”’ remarked Zulime, “tha s “)
PE tee ee ENON HREM OR SRO dOek. your identity with that of the legendary Dead Cruiser.
We hadn’t been a-sittin’ on the stone pier very long, He means to an hay capture. He eee sh win
Se a Ss Pa, Se cree to, ad yromotion and fameif he captures yeu and the Ion »
nee erereee eoneene the wae ae ; en i wes ad < F “He will not capture the fon If I make a certain sig-
And then there came a rumblin’ noise, and then a crash—a | nal, she will stand out to sea. As for me, I am not easily
snorter!— to be taken, even by five Turks,’’ and the young Greek
And then my brother lost his seat and tumbled in the water. smiled.
Zulime looked up at him proudly.
Iwas dizzy for a minnit, so suddint was the shock, ; a “He might have known that,’ she said, with a sim-
And then I stirred myself to help my brother on the dock— ae aslicity that provoked her lover to snateh a kiss from her
L roared to see him crawlin’ out and then I fell to chaffin’, : i SGT "s. ‘ ; “ : a :
‘ aes «atl ie "7 kad 5] ike laffin’ \ \ N ~ > You little witch,’’ he said, smiling. ‘‘You cannot help
BR Pee YOR Nes | ORE A ae \ \\ \\ \ NSSfh Jattering me in that bewitching way. You have unlim-
icker’n I can tell it there came a rush 0’ steam, i \\ ; Ky \ \\\ N : é ited faith in me, I see, Zulime, and Imust_ prove myself
ae wa noise it made I heard a hundred peoplescream ; \ \\ \ \ \ AY \\ \ INA | worthy ofit. About this Turk—I fancied last night that
ir ri ; ‘ Id, so orful did 1t sound \W\\ \ if \\ AKAN \ \ \\\ ANSSSS , | we were overheard, and the idea has haunted me all day.
My hair riz up, my blood ran cold, so orful did 1t sound, \\y \\ LA AR \\ \\\ ; I have been somewhat uneasy about you, but have eom-
And then a crowd of drownin’ folks were strugglin’ allaround! | \\ \ AY \ AAR \ \ forted myself with the reflection that Kelegi dare not
; PLAS | \ \\\\ \ \\ \ : touch you yet. Hehas strict orders from the Sultan to
It wasn’t long before I saw two babies by me float, vit TTA \ NY i attend to his military business, and the Sultan would not
And then, like winkin’, I threw off my shoes, and vest, and coat, \ N ah countenance apy love affair of the colonel’s-that might in-
And plungin’ in I swam to ’em and brought ’em safe ashore, PAN terfere with the transaction of his duties, or that would
And then I hurried back agin to try and save some more. WEN WANS stirup the Cretansto anger.” :
, \\ : “J heard this morning,’ said Zulime, ‘‘from one of the
I came near blubberin’, you bet, but ’twas no time for cryin’ H| ANN villagers who came up to see my uncle, that Kelegi has
When men and women, boys and girls, were all around us dyin’, ANY taken a house over at Suda, and is going.to bring a part
1.80 I labor’d with a will till I was tired out, FANN of his ‘household to occupy it. ;
And's0 : : - NY) Captain Rolas became instantly grave and thoughtful.
And then I stopp’d awhile to rest myself and look about. \ y. “That is intended as a cover to some scheme,” he said.
: Be Ss Baad ea / NI ‘Tt must be that Kelegi intends to seize you secretly and
Ai Pics Steet RRngs) sk, F sell Berer.sed seains 7. } immure youin his household. Once ta hie harem, Za-
Some dead and others dying—some ravin’-mad with pain! lime, you would be almost lost to*pursuit. Who would
The air was full of sereams, and oaths, and prayers, and sighs, | dare unvail the faces of his women in search of you? We
and groans,— must be on our guard. Kelegi means treachery. When
Some had no arms nor legs—some had the flesh torn from their he becomes convinced that he cannot capture me, he will
= carry you off. Il wish that you were actually my wife,
bones! Zulime, instead of Deing simply my betrothed. Ii could
Irested but a minit when I went to work again, then take you with me, and we would share eaeh other’s
For lookin’ at such sights, you bet, went rather ’gainst the grain— fate.?? i
Pm nothin’ but a bos, sir but Fad the bost Teould— == = allah tee putin ane Ae meee
. a io ° * * T= a ———S —— ———— = - ° - s
If I had been a man I think I might ha’ did some good. —= ee ee — solemnize our marriage on that day, Conrad.”
_ = me ik ee i 3997 i
And now, in few words as I could I’ve told youall I saw, The next moment he jound himself confronted. by theagoung Greek, and their flashing eyes met. looue” Cheeta Taccbin ons sorrento 2 eel Bae
And so, not wishin’ to offend, T think Pll chin no more; vs protector stronger than he. I must see him——
Dey oe ee Pee ee er ee In these modern times, when means of transportation (Jy ‘Patienp, Maddatense ' 5, UAver young mistress, softly. | She sprang up and held the lantern above her head,} ‘Not to-night,’ said the maiden, pleadingly.. “Wait till
Your boots is very dirty, sir—say, won’t you take a shine? are so plentiful, and luxuries are so cheap and easily at- ‘Patience! aud the moblesi nenrt ia. Crete sooa to be | waving it with a warning gesture. you come again, Conrad.”’
¥ It is estimated that “Rat” saved at least ten persons tainable, even the harems of the Turk are furnished in Pa-| Stilled forever!” eried ‘the housekeeper, TM anguisi.” ““*Pa- The muffied sound drew nearer. ‘“T will wait. Butif Kelegi offers to molest you, dariing,
Tt is:estimatec : risian style; and Greeks and’ Turks are alike in the one | tience! and these demons in ambush te slayour noble| ‘The Greek maiden waved her lantern more wildly. you must promise me to fly to the mountains.. Yomean ,
fact of adopting the simple luxuries brought by steamers | Conrad!’ Yet still the sound came nearer. It was so. faint and | hide there in perfect safety, and I can come to you at any
to their very doors. Zulime did not heed the covert reproach. She played | still that none but the keen ears of love might detect it. | time. fhe grows threatening or menacing, you had bet-
THE It was not strange then that the priest’s picturesque | on, her harp-strings giving utterance now and then to} It blended with the lapping sound of the waves and the | ter fly before he proceeds to open hostilities.’
home combined with its Greek characteristics many of | strange discords; but suddenly a burst of triumphal har- | drops of falling rain. No boat was visible; no human “To what place shall I go, Conrad ?”’
f a the simpler features of Western furnishings, mony broke through the jafigie like a burst of sunlight | form could be seen. “To the temple-grotto,”’ was the reply. ‘Claim the
OW or Oo O De The dishes were of quaint China; and honey, translucent | through black clouds, swelling higher and higher until it The maiden ceased her gestures, yet still held up her} protection and advice of the grotto-prophetess. One who
and golden, brimming from its snowy, waxen cups, cakes | terminated abruptly in a.grand outburst, like a nation’s beacon-lantern. She retreated a step further into the| has done so much for Crete will not refuse eounsel and
light and sweet, delicate bread, and baskets of oranges of | anthem of victory. cavity. , assistance to one of Crete’s fairest and most patriotic
° rare sweetness and flavor, and other baskets of grapes, And then Zulime put. her harp aside, and, with com- There came a soft, grating sound as of a boat touching, | daughters. I haveastrange faith in that woman, Zu-
A Tale of the Cretan Revolution. lying half amid green leaves, formed the simple repast. A | posed, heroic face and quiet manner, seated herself at her | 2 muffied footstep on the rock, a momentary delay as of| lime, seeing thatl have never seen her. She has lent
Eitri jug.of goat’s milk afforded the only beverage—the milk of | work-basket. f mooring the boat to a rock, and the figure of a man | much valuable aid to our cause, andl amsure she has
By an Old Contributor. cows being held in small esteem. , Her uncle and the housekeeper forebore to question her, | came moving noiselessly toward the cavity, entered it, | spies in the Turkish army. I know of no place so secure
‘ “T suppose,’’ said Maddalena, taking..her place at the} but both knew that she -had solved the difficulties in we and gathered the heroic Greek maiden in his arms. for you as the mountains, and no proteetor so sufficient
“ ; itis 1h esa hatnt sk , | table with the others as usual, ‘‘that Colonel Keiegi ex- | way of warning her lover, and that she would have suffi- as the hermitess.”’
news Agen fee Sor ah: caid pera will wot taal Bret part of the Fem pects to be called to supper with us.” cient coolness and courage to execute any plan she might CHAPTER IV “If it becomes necessary to flee, I will goto her,’ de-
The priest looked at his niece. have conceived. ‘ clared Zulime. ‘I know the way tothe temple-grotto.
CHAPTER III. Zulime shook her head. The evening wore on, and at an early hour the Greek THE HERO OF LIBERTY. You described it to me last night, you know. AndIam
“Tf he wants food he must ask for it,’’ she said, decided- | maiden directed that the house be shut up for the night sure the prophetess will not refuse to aida woman. If I
THE GUARD OUTWITTED. ly. ‘We cannot have him eat with us. JZ will not break | and the lights extinguished. ‘The good priest engaged in| The lantern, now resting at the feet of the maiden, | go I’ll send you word, Conrad. Mikel shall take you a

Zulime’s anxious question had not been answered by | bread or eat salt with a foe whose hands may be wet with | family prayers, blessed his niece with his thin hands on | shed a powerful but restricted light upon the face and | note to your usual landing.”
the discovery of any feasible plan for warning her expect- | the blood of one dear to us béfore many hours !”” her bowed head, and, lamp in hand, departed to his bed- | form of the new-comer. Japtain Rolas was about to make some response, when
ed visitor of the danger awaiting him, whenastep and| «NorI!’’ said the priest, with an unwonted flash of his | chamber to watch and pray for the deliverance of the pa- He was Captain Conrad Rolas, of the swift-sailing | a footstep on the rocks without became plainly perceptible
voice in the outer room announced that her uncle had re- | eyes, triot Greek from the snare spread for him. schooner-yacht, Ion, whose fleetness, combined with her | to their hearing.
turned from the village. ( : Maddalena repeated the words with energy, and the Zulime and her attendant were thus left alone, mysterious appearances-and disappearances, had quick- Zulime shrank closer to him, shrouding the lantern with

Composing her face and manner to their usual quietude, | three began their supper. “You will let me share your dangers, will you not, Zu- | ened a-belief in both Turks and uninitiated Greeks in the | her cloak.
she went out to meet him, followed by Maddalena. “T wish,” said the good housekeeper, as her compan- |} lime ?? inquired Maddalena. legend of the Dead Cruiser. Captain Rolas drew a revolver from his belt.

The room in which he stood awaiting her was the pretty | ions became silent and thoughtful, ‘that I could see Rika, “T cannot,’? was the reply. ‘I am only going down to He was an ardent patriot, of wealth and culture. His The step came almost to the opening of their hiding-
sitting-room of the cottage. Ithadlarge, quaint windows, | the prophetess. She is a wonderful woman.” the cove, Maddalena, tobe on the watch for Conrad. You | yacht had been built in England at his own.expense, | place, and they saw a lantern flashing its rays through
curtained with lace, painted walls just flushed with a rose- “J have heard much of her,’’ said Zulime, willing to en- | must stay here to avert suspicion, should Kelegi seek to | and he employed it in bringing. men and arms from | the gioom, close to therocks.
ate tint,a bright carpet, easy-chairs, hanging shelves of} courage a cheerful conversation: ‘‘Who is she?”? enter the house. It is allsimple enough. You need have | Greece to the assistance of his countrymen. He had] The sentinel was making an examination in obedience
books, a few choice pictures, a plaster bust or two of fa- “T know little of her. She isa hermitess and lives} no fears.’ been often pursued by sloops-of-war and steamers, but | to the orders of his impatient master on the bluff.
mous Greeks, and a lounge draped with a leopard-skin, | among the mountains, in one of the grottos, fancy. She} She patted affectionately the rough, dark cheek of the | he had hitherto eluded his enemies, and strengthened in| The concealed lovers expected discovery, and the young
the claws still pendant. A tiny silk-lined work-basket, | has lived there all alone for two or three years. Few have | housekeeper, and extinguished the lamp-light.. The two | them, by various mechanical devices, such as burning | Greek officer was prepared for it, but the soldier contented
filled with dainty materials for fine needlework, and a | seen her, but her predictions and revelations are wonder- | then made their way in the darkness to Zulime’s chamber, | blue-lights and spectral lanterns, which gave his men a | himself with a cursory examination, and returned on his
piano and guitar showed that this was Zulime’s favorite | ful. She can always tell the whereabouts and position of | adjoining which was that of Maddalena. gigantic and grotesque appearance, the superstition of | steps, muttering words of dissatisfaction.
retreat, her especial apartment. | F the Turkish troops and vessels, and has rendered our For an hour or two they sat here in the darkness, listen- | the Dead Cruiser. ‘‘He did not see us,’’ said Zulime, with a sigh of relief.

The good Father Coronis, the parish priest, stood in | cause much valuable help.. Some of our officers consult | ing to the tramp of the soldiers without, the patter of the In person, Conrad Rolas was a perfect model for a mar- | ‘‘Had you not better be going, Conrad? If they should
the center of the room, with a troubled and anxious ex- | her regularly.” falling rain, and the sighing of the winds. They ex- | ble god. Tall, and light, and lithe,with a springiness | find you here.”
pression on his face. He was a venerable man, past three “But how can they consult her without seeing her?’’ | changed occasional whispers, and kept near to each other, | and elasticity of motion that showed how every nerve ‘How you tremble, my darling. You are like a fright-
score years and ten. His hair was gray to whiteness and | asked the priest. deriving comfort from close contact. and muscle was trained to its appropriate office, he had | ened bird. And yet when danger menaced you alone I
& long silvery beard fell in soft waves over his breast. His “They go to a cavern called the ‘temple grotto,’ and ask At last, when the sitting-room clock struck eleven, Zu- | broad shoulders, a splendidly-developed chest, a magnifi- | have seen you as calm and brave as an old warrior. I
countenance was full of a proud humility, and his sad dark | their questions. Her voice answers them from some hid- | lime arose softly and drew about her a heavy cloak that | cent physique. will not detain you here long, Zulime. Yet I dread to
eyes had in them an expression ofineffable sweetness. He | den place. They have searched the grotto, exploring | completely shrouded her figure. The hood she drew over His features were modeled after the noblest creek | have you return to the house alone. If they should inter-
was a tender-hearted, pure-souled old man, noble and | every crevice, but have found no trace of the mysterious} her head like acowl. Her skirts were short and would | models. His complexion was of the clearest, purest olive; | cept you, Kelegi might revenge himself by carrying you
generous, brave and earnest. His soul burned over the} lady. She has revealed herself once or twice to some offi- | not impede her movements. Her shoes were thick and | his mouth of perfect shape expressed firmness, resolution, | off this very night.” {
wrongs of his country, and to the extent of his ability he | cer of rank, and her appearance was said to be most im- | noiseless. and now more than womanly tenderness. His eyes were} ‘I will be cautious,’’ promised the Greek maiden. “If
had proyed himself a true Cretan. posing. When her visitor sprang toward her, she van-| ‘Now is my time, Maddalena,’’ she whispered, softly. | dark and flashing, full of fire, and glow, and earnestness, | he grows bolder, I will seek the temple grotto—perhaps to-

This meek and tender old man almost worshiped - Zu- | ished like a wreath of mist.’ “The window is open, and has been since the morning. | andpower. His eye-brows were straight, dark and heavy, | morrow. You have said all you wished to say ?”
lime, the child of his younger brother, who had been de- “She is some noble-hearted patriot woman, whoseeks to | The doors are better guarded than the windows. Do not | and his forehead was broad and massive, a fit ‘‘temple for ‘Not all,’ said her lover, folding her very close in his
prived of both her parents by the fatal tragedy already | aid her country,” said Zulime. ‘Conrad Rolas said last | be alarmed if Iamgonelong. Conrad may not come till | thought.’? His head was covered with close-curling rings | arms and kissing her forehead reverently as he might
described. She was as the apple of his eyes, the light of | night she was worth more to Crete than a troop of horse. | toward day.” of black and glossy hair, and was grand and noble inits| have kissed that of his patron-saint or guardian-angel.
his life, the glory and beauty of hisexistence. Hehadsur-| She must have spies in the enemy’s ranks, elsehow can| She permitted her attendant to clasp her ina warm em- | contour. “The days are so long when Iam from you, Zulime. I
rounded her with all things beautiful to look upon, and | she learn all the Turk’s plans? She encourages our people, | brace and then approached the window, and looked out| Such was and is Conrad Rolas, one of the grandest | look forward to our meeting ds the sick man looks to
had watched her growth as he might have watched the | as well as practically aids them. Conrad went up to the | into the night. heroes and defenders of Crete. Heaven. You are all Ihave, my precious darling. Our
unfolding of a tender flower. temple grotto to consult her some weeks ago, but she was As Maddalena had said, it was black with darkness, and Brave, chivalrous, and daring, nearly to rashness, al- | meetings are my chief joy. Ispend my days in anxiety,

His worn face brightened at sight of her. A loving} not to be found. She has mysterious absences for days, | there was a soft dripping sound as of heavy dews. Noth-| most without an equal in his handling of the sword and | excitement, and schemes to assist our tortured land, but
light came to his sad eyes, and a faint smile to his lips. but no one knows where she goes. The Turks have of-| ing was to be seen, nothing heard save the low and cau- | pistol, fleet of foot as a chamois, active and resolute, he| the sight of you now and then revives my spirit, calms my

“‘What is all this, Zulime?”” he asked, wearily. ‘‘Colo- | fered immense rewards for her capture, but they dare not} tious murmur of voices around the angle of the dwelling. | was the soul of honor and integrity, and, withal, was | soul, and refreshes my whole nature.” _
nel Kelegi sayshe has taken possession of our home for | seek to penetrate to her retreat, for she is under the pro- ‘“‘Kelegi is talking with one of the men,’ said Zulime. | modest and unassuming. He had all of the virtues of his} We need not dwell upon the outpouring of the young
to-night. He has men stationed about the place, on the | tection of the Sphakiotes, who live among the mountains, | ‘‘Now is the time to move!” race, with none of its vices. Greek’s soul. He worshiped his lonely betrothed as men
watch, he says, for Conrad Rolas! He will capture him, | and would protect her with their lives.” Pulling aside the curtains, she leaped lightly through} He was attired in the European style, with the excep- | of great souls and Jonely lives alone can worship. He be-
Zulime,’’ and the gentle priest shuddered as with an The Sphakiotes alluded to by Zulime are an aboriginal | the aperture upon the wet grass outside, and moved noise- | tion of a velvet tunic and a small jaunty cap of vivid color- | stowed upon her all the fervor and passion of his glowing
ague. tribe who infest the southwestern part of the island, and | lessly and fearlessly toward the front of the dwelling, | ing. The tunic was belted at the waist, and in the belt} nature, and never was purer love offered to human shrine,

“Do not distress yourself, dear uncle,’’ said Zulime, | who have resisted all attempts of the Turks to subdue | pausing a moment to listen to the conversation between | were thrust a pair of heavy revolvers. His sword, in a| Constant to her as the needle to the pole, she was the
forcing a smile, and gently compelling her relative tosink | them. They live by robbery and rapine, and occasionally | the Turk and his soldier. richly ornamented scabbard, hung at his side. great idea of his life, the lode-star of his existence, su-
into aneasy-chair. ‘Conrad will not be taken prisoner | make forays upon the towns and villages nearest them. *Redouble your vigilance!’ she heard the former say, He was the ardent and passionate lover of the radiant | preme over even his ardent patriotism. And Zulime was
to-night.” They live among the mountain fastnesses, the Sphakiote| the red spark in his pipe betraying his position. “I am|Zulime. He had known her from her childhood, having } worthy hislove. She returned it in good measure, sym-

“But who will warn him—who will save him ?”’ range affording them innumerable caverns, grottoes, and ; sure that Rolas will be along about midnight. I will re- | spent years under the roof of Father Coronis, as the pupil | pathized with his hopes, shared his patriotism, rejoiced

“I will!” replied Zulime, with a look and voice that | ravines, in which to conceal or ambush themselves against | ward you all handsomely if you capture this.Greek. Keep } of the learned priest. His parents were dead, having been | in his successes, and proved herself in good truth his twin
went far to encourage the old man. ‘‘Leayeit all to me, | pursuit. a watch on the doors and windows, for if no one comes | killed years before in a bombardment of their native town | soul. , :
dear uncle.” The conversation was kept up until the meal was nearly | out he may seek to go in. Back to your post!”’ by the Turks, and they had left to their only child, our Some minutes were given to lovers’ raptures, and the

The priest looked at her flashing eyes and atthe reso- | concluded, and was then interrupted by the abrupt en- The soldier recommenced his sentinel-pace, and Zulime | hero, the task of avenging them. young Greek commander then reluctantly loosened the
lute curve of her lovely mouth, and feit his courage return | trance of the Turk, who came stalking in rudely, with a! flittea under cover of the darkness to the cliff, and began A passionate love and a righteous hatred were then the | clinging arms of his betrothed, and prepared for a return
in part to him. black scowl on his saturnine visage. the descent of the irregular steps in the rock. She moved | ruling passions of his life. to his vessel. : . :

“You know that the house is guarded,’’ he whispered, He seemed to comprehend the reluctahce of the family | fearlessly yet cautiously, being familiar with every inch Zulime abandoned herself to his embraces for a few mo- ‘You can never find her in this darkness,” said Zulime,

‘and that we are forbidden to approach the doors? The | to extend the commonest hospitalities to him, and brought | of ground in the vicinity of her home. ments, forgetting her fears and terrors in the delight of | uneasily.

Turk sits smoking on the portico. He has a man on either | a chair to the table in silence, and commanded Maddalena She was unconscious of the position of the man who] meeting him, and of being clasped to his bosom. But, at “Oh, yes, I can,’’ was the reply. ‘‘She will show a faint
side of the house to keep us within, and to watch for an | by a gesture to wait upon him. had been stationed in the cove, and as she neared the foot } length, as he released her, and bent to look into her lovely, | signal like the gleam ofa fire-fly as I draw near her. It
approach, Another manison the promontory. A fourth Zulime arose from her seat abruptly, and her uncle fol- | of the cliff was obliged to redouble her caution. blushing face, she remembered the perils environing | is hard te leave you in this manner, Zulime, and not know
is watching in the cove. The trap is ready to spring on} lowed her example. The two retreated to the sitting- “He must be hiding in some crevice of the rock where | them, and, pushing the lantern into a crevice in the rock, | whether or not the Turk intercepts you. Goon up to the
poor Conrad! How canhe escape it? You cannot warn | room, whence the sounds of music soon floated out softly | the rain cannot reach him. Ah! I see!” she whispered: house, my darling. I will wait and watch here until a
him in time, Zulime. Ifhe falls to-night, Crete will lose | to the ears of the sullen Turk, working him up to a fiercer A faint glimmer of a lantern from beneath an overhang- ‘Hush, Conrad! Do notspeak aloud! You understood | light in your window assures me you are safe.”’

one of the ablest and noblest of her defenders. One of the | anger. ing rock, as if its owner had shifted the folds of a garment | my signal?” Zulime yielded to her lover’s stronger will, and, after a
grandest and most daring of her young heroes will be lost He hurried through his solitary meal, and then ordered | that had concealed it, gave the maiden the desired infor- “Certainly, my darling,’ responded her lover, drawing | last embrace, turned to retrace her steps to the dwelling.
to her! In Conrad Rolas is revived the glory of the an-} Maddalena to carry refreshments to his men. While she} mation. her beside him to a seat on a projecting slab of rock. ‘It She had not taken a half-dozen steps when a light
cient Greeks ! If he dies, woe to our poor, suffering Crete!”’ | obeyed this command, he returned to the portico and his Keeping away from the vicinity of the light, she hurried | meant danger, and so I avoided the cove, and came | flashed on the cliff, and the hoarse voice of the Turk

“Uncle,” said Zulime, the radiance of a heroic soul| pipe, and watched and listened with a savageness and | along the rocks until she had gained the far end of the | directly to you.” shouted:
illuminating her noble features. “We cannot spare Con- | restlessness that showed him to be in a furious mood. promontory, some rods distant from the sentinel. “J meant that you should not land at all,’ said Zulime. “Ho, there, sentinel! The girl is not in the house,
Tad—Crete cannot spare him. Letus hope that Heaven The evening came on slowly. The spires of Suda across Feeling about cautiously, she soon found an opening in | ‘“‘I motioned you to go back to the yacht! Is she near?’ | Search the cove and the rocks. The Greek may have
Will pity our needs |” the gulf faded into the gathering shadows. The mantle of} the rock some feet in depth, and from some hiding-place ‘“Yes, just at hand!’ and the young officer waved his | landed. Tothesearch, men! All of you!’

Her tones restored the old man to his faith and self-pos- { darkness fell over sea and land, pressing tangibly and | in this cavity she brought out a lantern and matches. To | hand toward the outlaying, impenetrable darkness. ‘‘it Zulime hastily retreated to her lover’s side.

Session. He caressedthe burnished gold of her hair softly, | heavily, deepening into impenetrability. There was no | strike a light and illuminate the lantern were the work of | is too dark to see her.. If it had been lighter I should not Without a word, he led her into the hiding-place they

and murmured words of endearment andencouragement. | moon. The stars were all hidden. It was a night for se- | a moment, and the Greek maiden then sat down in the} have ventured ashore to-night. What is the danger of | had quitted, stationing her in a dark corner, and took his
Evidently, he reiied upon her promise to save Conrad, | crecy. The sentinels began their tramp about the house, | mouth of the aperture, and held the lantern on her knees | which you warned me, my own Zulime ?”’ place beside her.

without seeing clearly how she would do it. and still their commander sat on the portico, his where- | ina manner that permitted it to be seen only from the “Our interview last night was witnessed by a spy!’ an- The hurried tramp of the Turks was heard on the rocky

Maddalena had not lingered in the room, having passed | abouts in the darkness betrayed only by the lurid spark in | sea. swered Zulime. ‘‘A spy of that odious Turk, Col. Kelegi! | stairs, and excited voices called loudly through the gloom.
on toher duties. She nowcame to the door and an-| the bowl of his pipe. “Kelegi does not dream of being outwitted, and by a | He overheard our allusions to a meeting to-night, and re- The cove-sentinel approached the crevice in which they
nounced that the Supper was ready. Within the sitting-room the curtains were drawn, the | woman,” she thought, exultantly. ‘Conrad will see my | ported them to his master. Kelegi came here about sun- | were, flashing his light in every direction.

Arm in arm, the uncle and niece obeyed the summons, | lamp was lighted. Father Coronis leaned back in his easy- | warning—he is safe!’ set with four men, searched the cottage, and imprisoned “Courage, Zulime!’’ whispered her lover. ‘You are
going out into a little dining-room which had a wide win- | chair, his disturbed spirit soothed by the sweet and subtle The shadows deepened, if possible, or assumed a more | us all within, forbidding one of us to leave the dwelling. | safe with me!”’
dow looking to the west, where the sunset was dying | harmonies evoked by his niece from her guitar. Madda-| intense inkiness of hue. The waves were tranquil, the | At this moment, two sentinels are guarding the house, a The next moment the sentinel had marked the fissure.
With all the pomp and splendor that sometimes character- | lena wandered about the dwelling like an uneasy spirit. soft rain continued dropping. Zulime strained her gaze | third is on the promontory, and a fourth is in the cove, | He approached it, flashed his lantern in advance of him.
izes in the East the setting of the sun. “The night is black with darkness,’’ she said, coming in | through the blackness, but saw nothing of sail or vessel. | while Kelegi is on our portico. All are watching for | He entered the cavity cautiously, peering around him on

The long yellow bars of light streamed in upon the light } in the midst of Zulime’s dreamy abstraction. ‘The rain | But for the gentle lapping of the waters at her feet, she | you!”’ every hand.
carpet, and upon asmali round table, which was draped | is falling in a slow drizzle. 1 prayed for the moon and a | might have deemed the sea a myth. “Ah? said Rolas, knitting his brows together. ‘‘How Zulime crouched deeper into the heavy shadows.
in the snowiest of damask, and with a small display of | clear night, for then Conrad Rolas would not venture Suddenly her keen hearing caught another sound as of | did you manage to get out, my darling ?”’ The Turkish soldier came on, his lantern held high above
silver. here. The Eyil One himself is helping this Turk.” the faint and muffled dipping of an oar. ‘4 crept out of my window while one of the sentinels! his head. Suddenly he started at the unmistakable 4

f
ow

 
 

>

 

 

 

- I was after!”

.

ea

 

 

sound of breathing close at hand. The next moment,
with an abruptness that startled him, he found himself
confronted by the young Greek commander, and the eyes
of the two men met in a flashing, comprehensive gaze.
(To be Continued.)
>e~<

A TALE OF A STRANGE YOUNG LIFE.

Hazel-Eye,
om sp RRE Eg ;
GIRL |

TRAPPER.

By Ned Buntline, (&. Z. Judson.)

Author of LITTLE BUCKSHOT, BUFFALO
BILL, CARLOS THE TERRIBLE, etc,

 

 

[“Hazel-Eye” was commenced in No. 37. Back Numbers may
be obtained from any News Agent in the Union.)

CHAPTER XXX. *

Yes, the fair face, gazing down upon the hunter in his
terrible extremity, with a pitying look, seemed to him to
be more than mortal, to be the face ofan angel. Almost
breathless, he looked at her, and hethought that her
voice was heavenly music when he heard these words:

“Can I help you?” :

“Only something from Heaven can, and if you're not
from there, I’m content to die,” he answered, forgetting
his fearful peril in his intense though sudden admiration,

A half-pleased smile mingled with the look of anxiety
and terror on her face, as she said:

“Tam not from Heaven, but | often wish I were there.
But this is no time for compliments or idle words, You
are in fearful damger, sir. Should that rock crumble,
nothing could save you. Isaw you fall, for I was stand-
ing but a short distance away. How canTI help you?”

“TI hardly know, blue-eyed angel; but there’s one thing
sure, if I’ve gotto die, Pll die a better man for havin’
looked in your face! You've carried me back to my boy-

- hood’s home—ay, to the only happy days of all my life.’

‘Do not talk or think of me. Plan some way in which
T cam help you!” You are too far down for me to reach your
hand, or I would try to draw you up.”

/oc’¥ou'd have a/heayier draw than you could stand, ’m
fearin®, beautiful! But if you had a lariat, or a bit ofrope
afew yards long, and some place to hitch it te, 1 could
haul myself out of here !?

“Will this fo"? she cried, and. as she bent a lithe and
graceful form over the rock, clinging toa small tree to
sustain hérself, he saw her unwind a long sash from about
her slender waist.

“JT reckon jit will, if you can fasten one end tosomething

© Solid up there,” he answered. ‘lt is silk, and that is
strong.”’

“Then you can be saved. Thank kind Heaven for that !’’
she cried. ‘It would have been terrible to see you perish
and I unable to extend a hand to save you !””

“Angel, dyin’ wouldn’tbe hard when one knew you
was lookin’ at him,”’ said the hunter, his enthusiastic ad-

“ MIniration unabated.

The young female made no reply, but she seemed busy
fixing the end of the scarf to the tree by which she steadied
herself as she looked over the verge. This was doneina

-. few sééonds, then as she seemed about to lower the scarf
to-his.1each, she said:

“You will make me a promise, in return for what I am
doing, ‘will you not ?”’

“1)l promise anything vow ask, for I know by your eyes
you'll not ask me to do a wrong !”’ he answered.

“Thank you—I will trast, and save you firs®.

a favor afterward.”

She threw down the end of the scarf, which he could
just reach with his extended hands.

“It is securely fastened to this tree, which is firmly
rooted in crevices of rock,’ she said. ‘“frust your weight
to it and fear not.”’

“Heaven bless, you, beautiful, whether it holds or not!”’
he cried, and he commenced to draw himself up hand
over hand.

Ina few seconds he was up to the edge of the cliff, and
her small white hands were grasping the stout collar of
his hunting-shirt to aid him in the yet perilous task of
getting upon the level of the cliff.

With her help the feat was soon accomplished, and
breathing short and quick he stood upon the narrow ledge
gazing into her face, gratefully, with such feelings too as
he had never known before. :

“Tt isn’t asin to worship vow J he said in a low tone.
“T know you are an angel. There never was a born wo-
man half so perfect, half so sweet as you!”’ \

She laughed—it was a low, musical ripple of sound, and
said: i

“Tam se glad you are safe! Now for your promise!’

“T said ’d promise anything for you, and so I will. Ask
me to jump down there, and off I go like a wolf blind
after an antelope.” ’ Wig it!

“Task nothing which will hurt you—I could@not. » You
look so noble and so manly.” ; «-) PL 1?) |

“Me—why I’ve never seeh much of
Sfill bit of bright water now and then.
when good looks are counted!”’ f

“You do look good; and true and brave, and—but the
promise. You must pledge your honor not to go any Tur-
ther along this path, but tooreturn as you came!’

“Beautiful! Don’t, don’t ask that. If you knew ‘what

T willask

myself, except ina
“But Tua not much

“Perhaps I do,”’
her lovely face. j .
“The papers out of the iron chest, and the old cuSs that

_ stole them!’ eS
of 7 knew, almost, at least }feltsure you were in purstit

she said, and a mournful look ¢louded

him, and yet I saved you!’ she said.
“Yow wouldn't protect a fiend like
a livin’ angel of light and beauty!" ; :
Alas, you know-not what Ze is tomée—and I must not,
are not now explain. But you would hot cause my

~ death ?”?

“No, never! T would die at the torture-stake before I'd
harm you, lady!’

“It would be death to me—death to you also to go on.
They who are now where yondeér smoke is rising are mer
ciless They have not seen you, or your life would be
taken in spite of all that I could do to save it.”’

“I have a Way of takin’ care of life, my sweet!’ said the
hunter, dropping his right hand to his well-garnished belt,
and pointing to the rifle which he had cast back as he was
in the act of falling, and which he now picked up.

“They too are armed, and they are bad, desperate men!’

- She said. :

“You avé not with them—oh it cannot be, orifso, not
willingly!’ *

‘It is not M¥-will, but my fate, which fora time keeps
me in company- Which I abhor,” she answered. ‘You
will keep your promise, and accede to my wish to return.”

“TL must—buit the papers which were in the iron chest!’

“fT will try to get them for you—indeed I will. I will
risk all to obtain them, even as he seems to have risked
so much and left the bounds of civilization to find them!’?

“7 believe you, lady—please tell me some name by which
I may call you! For I would like to speak it over and
over all the time.”’

“My name? I dare not give it all—that has been for-
bidden by him. But you may call me—Medora.”’

“Medora! Itisasweet name, and it will fall from my
‘lips in whispers by day and by night, wherever I may bel’?
said the hunter, his large brown eyes glowing with plea-

»stite, his honest and intelligent face flushed as it were
with a newborn joy—his whole appearance so changed,
that he was almost handsome.

“yo are kind to say so,”? she said, in a low, tremulous
tone, ‘Knowing nothing of me, but that you see me, liv-
ing, breathing here.”

**Medora, do-I not owe you a life? Innocence is throned
upon your White brow—I read it in the depths of your
soulful eyes—it throbs in the heart which lifts your bosom
in gentle beatings, as the water-lily rises and falls upon
tle trembling wave!’ lam a rude, rough man, most bean-

him—you who are
ae

-\. tiful one, buf it seems as if you softened every thought of

mine, and by your ‘influence coined new and softer

\. Janguage for my lips than they ever breathed before!”

- “And you—what may I call you, brave, /onest stran-

- Jeri

My name is Caleb Durg—the Indians, who are all
frienly to me, call me Red Panther, because I dress as
you see I do, I think!” ;

“Itis a romantic name—but may 7 call you Caleb?”

“Oh if—if you will! It is too much honor for you to
speak to meas.if I were an equal!’

“Ah Caleb—you-are my superior, in many things. You
aré a brave, a great, strong, noble man. And you are
honorable, 1 know—do not ever have te hide and shun the
faces of your fellow men!’

Never!” Said’ Gale Durg, proudly, and he drew his
massive frame té4its fullest hight, shaking back his nut-
brown curling hair, and looking at her with a loving light
from his expressive eyes.

“Oh, if I dared to tell you all!" she continued. <‘‘Per-
haps I may before long. Do you know what the papers
are which were in the iron-chest? For Ll see you know
where they came from!”

‘“‘No—hut I Know they are of deep value to as good a
girl as ever trod the face of earth—exceptin you. Don't
start, she .is like a sister, or a child to me, for I was her
father’s friend!’

“Was 2” “a

‘“Yes—for her father waSmurdered a few days ago!”

“Murdered.? Wasit in an attempt te get these papers
—these terrible papers?’ asked the girl, trembling from
head to foot.

‘T donot know, but I think they were connected with
the cause of his death.
his murderer was.in the chest.”

“IT Know it, then, alas I feared as much, I Aroz the
name!’ '

“Sodce I, Medora, 1 believe.’

“And you do not. hate me? Do not shrink from me?’

“QTate you, beautiful? I never knew what it was to
dove, till hung on the rock down there with but a step
between me and.death and looked up into your faee. Then
jit flasiec down ‘into my heart, as a bright dew-drop falls
into tke cup of a dying flower. Iam wakened into a Jife
$0 new, so glorious, that I can hardly realise it.

‘And it is I that have wakened you to life?”

“Yes, sweet Medora—ves."!

‘‘And will you love me, Caleb, enough to extricate me
from the power of exe whom I fear and must obey, and
whom J new 100k on with horror, for I fear his hands are
red with the cruel stains of murder!”

“You mean——"

*Hush—de not breathe Lis name—do nof, for my sake!"?

 

sad some nourishin

When dying he said the name of

pulse, [lingered in this wild, romantic spot to gaze on
yon wondrous scene of beauty, while they went on to
build a camp. For some reason, a change of location for
the party was decided on last night. When and where
can I meet you again?’

“When and where you will appoint, most beautiful. f
would like to return and tell Hazle-Eye that I have not
found, but hope to find the papers.”

“Do so—do so, and then come back to this vicinity and
make some signal so that I may come to you.”’

“J will. I think from the lay of the land.that I knowa:
shorter, better route to the vicinity of the camp yonder—
one directly over the mountain—an old trail, long unused,
| for.a fallen tree which bridged a.chasm rotted down some
time ago. With am ax I can drop another bridge and
make the trail of use once more.”’

“Then you will come to meagain?”’

‘Yes, as Sure as that the sun will rise, I will come to-
morrow. Do you see that peak, just within the line of
forest, rising alone almost like the dome of some great
building?”

*‘Yes—lI see it, Caleb.”’

‘Do you see a blasted pine upon the western side?’

“T do—it has been lightning-riven, [ think.”’

‘You are right, bright-cyes! Look for a green branch
stuek in a Cleft -abotit the hight-of- my form to-morrow,
and when you seeit, walk that way. Should you hear
the note of a whip-poor-will, come on fearlessly to where
it sounds, for it will be me. That bird does not come into
this altitude, though it is found in the vallies not far
away.”?

“Twill come fora ‘signal, and I will rejoice when I
see it !”

“Thank you, good and beautiful Medora. Now, fare-
well—Ii will return aud so farasI can, explain what I
hope to do.”’

“Do not say farewell, dear Caleb. It sounds as if we
were not to meet again. And I would rather die here now
than to think that would be the case |”?

“Angel !”?

Impulsively he strained her form to his manly breast
for an instant, while he bent down his face and kissed her
upturned brow, her eyes, her lips, often and lovingly. Not
with passion’s burning fire, but with that pure, that holy
tenderness which makes love seem a gift from Heayen—a
pure, a holy thing !

Her face was flushed as she gave back one long, linger-

ing kiss, but it was not a blush of shame—it was a sign
that her warm young heart, full of electric fire, was giving
love for love.
* And who so cold as dare to say such love is not the
spring-breath of Nature and the light of human life—the
one thing which makes us feel that Heaven mates hearts,
if man is called to mate hands.

And loving thus, they parted.

 

CHAPTER XXXI.

“He has been awake, but he sleeps again, for I gave him
another sleeping draught. He was crazy, talking of an
angel with golden hair and blue eyes.”’

This was the answer of Hazel-Eye when Cale Durg, re-
turning, asked how Mad Eagle was getting on.

“He may talk of an angel with golden hair and blue
eyes and not be crazy,’’ said Cale, smiling; ‘for I have
seen one to-day, myself.’’

“Why, you are not- going crazy foo, are you?”?

“T hope not, my good girl—I hope not, for your sake.
Where is White Pine ?’’

“He went down to the eddy which I described to him,
| to get some trout for our supper. Ah, there he comes
with a fine string of them.”’

“What success, Cale?” asked Rupert.
the trail?”

“Ay, lad. The iron chest is not more than a mile or two
west of here. There is the key, Hazel-Eye.”’

*‘And the papers ?”’

“They’re gone, but I hope soon to get them. I found
the chest open and empty, and I followed the trail till L
cameas near going underaslever did before and yet
come through.’’

‘““How—were you attacked ?”?

‘“No—but Ll was hurrying along on the trail over a nar-
row ledge and I stumbled at ashort turn. Over I went,
clinging in my desperation to a bush which swung mein
on a ledge ten or fifteen feet below the top of the cliff.
There I clung for dear life, expecting to go every minute,
for Lcould feel the slender footing crumble while I stood
there. Then an angel with golden hair and blue eyes——"’

“Cale, Cale, you are not-drunk or crazy : :
such talk as Mad Eagle over

“I'm neither rar
A girl-womany
the cloudless §

“Could you keep

  

         
 
 
 
    
 
  

   

Hazel-
or even

. -
swe
Say

cannot tell, only nob ever
,usne..is. the loveliest,
dreamed of!"* «
‘What is she doing in this

  
   

,
dermess ??? 3 4
not here

“She must be free, or she could not have been there:
alone to-help you!’ 2 4

“She vs free to some extent—but yet under fear and re-
straint. Ask no more now. Through her I hope to re-%
cover the papers taken from the chest. And I yet ho

  

to}

 
 

 

“A wounded Indian, doctor? where, sir?”
“Up at the cabin of the Girl Trapper.”

“Did you see the Indian?”

“No, sir. She made that an excuse to keep me from en-
tering the cabin. She would not have him disturbed,
she said.”

“T reckon it was am excuse to keep youaway. Ifyou
had gone in, you would not have found an Indian, well or
sick, alive or dead.”*

“No; but by her manner, when she laid her hand on
her revolver) I think I’d have found a dead doctor if I had
tried-to goin. She is a tartar, sir—not only a Diana, but
a Zantippe, sir. I had to mount and come away without
even touching her, beautiful hand.’ ti (hn

“Ah, then, your disappointinent it is which‘has put you
into this humor of Kicking your servant—as faithful a man
as eyer served an Ungrateful master. You should be
ashamed of yourself, doctor.”? :

“So I am, major. I’m a brute—an addle-pated fool!
Jean Burte, come here, sir. I apologize to you—I beg
your pardon, Jean Burte.’’

“Ah, doctare, you are too good—too good to poor Jean
Burte. Ifit will do you any benefit, save, keak me again
—three, four, several times}? ‘, ;

“No, no—youare too good aman forme to,abuse, The
major is right—.But I was vexed, and had to» vent my
vexation on somebody. Just dike many another brute, [
imposed on one whom I thought I could insult with im-
punity. I wish you had knocked me down, Jean Burte!’’

“Oh no, doctare—nevare—nevare would I do zat. I
know how bad you feel. L’ave myself been afflicted in
zis world, but notin zat way. I will prepare your din-
nare, sare, and you shall feel anew man. I will make ze
potage de bean, and ze fricazee de crapeau, and ze omo-
lette de bird-egg. Ah, ha—wiz one good dinnare, doctare,
you will be all ze Saine as before!’’

“No, no, Jean Burte. I cannot banish the remembrance
of that beautiful girl. Her proud face, her lovely form—
ah, what a swbject she Would make!’

And the doctor sighed over the recollection,

“Weare getting on finely with our gold washing, doc-
tor,’? said the major.

“Yes, but there isno chance of an accident in this kind
of work. If you were only in the auriferous quartz, a
premature blast might give me something todo. There
never was such a wretchedly healthy, such a miserably
lucky company as ours in the world before.’’

The major laughed—he could not well help it—to think
health and good fortune should make the doctor feel so
sad. It was natural, though, to the profession.

Do not think, dear medical reader, be you male or fe-
male, that I mean to cast @ slur upon you here. Oh, no—
though I never trouble you as a -class, or individually, my
temperate habits keep me out of your hands, I appreciate
your value, your sacrifices, and the necessity of your scien-
tific and humane offices. And now, having apologized, I
will pass on.

“You saw no sign, heard nothing of my son, sir ?*’ asked
Captain Norcross, suddenly approaching the doctor. ‘No
trail like his, or anything that would give token that he
yet lives, in all your ride,”

‘No, captain—no, I only saw and spoke to one person
beside Jean Burte while [was gone. And that was a wo-
man—a living wonder, sir, for she seemed more ready to
Jight than to talk.”

“Alas, alas! he is dead, and I am his murderer!’ sighed
the captain. ‘I wish the savages who threaten us would
pour down here ina countless horde—then—then JZ too
could die,’?

“And Jwould have myhands full of surgery, with a
chance to test my antidotes. Why don’t they come—oh,
why don’t they come,’ cried the doctor.

“They may come when Wwe least expect them,” said the
major. ‘Ido notwant tosee them, while our men are
doing so well. They are getting gold rapidly.” 3

“Gold, sir. Ah, what is gold, when it is compared to
the noble discoveries of science,” sighed the doctor.
“Here is a day almrest gone, and | haye no new specimen
to examine.’

“Shall I go to explore, to look for one, after I get ze
dinnare, doctare ?” asked faithful Jean Burte.

“No, no—I deserve punishment for my inconsiderate
cruelty to you, Jean Burte. [excuse you from all duty,
to-day.” ¢

“All but ze dinnare, sare—all but ze dinnare. If we
not eat we shall expire. Iwill prepare ze dinnare and
zen—zen may-be I find a snak, or a spidare, or a buttare-
fly. I shall explore.”

“Faithful Jean Burte. Heisa treasure. If ever I kick
him again, may I forget myself and do it with my lam2
foot!’ said the doctor, remiorsefully. :

And he entered his quarters toremoye his spurs and

riding leggings. :
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A night of rest, with nourishment given whenever he
was awake for a few minutes, made a favorable change in
Mad Eagle, and he was able to talk coherently and for along
time with Cale Durg in his own language, which the hun-
ter spoke fluently. Neither Hazel-Eye nor Rupert under-
stood the drift of their conversation—in truth, vere
Ww generally so much engaged with their own they
were not often troubled with that of others.

 
 
 
    

  
 

“Even that Pdo not know for certain, She is After this long and earnest conversation with the
of her own will! F wounded chief, | ‘discharged and reloaded his.

le D
rifle Ricoto ppie me dried meat in his hunting-

‘pouch and made y for departure.

  
        
  
   
 

 
  
  
 
    
 
    

     
 

“How long will you be absent?’ asked Hazel-Eye, no-
ing the careful preparation of the hunter, also that he

 

 

bring her to you to be a sister anda companion, such. @
you need in this lonely place!’ wh

-“T do not seek other companionship—what is this wo-
man, or girl, to me?’’ said Hazel-Eye. ‘Lam sure Dhave
company enough.”’ f Rs 3

And she glanced. far from unkindly, at T

“Well—as you will: She will not force herself into your
company. Were you to see her you would love her!’ |»

-* Perhaps so! Love i i or small part of oT composis
tion. But see—the eyes of Mad Bagie open—L must give
;  peduenee wt ait a
‘How does my red,brother feel 2? asked Cale, as he ap-
proached Indian, and laid his hand on his nerveless
arm. € SEBO ER Set J) mia

“Like one standing in the edge of the Happy Hunting
Grounds, not knowing if it will be the will of the Great
Spirit lve should go on, or turn back. My breath is short
and weak, like that of the papoose in it?s mother’s arms!*?_

“You willlive, You’ve hada close shave; were nearly
stove, bus you're in the, channel yet, and will carry
through}? is. 4 BGpeID FS 5

“Tf itis the will of the Great Spirit, s. If not, no—
and it will be well. Mad Eagle is notafraidto die. I was
looking at the Death Spirit when an angel with blue eyes
and golden hair drove Aim away, and called me back.’*

“Yes—and the same angel with golden hair and bine
eyes saved my life to-day !”? : r f oft ef ul

“Good! She is the Spirit of Life, then. My brother,
Red Panther, should be thankfal, as Mad Eagle, is, that
he has seen her?’ »)'aer fy j ay

“T am!’ said Cale, fervently. ‘‘Mad Eagle must get well,
so that he can see her again.’? : Atay ce

“She will not come!’ said Mad Ragle, sadly... “Dhave
prayed the Great Spirit to let her come and; cool, my hot
head, but she will not come.’’ : ene oF

“You shau see her again, Mad Eagle, and thank her for
your life, as I have thanked her for mine.”’ }

‘My brother, Red Panther speaks good, words. They!
make my heart strong. Hazel-Eye is good to Mad Eagle
also. We will not forget her, or the young White Pine.”

“We only do our duty, and, if we put you on your feet
again, we will be glad,’’ said Rupert.

“Mad Eagle will get upagain. He will be strong to
strike his enemies. Many of his braves have gone to
death. Falling Water, and Dry Stick, and Young Buffalo,
allhaye gone before him. The water ran red before Mad
Eagle, and behind him, and all around. He was like a
wounded buffalo turning on the hunters, and he tried to
die with his braves. Butheis here. Red Panther, and
Hazel-Eye, and White Pine are good. They are taking the
life of Mad Eagle in their hands, and building it up strong
again.’ f

‘Mad Eagle must not talk much; he must drink this,
and then sleep. When he wakes he will have more blood
in his veins—more life in his limbs,’ said Hazel-Eye, as
she came with ministering hand to give liim nourishment
and medicine.

The Indian made no objection, and, while he took what
she had prepared, murmured out brief words of gratitude.

In a little while he was again in an easy, natural sleep,
and now Hazel-Eye sought to learn something more of his
recent adventures from the hunter.

But Cale Durg was strangely silent on this subject. He
said he had no more to reveal then, but if he succeeded,
as he heped to do, in recovering the papers, and got er
permission, he would tell all he knew of the blue-eyed
maiden with the golden hair.

    

se

  

 

z CHAPTER XXXII.

Doctor Bugle was in a most unamiable mood when he
returned to the Valley of Gold. Not all the charms of a
busy scene could make him look good-humored. The
sluices had been dug, the water-gates made, rifle-boxes
prepared, and now, with rushing rivulets running here
and there, many of the men, under direction of older hands
at gold digging, were throwing the auriferous sand into
the boxes, through which the water ran so swiftly.

As we said above, the doctor paid no heed to this, which
was delighting the major, and eyen interesting the cap-
tain, in spite of the gloom which enveloped his mind; but
riding up to his quarters, the doctor sprung from his
horse, and waited for Jean Burte to dismount.

As soon as the latter was on the ground the doctor ap-
proached him and gave him a yiolent Kick, which nearly
sprawled him out.

“Mil tonnere, Messieur Doctare! I have endure ze ipe-
cac—I have receive ze stomach-ak wiz your gran’ experi-
iment; buf, sare, I have not before-receive ze kKeek ! 1 will
not endure if, sare! Il will have ze explanacione, sare!”’

The Frenchman was wild with angry mortification. He
had endured verbal abuse, meekly submitted to become
the subject of experiments; but the doctare had never
kicked him before.

His outcry attracted the attention of the major, who
hurried to the spot, where he saw Jean Burte facing his
master in a defiant position, and the latter looking as if he
intended to annihilate him.

“What is the matter here?’ he eried. ‘‘What are you
doing, doctor 2” j
_ “Kicking that cursed fool. He is muy servant!
it to-you, sir? I'l kill him if i want to!”

‘Hardly, doctor—hardly! Have you been dosing your-
self with forty-rod commissary? Or have you been bitten
by a tarantula and gone crazy’?

“Neither the one nor the other, sir; but I’m mad, sir—
mad as a mad bullin July, sir!’

“What is the cause of your anger, sir?’’

What is

 

 

  

Rupert Noreross.

  

Om

she had never seen him do before

“We will not,” said Rupert, witha smile. ‘I would
yoltinteer to go with ‘you, bufI-fearI would be in the
“way.” age OUPR Site 3 ‘
“Are you going to builtLa new 'cabin?’?. asked Hazel-
Hye, seeing the hunter take a large ax in his hand, in
addition to his usual weapons, . a. ;

“No, gal—but I’ve got a bridge to make yover about as
nice @ tumblin’-in place as you can find in all the nor’-

}west, You’ve been up to what your father used to call

Roarin’ Brook ?”” ;

“Yes; a stream rushes through a fearfully deep chasm
rent in the mountain, so far down you can hardly see its
glimmer in the darkness, .hile its. roar as it surges on
over the rocks, sound like the cries of angry voices.”

“Well, Pin goin’ to bridge it with a tree, to shorten my

‘| journey to-day. Itused&to be bridged in that) way, and

there was atrailto and beyondit, buf the tree rotted
away, and that was the end of travel over Roarin’ Brook.
Itisarough route ‘any way... It willbe all the safer
now.”? i bis I
.-The hunter made no further explanation, but with a
cheering word to Mad Eagle passed: out. ©.

His route lay now directly overthe mountain to the west,
taking off to the right of the stream through the forest.
He moved on with the long, easy stride of one who could
alk or'run all the day long in such a region with. scarce
‘a siga/of fatigue, and soon left the cabin out of sight.

- Ofor over an hour ata rapid gait he sped, and then he
-haltedMon the yergeof the terrible chasm which had been
named Roarinj Brook. j j

|“ 1Pwas about five or six yards wide, from verge to verge
Lia Yawning cleft in the mountain through which a stream
rushed with never ceasing roar, full five hundred feet be-
low the upper. edge. ’

Cale looked around an instant to select a proper tree for
his purpose, and then picked outa small pine, with no
branches on its trunk except near the top.

This he speedily felled in such a manner that its bushy
top lay across the. stream in the centre of the old trail,
leaving its trunk, not much thicker than his thigh, asa
bridge over the fearful chasm.

‘J A slender bridge truly, but one which a son of the forest
would trust life upon as quickly asifit were ten times as
large.

For some prudent reason, the hunter now concealed the
ax which not needing more, he did not wish to earry fur-
ther. He hid it carefully beneath the butt-end of the fal-
len tree, and then stepped fearlessly on the bridge which
he had made.

The slender log bent and trembled under his weight as
he went on, but with three or four firm, rapid steps, he
was over it. /

On the other side he stepped off and passed around the
top, careful not to break down any limbs, so.as to expose
to persons from that side the bridge which the green top
hid from view, should some one come that way.

He now pressed swiftly on for another hour or more,
and then he stood upon a lofty ridge from which the same
wild scene of loveliness met his view, which had charmed
his eyes on the day before.

The cascades dashing in snowy leaps over the vast
range of basaltic cliffs among the grotesque rocks of a
thousand shapes—the showy eaps_so far away—the lofty
forest right and left.

He looked for the camp-fire smoke which he had seen
when he so narrowly escaped his peril by the aid of the
lady of the golden hair and azure eyes—he saw it, and at
once took his course for the solitary peak which he had
pointed out to her.

A rapid walk of half an hour carried him to the foot of
the blasted pine, which he approached from the east, in a
stooping posture, lest he might be seen by some prying
eye whose glance he did not wish to meet.

Tearing a green trailing vine from the earth, he raised
it to a Knot about eight feet from the ground on the
western‘side of the whitened, barkless trunk and fastened
it there. }

He had not long to sigh in silence over the tardiness of
the “angel of his thoughts.”

A glimpse of a° fairy figure, dressed far different from
Hazel-Bye, for Medora wore the garb of civilization even
there, soon made his heart throb with mighty pulsations
under his tight4fitting garments, and he. gave out the cry
of the whip-poor-will so loud and clear, that the maiden
stopped and looked up into some of the neighboring trees,
as if she thought it was a bird indeed.

Then with a smile on her lovely face she hurried on, re-
membering the promised signal-ery, and soon after it had
been repeated, she was standing before him, her small
right hand clasped between both of his hands, while he
looked the love he felt from his large earnest eyes.

“T have watched, since the day began,’’ she said, ‘‘for
the green branch on the blasted pine. Oh how glad I was
when it appeared. Are you glad to see me, Caleb?”

“Js the infant glad when it wakes with its mother’s
loving eyes looking down upon it? Is the lost and be-
nighted traveler glad when he finds a beaten path? Oh,
sweet angel—savior of my life—I cannot speak my joy! Jt

 

a

 

of the men whom he will not trust, but he has no fear of
me, and [have seen him hide, and at his leisure bring
them out and ponder strangely over some of them.”’

“He destroys none ?”?

‘“No—he seems to take great care of them, for he has
wrapped them in oiled cloth to keep them from the damp-
ness of the place in which he lays them.”’

“And you can get them for me ?”’

“Yes—I will. I do not feel that. he is right in taking
them—you must be right in wishing to give them back to
her who owns them as you told me.”

“Tam, Sweet Medora. Aud I will wait till you can get
them for me without danger to yourself—wait in patience,
so long as they are safe. If I can only meet you, look in
spd precious eyes, hear your dear vOice—what care I for

elay ?

‘Why do you love me, Caleb ?”’ ;

“Why? Ah, who could help it, thathas eyes to see,
ears to hear, or a heart to feel. Angel, 1 do not ask my
heart—I only know that you, and you alone fill its every
depth. My eyes look upon you and my soul whispers—I
am thine, forever thine!”

“Ah+heavens—look, dear Caleb—he ison my track—he
ts Following me!’ ‘

The hunter raised his eyes, and saw ©aptain Norcross,
not four hundred yards away.

(To be continued.)

“OP AE VAS AY.

BY SWEETBRIER,

 

 

 

I wonder if the census-takers for the year 1870 succeed-
ed in obtaining any reliable information concerning that
old, familiar social demon, ‘“‘They Say ?’’

What a queer, mysterious old fellow he is. Everybody
seems to know him, and the utmost confidence is reposed
in him by all classes of people, none of whom hesitate to
repeat the most improbable stories with only his name to
guarantee the truth of the statement.

There does not, probably, exist aman or woman who
has not at some period in his or her life got into trouble
by repeating the remarks of ‘‘They Say.’’ Yet very few
oe to have learned wisdom from an experience of this

<ind.

“They Say’? hasavery peculiar family, consisting of
his wife, better knownas ‘‘Madam Rumor,’’ a very pe-
culiar old lady who is forever getting somebody into a
scrape, but always manages to keep out herself. Their
eldest son, ‘‘Scandal,’? was married to the Widow Grun-
dy, many years since, and they do an immense business
in newspeddling, and the manufacture of goods which
bear the peculiar trade marks of ‘Scandal’? and “They
Say’? combired.

Then there is ‘‘Miss Gossip,’*the daughter, an idle, lazy,
shiftless creature, who hever means any harm, but some-
how manages @ doa vast amount of mischief without
meaning it.

And the several younger members of the family

iC

are
mostly engaged in attending to the domestic affairs of
their own family (after they have accomplis ir daily
task of picking up items of interest to be factured
into first-class retail articles bearing the -mark of

the firm.) F

This is no shoddy concern, but a first-class firm, which
nobody is afraid to trust, and their paperis never seen
waiting to be endorsed.

Gentlemen in broadcloth and ladies in velvet exchange
the small coin of this wealthy family, and among the low,
degraded ones, anything passes current if it is endorsed
by ‘*They Say.’

Yet, in spite of the universal popularity of this most
wonderful person, nobody knows where he resides, or
whether he is taxed for the full amount he is worth, or, in
fact, anything about him beyond the fact that a whisper
of his is enough to make bankrupt the most solid reputa-
tion, and so firm is the general belief in his integrity that
no person ever hinted at having him arrested for defama-
tion of character, although he sometimes tells awful
things, and everybody seems willing to repeat if.

However, I doubt the ability of any person or persens
to arrest him, for he is never to. be found where he is
wanted, and that is the reason of my asking whether the
census-takers had this year returned anything reliable in
reference to him, or his family.

“They say’? must have inhabited thé earth since its
creation, for we read of him at the very commencement
of his business in the garden of Eden, and the first article
ee his trademark was what tey said about the Tree
ol ile, o a

Madame Eve retailed the article. to Adam, merely telling

him: ‘‘They say the fruit of the tree is good to eat,’ and
even Adam, the man made in God’s own image, did not
for a" think of inquiring into the truth of the state-
ment.
_ So it seems that the reputation of ‘They Say’? was es-
tablished from the beginning. But itisa entable fact
| that the effect of too implicit confidence in his articles of
merchandise, is to-day just what itwas in the garden of
Eden. Those who deal with ‘“‘They Say’ are quite too
sure of being turned out of the Eden of somebody’s affec-
tions. Gossip, the daughter of ‘‘They Say,’? and Madam
Rumor is still ina state of single blessedness, never, hav-
ing found time to marry. :

   
    
        
 
 
    
    

  

    

   

 
 
  
  
   

 

  
    
    

say she fell inlove with a young man
u-Tell,’’ but his family objected to the
old maid in consequence,

f the peculiarities of this wonderful
gth, when we lave time; meanwhile,
census-takers will report.

     
  
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
     
 
  
        
 

ures of Strasburg.

“By Francis A. Durivage.

 

CHAPTER XXXT.
MAX WALDECK IN LOVE.

The next day brought another visitor to the Red Lion—Max
Waldeck, who was proceeding by easy stages to Berlin.

“My fair enemy,’’ he said, with a smile, extending his hand to
Minna, “have you a frown or a smile for a German soldier ?”

“T see only a wounded friend,” replied the young girl, as she
-placed her hand in his, and led him gently te an easy-chair.

There was a whispered conversation between the landlady and
her adopted daughter, and then, begging Waldeck to excuse them,
they left the room. ‘

After a few minutes the door opened and the landlord entered.

“Franz Hartzman!” cried Waldeck, offering his hand.

“No longer Franz Hartzman, but Laurence Chatillon,” replied
the other.

“Laurence Chatillon, you fhe hero of the romantic story I have
been reading in the papers. You and your band made sad havoc
among my countrymen.” :

“As you and yours have made with mine,” replied Chatillon,
not indignantly, but sadly. ‘Yon are victorious; we are crushed.
I came here to see my wife—but I suppose I must surrender as a
prisoner of war.”

“Not so,” said Waldeck. “Iwill engage that your parole of
honor not to serve against us during the war will save you from
molestation. My influence with the Governor of Strasburg will
secure that much.”’

“JT will give my parole readily,” replied Chatillon; “I am con
sien, thas further fighting is madness; and moreoyer I am dis-
abled.’

' “J, too, have been obliged to leaye the field,’ said Waldeck
“So we are no longer active enemies.”

Max Waldeck longed for an opportunity of seeing Minna alone,
but it looked as if she carefully avoided him. One day, however,
his wishes were gratified, and he was able to address the beautiful
maiden without witnesses,

“Minna,” he said, taking her hand, “you can guess why I sought
Strasburg instead of going directly to Berlin.”

“T was never very good at guesswork,’’ said the maiden, looking
down. “I can’t imagine.”

“Then you are unlike the rest of your sex, and never look in
the glass.”

‘Perhaps I sometimes do,”’ said the laughing girl.

“Then,” said Waldeck, “you see the magnet that draws me to
Strasburg. I return to find you more beautiful than ever—to tell
you what I longed to tell you when we parted—that I love you—
to ask you to be my wife.’

Minna was silent, and the gathered tears hung heavy over her
long lashes. Were they tears of joy or of grief?

“Are you free to offer me your hand ?”’ at last she faltered out.
“Have you no family to consult ?”

The colonel became very grave.

“If my parents be yet livingI am certain of obtaining their con-
sent.”

“Until then,” said Minna, rising, “do not expect an answer to
your question.” ‘

She broke from him, and ran out of the room, leaving him half
happy, and half doubting whether he wasright to hope. He re-
mained some days at the Red Lion, but was never favored with
another private interview, _.

At last, on the eye of his departure he made a proposition to
Madame Chatillon, on the acceptance of which all his hopes
hung. He invited her, Madame Rendotf and Minna to accompany
him to Berlin, a city they had never seen. He was so earnest and
eloquent that he prevailed, and the litde party set on the journey
under the escort of the gallant German.

CHAPTER XXXII.
HEARTS AND HANDS.

Arrived at Berlin, Waldeck saw his companions comfortably
established in a quiet and respectable family hotel. He then ex-
eused himself for a brief space, and hastened to perform the mis-
sion he had assumed. ;

He drove directly to the splendid mansion occupied by the
Count and Countess von Konigsberg, and requested an audience.
They gave him a grave but courteous welcome. f

“7 understand, sir,” said the count, “that you were a friend of
our son. When did you see him last ?”

“On the battle-fieid of Sedan,” replied Waldeck, in a low tone.
‘He breathed his last in my presence, bidding me see you and,
with his love, tell you that he had died doing his duty as a Ger-
man soldier, with this token.” d

And he gave the afflicted parents the locket he had received
from the dying officer. hWwan

The sight of this trinket renewed the grief of the aged countess,
and the silence that followed was broken by her sobs.

The count then said: ;

“The last honors have been paid to the departed, sir: Thanks
to the care of his comrades, we were permitted to behold his face
again unchanged. He lies with his ancestors—and in a short
space we shall slumber beside him; fora lonely old age cannot
long withstand the attacks of grief.”

‘Pardon me, sir,” said W: rideck, respectfully. “ButI heard
that you had another son, living.” 48 :

“You have unconsciously touched another source of grief,” said
the count, with asigh. “We have another son, itis true, but
we shall never behold his face again. The sentence of a military
court-martial keeps him in perpetual exile.”

“Then I am the bearer of good tidings,” said Waldeck. “Here
isa full pardon for Captain Adolph von Konigsberg, under the
hand and seal of King William.”

And he placed the document in the trembling hands of the old
count.

“You are thrice welcome, sir!’ said the old man, grasping his
hands. ‘You bring a ray of joy into the house of mourning. We
shall behold our darling boy again—he will forgive us for the
past—he will cheer our declining years.. But how was this pardon
obtained ?” . ]

“J had performed some slight service——” said the soldier.

 

I have seen them—he keeps them concealed from the eyes |

 

eicaceaila

 

 

with me that he was willing to grant almost any request I might
prefer. T asked him for Captain Adolph’s pardon.” 7

“You have made us your friends for life,” said the countess.
‘But how came you to take such an interest in our son ?

“T knew him in America,” replied Waldeck.

He then, to the surprise of his host and hostess, stepped to the
center of the room and turned the gas, which had been burning
dimly, full on. .

Standing in the flood of light, he exclaimed:

_ “Look at me! Am Iso changed that you do not recognize one
feature? Father! mother|.1am yourownedest Adolph!”

And he threw hiniself at their tec sey

Changed, indeed he was, by hardship, grief, exposure, wounds—
so changed that some of his old army ¢omrades had passed him
by in camp without recognizing him—but the eyes of father and
mother are gifted with higher pereeptiye qualities; they knew
their boy, and clasped him to ther } 8.

A hundred questions and ‘replies followed. A lapse of years
must be accounted for, and though the narrative was condensed
by Adolph, it oceupied a long time.

 

At last the countess asked:

“Are you married, Adolph?” R

“No, mother,” was the reply, “but I am in love with a beautiful
and worthy girl.” y

“No doubt she is a matyel in your eyes,” said the countess,
smiling for the first time formany weeks.

‘Whoever she is,” said the count; ‘cultivated or uncultivated,
high-born or low-born, sh@’shall be our daughter. I know, dear
Adolph, that your mature mind will not: guide you amiss; and
never again will I thwart the impulses of your heart,”

‘‘Heaven bless you for those words, dear father,” said Adolph,

taking his hand, “Rathérthan reno ‘Minna, I would forfeit
rank, fortune, all, and go back to a win our bread with

we

the labor of my hands, But you mitist kiew all. Minna is no
high-born beauty, She is only the daughter of an innkeeper.”

Doubtless the old aristocratic blood of ‘the high-born count’
pulsed quicker at this declaration, but he didnot flinch from his
pledge... He ha@ passed his word, and he was true to it as steel.

Adolph rode/swiftly back to the hotel where he had lett his treas-
ure, | To his delight hefound her alone in the sitting-room. He
pressed ber little Hand rapturously, and exclaimed: -

‘Dear Minna, will.yet. be my wife ?”

“Do you ask’me this question with your parents’ consent ?”

“With their full consent, dear Minna.”

“What!” cried the maiden, with a look of strange meaning.
“Will the Count and Countess von Konigsberg consent to receive
an innkeeper’s daughter into their family +

_ “The Count and Countess von Konigsberg!” repeated Adolph,
in amazement. ‘“Hoswdid you gues; a
“That they were th ot» € aptain Adolph yon Konigs-

berg? No great wisdom in that cues:

“How did you discover my secret?! Askéd the captain. ©

“Woman’s wit is not easily baffied,? replied Minna. “But are
you quite sure that you really love me ??

“Oh, Minna, I adore you. Can you doubt me ?”

“Then you have forgotten a certain Clara Merkle.”

“I can never forget her,” said Adolph, gravely. “If my heart
beat when I firstsaw you, it was because you lad her eyes and
smile. IfI rapidly came to love you, it was because you had her
sweet nature.” tte”

“And you ask me to aceept a heart which has neyer ceased to
throb for a lost love? You are worshiping her when you are
looking in my eyes. This strange passion will not suit me. I
must be loyed for myself alone. Minna Hartzmann rejects you.”

Adolph’s heart sank within him. : -

“But,” added the beautiful girl, and she flung her armé about
his aa “Clara Merkleaccepts you! Life without yew is but liv-
ing death!’ eG ,

Ah! but for those soft, caressing atms} ‘and warn? kisses, the
shock of this discovery would haye dethroned the reason of the
wounded soldier. His dear, Jost love restored ! ~The copy that he
worshiped suddenly become theoriginal treasure!

“J knew you from the first,” said the happy girl, aftera long ex-
change of confidences had passed between them. ‘‘Forgive me
for my silence. I was happy in your presénee—so happy that I

ostponed the revelation of myself. But it is all for the best. We
ave been cruelly tried; we shall prize each) other all the more
”?

 

 

 

 

for the sufferings we have endured,’
CHAPTER XXXIi, °
IN THE BERLIN HOSPPTAL: *

The following day the Count and Countess yon Tonigsberg,y ac-
companied by their son, drove to thé hotel where Clara lodged,
beheld her for the first time, and were charmed by her beauty.
grace, and frankness. ' “sid $1 F

The party, in the course of a few days, visited many public pla-
ces together, and among others a large hospital filled with the
wounded of both armies, ee > pec}

At the latter place they were received by an elderly but still
handsome lady, Madame Wallenstein, a chil widow, who de-
voted her life and fortune to deeds of charity. Under her auspi-
ce. they yisited the most interesting of her patients, —

With two of these our readers are but too wel) acquainted—Pe-
ter Moreau and his wife. Discovered wounded on the field of Se-
dan, they had been removed to Berlin, receiving every care and
attention, for it will be remembered that they had done good ser-
vice to the Prussians as guides, and they had ¢onducted their ne-
farious operations so skillfully that their true eharacter had re
mained wholly unsuspected.

Of the two the she-valture was most cruelly wounded. For a
time she seemed to be doing well, but hér injuries assumed a mal-
ignant character after she had been received imto the hospital at

erlin, and it was found necessary to amputate her right arm at
the shoulder. She survived the operation, but her condition con-
tinued critical. : : ° ve

Peter Moreau, who was recovering from his wounds in the male
department of the institution, was informed ly of his wwife’s
state, and itgave him the greatest anxiety—not that he pitied
her in the least—not that he hoped for her recovery—but because
he feared that in her agonies, and im the face of death, her con-
science might awaken, and she might make a confession periling
his own life. When he heard that she had been visited by clergy-
men interested in her spiritual welfare, he cursed the church and
its professors in his soul, but not a blasphemous expression es-
caped his lips. ;

A pitiable but hideous object was the wretchef old she-vulture
as she lay upon her cot. Her features were distorted, and herone
eye moved restlessly in its socket. The fight afm, which had

 

plundered the dead and strangled the wounded, was’ gone, and
only one shrunken and wrinkled claw lay upen the white cover-
let, and this was lifted constantly to stuff her beak with snuff—
her only consolation, since she was denied the use of spirits, for
which she was all the time craving. ;

Madame Wallenstein devoted herself particularly to this wretch-
ed creature, She bore with her querulotisnéss, humored her
whims, and ministered to all her needs, i a

There is adiyine spark in every human bosom, however de-
graded—a conscience whieh will at some time or other make
itself heard, even if ultimately overborne by the weight of guilty
See the Moreau woman, hardened as she was, could not

e insemsible to the persistent Kindness of her yoluntary nurse.

One day the poor mutilated hag, after much internal wrestling, ~

said that she had something on her mind which she must commu-

nicate, ‘
“What TI have to say will make you hate me, my lady,” said the
patient; “but I can’t help that. It keeps me awake nights in
spite of opiates; it will kil] me it [ keep it on my mind. You don’t
know how i’ye wronged you.”? -
Madame Wallenstein thought. the mind of. the woman must be

‘affected by her sufferings, or by the narcotics she had taken; but

still she answered, gently:

“Try to compose yourself, my good woman. It is quite impos-
sible that you have ever done me any wrong.”

“Oh, Pm not wandering,’ said the patient, with a groan. “TI
know only too well what Pm saying, isten. More than twenty
years ago I was a wretched beggar and vagabond in thé streets of
Berlin—a drunken vagabond, passing my life between the work-
house and the gutter—picking up rags, thieving when I got a
chance. One day, sick and starving, I went to your house, and
boldly knocked at the door. A pampered menial in livery told me
to begone—to die in the kennel—your orders were to drive such
Mobo in as I was from your door, Those orders cost you dear, my
ady.

“I never gave such orders,” said Madame Wallenstein.

“J believed you did, and I swore revenge,’ said the vulture, ‘“T
managed to ge’ food and drink no thanks to yon, I watched-and
waited. What was your most precious treasure? Where could li
strike the deadliest blow at your heart? I soon discovered. You
had a child, which tie nurse sometimes took out for an airing. I
watched her,and one day in the park, when her charge was
asleep on a bench, and the girl’s attention was diverted for one
moment, J Stole the child!”

“Wretch!’ cried Madame Wallenstein. ‘It was you then! To
you I own a life blighted and lonely. You murdered my darling.”

“I thought of doing so. She was agreat encumbrance. Mere
neglect would have killed her. But [had a.weak spot in my
heart then; and when the little creature smiled in my face, she
disarmed me of my murderous purpose. I-escaped undétected
into Baden, and there disposed of the infant toa childless widow.?

“And my Ottilie is living?” f i i’

“That I know not. But the woman who took charge of herwas
living a short time ago. I attended her second husband in his last
illness. She did not recognize me, for she ‘did’ ‘not see my tace
when I gave her your infant ” AFF PUG LAU Soya :

“Her name? The name of this woman?” cried: Madame Wallen-
stein, : ;

“That remains my secret,” said the hag, ‘If I told you, you
would leave me to die here likea dog, Nurse me—get, me well
first—and then you shall kuow.” “iY aa

“Tell me I conjure you. I will cele your sin if you'will tell
me. I will nurse you faithfully. I will never leave your bedside.

I will make you rich beyond your wildest hopes.) 0°.) oT

But no entreaties, no threats, could extort the seeret lips
which had perhaps already revealed too much. |The selfish cun- —
ning of the old woman fortified her, and she swore that she would
take her own time for the completion of the revelation, ~ ~~

Madame Wallenstein, as we have said, conducted our friends
through the wards of tlle hospital. ‘The gentlemen were not? ad-
mitted to the female: department, and awaited without forthe
ladies until their visit had been complet i

The alcove where the wounded vulture lay was the last visited.
Since the surgeon’s visit in the morning. a change for the worse
bad taken place in the patient. She lay now very stilly ashen
gray, and only kept alive by stimalants. -

The women approached the bedside softly, and looked upon her.
with commisseration. Madame Rendoff recognized ber but said |
nothing. The poor mutilated wretch herself, however, pronounced |
her name—eyen mumbled out thanks for her visit. i

“But who is this with you ?' she added. “I don’t hike td’ see
folks standing round me with ‘yails over their heads. . They look
like the’ugly. things which come in here when there’s no attend-
ants here to drive ’°em away—things that come in at night without

asses.” ; ;
ic nmor hers” whispered Madaihe Wallenstein, and Clata riised |

1er vail. Sat ea a: 4 ;

The moment that fair face Was uneovered, | the lady uttered an |
exclamation of surprise. . Seizing Clara!by the hand, she drew her
nearerto the patient, and asked injan agitated voice: e

“Do you know this girl 7” : 1 Y ; ¥%

The vulture shook her head. Suddent¥ dhe sat up ‘erect in bed,
and pointing her withered finger at Madame Rendoff, cried:

“But I know her. She—Louise Renddff—she is the womah you
were asking for.” r3

Then she sank slowly back on her pillow. ;

“Yhank Heaven!) cried Madame Wallenstein.

‘

a

Av

Site fellon. her

feet, she opened her arms and threw them round tiie aifianced
bride of Adolph, and sobbed forth in her astonished ear: ; 2.

“Ottilie! Ottilie Wallenstein! ‘I am‘ your mother.y Youwre the’
very image of my former self." ' f

The mystery of years was dispelled—inother and daughter were ©
reunited at last. . : 2
A sbriek from the patient recalled them to the piace in which {
they stood. The frame o/ the wounded’ woman was wgitated by y
strong convulsions—ber eyes wide! open, glared with ancexpres-”
sion of affright, and she swung her one arm to and fro.asaf to”
ward off an attack. ad ent foc :
‘Save me! save me!” she shrieked. “Don't lef thém drag, me
down into the flames. Keep the zouayve'off! He is dead—dead— __
but his fingers open and shut, ‘and ‘he’s’ chatching my fhroat-and
choking the breath outef me? Peter! Peter |] (Where are you,
Peter? Help! ‘help! somebody. They have me now, Willgio- |
body help me? Help! ieip!, PH pay you—Um rich—Mll tel you ]
where Pye hid——* eh Se
Her hoarse voice suddenly ceased, a tremor shook her mutilated ,
frame, and with a great gasp She gave up the ghost and tell back, |
her hideous features petrified to a mask of horror, (It was-dnJaw-
ful death-bed ; and it was Many minutes before the Witnesses re-
covered from the shock. “tts i $5) GL
When the ladies rejoimed their escort, however, Madame Wal
lenstein wore a smile upon her face, fer hand was linked imher
daughter’s, but she placed it in her lover's, and said: oe
“Adolph von Konigsberg, receive from her mother ‘Ss hand hnd
with her mother’s blessing, your affianced bride, Ottilie4¥allen-
stein.” i qT iw
Not the least astonished and delighted of the group was
aged Count yon Konigsberg. He had | ciled himself to, the
marriage, but the discovery that the bride was of almost noble
birth overwhelmed him with joy. ~~ ie — oe
In a few days afterward the lovers were united, and nothing in
the future seems to threaten their prospects of felicity. Notpthe
least singular feature of the quiet wedding was the presence of
Laurence Chattillon, so lately in arms against the cause the
count Supported. But war is productive of the strangest associa-
tions. 4
Atter the ceremony, Laurence and his wife, accompanied by

   
  

fF

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Beautiful, I will not!" : “J’ye a dozen causes, sir. I had a splendid chance to | will be your fuult if we ever part!” “Slight service!” interrupted the count. “It was heroic. Do} tne widow Rendofi, went back to the Red Lion at § zy the
“Yow, Caleb, we must/part for a ‘time. It will not do | test. my surgery, sir. A wounded Indian, sir, almost in| “Oh, do not say that. Leannot leave him now—anad it | Rot think Tam ignorant of your deeds, Herr Waldeck. | Though | pride promising many and many a visit to those she foved asif
oe P ee : : és sae ; : : ; : 4 plunged in grief, I have yet followed the fortunes of war. 410 | they were her own kindred >
for me to linger foo long here, or he or some of his band | my hands, sir, and was not allowed to test an antidote, or | would be worse than death te see you where he is! Be- | proud to know you, sir.” ney were & : : 7
will refarn to look forme. Impelled by some strange im- ¢yen to dress a weund!? side, I have promised to’get the papers for you and I will. “Well, then,” continued Waldeck, “the,king was so well satistied Tobe continued,
4
.
SR v:
= = il
= me ea

knees, and uttered a brief, feryent prayer; ther springing to hers

ok

7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
ite sitter)

cS

 

 

3
Fe |
i

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and again whether she were in truth in full possession of

- plained.

’ Ihave come honestly by the jewels before buying them of
e 2?

 

 

 

 

 

es arene

<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

2 dS oe
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Markham’s Secret;
The Enemy that ( Came Between.

A STORY OF ENGLISH SOCIETY.
By Nellie Longstreet.

 

 

pet

 

{*‘Markham’s Secret,” was commenced in No. 36. Back Nos.

 

can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER XIX.

“This is my daughter Miriam,’ said the dwarf, as the
lady entered the room.

If Olive had been amazed to discover the dealer in odds
and ends of St. Botolph’s in the East, the proprietor of such
a well-ordered, comfortable residence as that in which she
now found herself, still more was she astonished that he,
the malformed, misshapen creature could call anything so
lovely his daughter.

Miriam was a girl of eighteen or nineteen, tall and
graceful, with that peculiar, elegant, undulating form
which, when seen in its perfection, is one of the greatest
charms woman can possess.

Very dark, yet with a flush of color in her clear skin,
with black eyes that looked from beneath long silky

 

lashes in soft, dreamy languor, and with a wealth of hair
the color of the raven’s wing, which, contrary to the ar-
bitrary rules of fashion, swept in natural waves Over her
bare shoulders, with no other ornament than a thick gold
thread, twining in and out among the tresses, Miriam
seemed to Olive one of the most lovely creatures she had
ever gazed upon. Her features were as regular as_ those
of an antique statue, and the sole fault a critic could have
found was an absence of expression in a face otherwise
perfect.

“ant cried the dwarf, bitterly, “you are wondering
what business I have with anything so lovely. An ugly,
stunted, hump-back has no right to so beautiful a daugh-
ter. Well, well; why grudge mea little sunshine? The
world shrinks from me, but there is one who will not turn
aside her face in horror at my deformities.”

Miriam crossed the room, inclining her head to Olive in
passing, and kissed her father tenderly on both cheeks.

Olive noted with wonder the splendor of the dress and
jewels she wore, and felt compelied to ask herself again

her senses or whether she were not rather the victim of
some delusion. It seemed impossible that the owner of
the house at Hampstead could be the same dwarfish crea-
ture who had frightened her a couple of hours before in
the dark, dingy shop in Tarpaulin Row.

The two lives were a contradiction, but a little later,
when Miriam had left the room, the mystery was ex-

Olive, unused to concealment, revealed in answer to
certain questions putto her, a portion of her life, ana,
moreover, hinted at the object she had in view in coming
to London.

“Why do you suppose,” inquired the dwarf, ‘‘that I put
so Many queries to you?”

Olive’s face flushed as she replied:
“Because I think—that is, I imagine you want to be sure

 “No,’? answered the dwarf, vehemently, “It is because
you, a kind-hearted, fresh, simple country girl, have not
‘Shrunk from me in disgust as most people have done—ay,
When they have only seen this the better life I lead, and
are ignorant even of the existence of such a place as Tar-
aulin Row. It may be I am over sensitive—they say de-
ormed creatures like myself are; but it is a terrible thing
to go through life the object of scorn, contempt, and loath-
ing. The dogs in the streets bark at me, the men shrink
back, the women gather their skirts closer round them to
avoid a contamination of my touch.”

“Surely,” said Olive, ‘‘this is an exaggeration.
fancy things worse than they are.”

“No no, I have learned the truth by bitter experience.
You are the first woman for many a long day who has
treated me like a fellow creature—nay more, you have
shown me some sympathy, and I am not ungrateful. You
have let aray of sunshine into my heart, and in return I
will be of service to you. Ithink Ican be. Will you let
me?’

Tc tell the truth Olive was somewhat taken aback by
this speech, and scarcely knew in what words to make
her reply,

Alone and friendless in London, it was a boon to her to
have any one to whom she could turn for counsel and ad-
vice, yetshe could not help hesitating in accepting the
assistance of this man of two lives.

‘ He saw the hesitation, and a pained look crossed his
ace.

“I do not desire to force myself into your confidence,”
he said; ‘‘but if 1 divine rightly the cause of your doubt,
let me explain to you the mystery of my life—then, if you
are satisfied, trust me.’’

“T have no wish to penetrate your secret,” answered
Olive, faltering.

“But will you listen to me?”’

She bowed her head, —

‘‘My father started the business down by the docks,”
commenced the dwarf, without farther pause. “In the
same dark, dingy shop where you found me to-day he
commenced a trade with the sailors who came ashore to
those parts, buying from them strange odds and ends,
outlandish curiosities from foreign lands, and precious
stones. He was a good judge of jewels, and being willing
to give a fair price for them he did a good trade with Jack,
who often enough brings home with him rough uncut
Stones without any knowledge of their worth.”

“And these he bought to sell again?’

“Precisely; and as I said before, beiug a good judge. he
s500n became rich, and extended his business by opening
a in the west end, where he speedily became

icher,’ ‘

‘“‘An office! For the sale of the jewels?’

“No, for the purchase. ‘ There may be no sailors with
rough gems in their pockets in the fashionable parts of

You

 

London, but there are many families who find it necessary

at times either to raise money on their jewels or to sell
them outright.”

“Indeed; I can imagine it!’ sighed Olive, thinking of
the heirlooms she herself desired to turn into money.

“My father got the reputation of being a fair dealing
man; business prospered with him, and he became a
wealthy one, With but one great, ardent desire, and that
was to make me, his only son, a ‘gentleman.’’? ° >

The dwarf paused, and the weary, pained look crossed
his face again, and it wasin a bitter tone he continued:

“A gentleman! Save the mark! You can’t make a
silk purse out of asow’sear. He gave mea good educa-
tion, good clothes, a handsome wife. Ah me! But I was
a misshapen, crippled dwarf for all that—a miserable, de-
formed thing too horrible to be laughed at—spurned by
the whole world. What would you fancy he did to make
a ‘gentleman’ of me???

Olive professed herself unable to hazard an opinion.

“He married me to a ‘lady.’ She sold herself to save
her father from otherwise irretrievable ruin; my father
bought her, and gave her to me to wife. She was beauti-
ful. Ah! you little know how beautiful! Shrinking from
me with a repugnance she conld not conceal she stood by
my Side at the altar and perjured herself.”

“And you—you loved her ?”’

“Loved her! Ithrew out my whole soul in passionate
devotion. I knew she cared not for me when slie became
my wife, but like a mad, fond fool I imagined I could win
her love. I surrounded her with luxury and magniti-
cence, she had everything that money could procure, but
she shuddered and shrank from me whenever I came
near her. .See had a perfect horror of me; she loathed
me, while I—I worshiped the ground on which she trod.”’

Olive’s face expressed the pity she felt, and the dwarf,
whose emotion was plainly visible, contimued his narra-
tion.

“It was bad enough that, but there was worse to come.
I continued to hope I might conquer her repugnance,
evenifI could not win her love; but as I hoped and
watched, waiting and praying, lsaw her slowly fading
away from me. She could not stand the life; the sacrifice
demanded of her was too great, she could not live with
such a beast as me,.. She died.’’

Again he paused, and Olive forbore fo interrupt his agi-
tated sorrow by words.

“Yes,’? he resumed, after a minute, ‘‘she died—died of
a broken heart, thanking Heaven with her last breath that
in its infi goodness she had been taken from a life of
torture, and from me—died praying that her new-born
infant mightsoon follow her to peace and bliss, away from
misery, away from me! She never reproached me: she
strove to thank me for my ‘goodness’ as she lay dying,
but ah! every word, every gesture, every look told me of.
the seorn, of the loathing, and the contempt with which
she could not help regarding me. It was hard to bear,
hard to hear, for 1 loved her—loyed her to the last.’

“And,” said Olive, much moved by the quiet pathos of
the story as related to her by the sufferer, ‘‘and the child?
Does it live?”’

“You have seen her.”

‘‘Miriam.?*?

“The same... But—ah! there is yet another misery—
that girl, so beautiful, for she is beautiful, is—pity me—is
weak in her intellect.”

“Not an idiot? Impossible!’’ cried Olive.

“But little better. She knows me and a few of those
she sees constantly, she admires her fine dress and spark-
ling jewels, but life has no pleasures for her.”

“But she knows you—and loyes you?”

“Yes,? said the dwarf, bitterly. ‘She is but half-wit-
ted—she loves me.” _

Olive’s sensitive nature was moved with genuine pity
for the man whose story she had just heard, and she for-
got his ugliness and deformity in true sympathy for his
sorrows,

“Heaven bless your good heart!’ he said, in answer to
her few faltered words of interest and commiseration.
“You are the first for many a long day who has spoken
to me kindly; but you shall not lose by it—no, no—let me
finish my story—there is not much more to tell.”’

“Pray continue.’

‘My father died about the same time as my wife, leayv-
ing me the business, a flourishing lucrative business. He
recommended the abandonment of the east-end branch,
and, but for my revolting hideousness, I might have given
it up; but fashionable London would not do business with
a malformed dwarf—the ladies who had come to my
father fled in horror when they saw me—they preferred
going elsewhere and being cheated rather than face me.
I was exposed to scorn and insult wherever I went. Some
were frightened, some mocked, but all loathed me—I was
an outcast, my wealth would not buy me society, no one
would be seen talking to me, no one would even acknowl-
edge they knew me.”

“Surely you must have imagined this ?°’

‘No, no; it was real, quite real. Not but myself
knew what I ‘suffered—it would have killed a weaker
man. i, a man fairly educated and with a sufficiency of
money, was alone among three millions of my fellow-
creatures. It drove me to the place where you found me
to-day. I gave up the west-end office and went back to
Tarpaulin Row. Therein the dingy, dark hole of a shop,
I haggle with drunken, blasphemous sailors, men who
have passed months, perhaps years, where es and
gorillas abound, and who yet start back in horrified dis-
may when they seé me. I believe I am only fit to show
ina booth at a fair.’ . 3 . aii

“Then you pass your days in Tarpaulin Row?"

“Yes,” answered the dwarf, with a sad, dreary smile.
‘It is my. hermitage; Iam a trading recluse. Zam and I
enjoy each other’s company. I should live there alto-
gether and never stir out of doors, were it not for Miriam.
I cannot take her there; I cannot leave her alone here,
and so I come to be aman of two lives—a man!—rather a
monster.”’ ;

‘Then you do not care for this pretty house and gar-
den ?”?

‘“‘No—yes; I hardly can tell. Ihave been used to ease
and comfort, but the dirt and squalor comes naturally
enough to me. I suppose it is that I ama beast, and am
content to live as the beasts live.’’

“No,’! cried Olive, with decision. ‘Itisa morbid, un-
healthy mind that makes you fancy these things.’

The dwarf shook his head.

‘J do some business here as well as at St. Botolph’s in
the East,’’ he continued, aftera long pause. ‘Some few,
who get over my distorted face and deformed limbs, come
here and put up with my loathsome presence for the few
extra sovereigns they obtain. It is here you should have
come in the first instance. The man who directed you to
Tarpaulin Row can only know me by repute, and must be
ignorant of London localities; still I am not sorry for
your visit to the east; it has procured me the one thing I
never expected to find—a patient listener.”’

“Yes, and a sympathizer,’ added Olive, eagerly. ‘TI
hope you will not mind my saying it, but I am sorry—oh,
so sorry for you, and indeed, indeed, you—I mean things
—are not so bad as you believe.”’

Olive was more than rewarded for her speech by the
glow of pleasure that lit up the dwarfs face at these
words.

‘You are a misanthrope,’? she continued, “and brood
over imaginary wrongs and insults till you believe them
real—forgive me for speaking so boldly.”

“Forgive you! If you only knew the good you do me.
May I touch your hand? No, no, I will not; it would be
like some loathsome reptile.”’

Olive rose from her seat, and extended both her little
white hands toward him.

He made a gesture as if to take them, and then seeming
to suddenly recollect himself, he clasped his fingers tight-
iy together beneath the table.

“Nol? he cried in a voice that was almost fierce. ‘‘Busi-
ness—business! What do you want with me?”

Olive took from her purse the jewels she had brought
with her, and laid them on the table before him.

He hardly glanced at them, but swept them across to-
ward her.

‘Will you not buy them?’? she asked, with trembling
anxiety. ‘Are they of no value?”

‘JT cannot look at them now—not now—not now! Bring
them again, at any time, whenever you please—but come
again! Stay, you want money,’ and he laid a purse on
the table, ‘‘that will suffice till you come again, When
will it be—to-morrow ?”’

He rose from his seat without stopping for an answer,
and hurriedly left the room.

Olive waited, wonderingly expecting his return, but in
his stead came the little page who had conducted her to
the house, who informed her cab was waiting to take her
back to the hotel.

Much amazed, and half-hesitatingly, she returned the
jewels to their case, and with still more hesitation took
the purse the dwarf had laid upon the table and followed
the lad to the cab, and was driven back to her temporary
London home, where she found Phoebe Leigh half dis-
tracted at her prolonged absence, picturing to herself
every possible and impossible misfortune having happen-
ed to her young mistress.

 

CHAPTER XX,

If there was-a fault to be found with Ramase3 Terrace,
North Hainpstead, it was that the houses were just a trifle
too neat. The houses wereso much alike thatif you
wished to identify any one residence it became necessary
to follow the example of the captain of the Forty Thieves
and chalk the gate-post.

Two months after the visit paid by Olive to the dwarf,
there was residing at No. 19 in the terrace a young lady of
undeniable good looks, though dubbed ‘‘dowdy’’ by her
neighbors, who were accustomed to flaunt on highdays
and holidays in all the colors of the rainbow.

This young lady was waited on by a merry-faced, fresh-
colored country girl, and besides these two No. 19 had no
occupants,

Some ofthe Mrs, Grundysof the district shook their
aged heads, and hoped it was quite correct; butall efforts
to gratify their curiosity were mnavailing, for, beyond the
facts that the tenant of No. 19 was a Miss Markham, and
was a stranger to London, nothing was discoverable,
Which was quite sufficient to setthe gossips talking, for
when fact is not forthcoming at the middle-aged female
tea-table fiction must be substituted.

Olive knew nothing and cared nothing forthe neigh-
bors’ gossip. She had taken up her temporary residence
in Ramases Terrace because it happened to suit her, and
never so muchas bestowed a thought upon who lived
next door,

Joseph Shingles, the dwarf, had been mainly instru-
mental in -persuading her to live near him. He had
proved himself a devoted friend to her, she had confided
tohim the whole story known to the reader, and had
asked his counsel.

Shrewd and sensible, he had conscientiously given her
the best advice he could, telling her at the same time that
searching for her father was a worse undertaking than
looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack; but Olive
was not to be dissuaded by difficulties, and, having se-
cured the dwarf for an ally, and having become a weekly

tenant of the furnished house in Ramases Terrace, she was
ready to commence her search—but where ?

Shingles agreed with her that as far asexisting evi-
dence went there was no clue but the emerald ring, and
that was a matter which came more within his province
than hers.

When Olive had taken possession of the little house she
went, though not without a certain degree of reimetance,
to call on Mrs. Greville Paisley.

As far as that lady was concerned, Rawdon Markham’s
daughter desired nothing better than never again to set
eyes upon her, but her sisterly love took her to the house;
she could not bear to think that Cora and Alice should be
left entirely to what she believed must be an evil influ-
ence, and she determined, if it were possible, to remove
them from it; but that was more easily said than done.

Mrs. Paisley received Olive with a gushing torrent of af-

house, but to this she of course would not consent. She
explained that she had taken the house in Ramases Ter-
race, and, with an eager warmth, besought Cora and
Alice to come and live with her; but this proposal Mrs.
Paisley, on their behalf, firmly and decidedly negatived.
A few angry words followed, in which Olive strove to ex-
ercise the authority of an elder sister without effect; and
then she took a cold leave of those who were nearest and
dearest to herin the world, and left the house, feeling
that the barrier between herself and her sisters was be-
coming more and more formidable, and that ere long it
would be insurmountable.

This was a bitter pain to Olive, and ervelly hard to bear,
especiaily in her loneliness. In London she felt still more
than at Ripplebrook the desertion of Cora and Alice. It
was a bitter thing for her to bein a large’ ¢ity without a
friend, for she was essentially One of those clinging girls
who, in trouble and joy, in difficulty and pleasure, look
to pete one to whom toappeal for comfort or for sym-
pathy.

_She was one of those girls, moreover, that men some-
times call cold and phlegmatic, for she thought little or
nothing of the wild passion of love, valuing rather the
cooler and more enduring feeling of the perfect trust and
confidence of affectionate friendship. The truth was, per-
haps, Olive was much older than her years. Owing to
the early death of her mother, she had never been a child
in thought, even when one inage. She and her father
had been the whole world to each other until that fatal
day when Mrs. Greville Paisley had come to Ripplebrook
and stepped between them.

To her father she had eyer naturally turned for love and
sympathy, and, now he had leit her, she realized how
hard it was to stand alone.

Under these circumstances it was not unnatural that
she should be drawn toward the only person who had dis-
played any sympathy toward her, even though that per-
son was an ugly, humpbacked, misshapen dwarf,

Joseph Shingles went heart and soul into her plans.
If she turned in grateful friendliness to him, he welcomed
her confidences with an ardent delight that words cannot
express. ‘

He begged Olive as a favor to spend some of her spare
time at his house, and she was glad to doso to escape
from the loneliness of her own home.

Shingles was invariably absent during the day, and Olive

was consequently thrown much with Miriam. From the
bottom of her heart she pitied this - girl, whose life
was so sad. She knew nothingof her own misfortune;
she neyer dreamed she was not 8 other girls were, and,
indeed, at times it was difficult for Olive to understand
that she was conversing with one of weak intellect; for
Miriam would speak sensibly and well on many subjects,
and then, without any reason, burst forth into childish,
nonsensical nursery babble, unconscious herself that she
was talking other than sound sense.
Debarred from companions, pattly by her infirmity and
partly by her father’s jealous suspicions of the world’s ha-
tred, Olive was the first person of her own sex with whom
she had ever held anything like confidential communica-
tion, and to Olive she clung with all the affection of a loy-
ing disposition.

Miriam had her secret—such a great secret it conld only
be whispered in fear and trembling, and under the strict-
est and most binding promise that it should never, neyer,

 

never be revealed,

Miriam had a lover!

“My poor girl!’ said Olive, compassionately, when she
first heard this confession, for she believed it to be but a
delusion; but, when she came to learn more, she altered
this opinion, and pitied Miriam all the more,

There was a gentleman, young and, oh! so handsome,
who had had occasion to call on the dwarf on business
matters—business connected with raising ready money
on his expectations; and Miriat had seen him, and from
the moment she saw him he had become her hero.

He had been to Hampstead tyvice—three times since he
had climbed over the garden wall to see Miriam. He had
told her he loved her, had begged her to run away with
him and be his wife, and he was so handsome, and so
good, and so kind, and so noble—in short, there never
was such a person in the worldas Miriam’s lover.

Olive’s suspicions were roused, and seeing in these cir-
cumstances the foreshadowing of great evil, she asked
some questions, and the answers she received convinced
her completely that the man, whoever he might be, was
an unscrupulous adventurer, Witose “ebject was. solely to
obtain possession of Miriam fri order to inherit some, if
not all, of the wealth Joseph Shipgles was known to pos-
sess. Yet she dared not say this to Miriam,

If was one fine midwinter day, when a thin coating of
snow lay over the heath, and the gaunt, bare tree branches

stood out sharp and distinct against the clear, blue-gray

sky, that Olive knocked at the door of the well-known
house, and entered the drawing-rbom where she had first
seen Miriam.

The servant had told her the poor girl was there, but the
room was empty.

Looking out from the window, to her surprise, Olive saw
Miriam tripping gaily over the snow-covered lawn. She
called to her, and the dwarf's datghter, her face beaming
with pleasure, came back to the house to speak to her.

‘Hush! she said with that air of mystery that the half-
witted so often assume. ‘‘Hush! He is here, my darling,
my hero. You will not say a word and you shall see
him.’

Taking Olive by the hand, she led her reluctantly into
the garden, but she went with some half-convinced notion
of doing good, with some purpose of confronting the pre-
tended lover, and telling him his evil designs were known,
and appealing to him to cease his unmanly, dishonorable
conduct.

The next minute a tall, good-looking young man, smok-
ing a cigar, strolled negligently from the summer-house
and confronted the two girls.

He stopped, surprised and doubtingly, seeing that Mir-
iam was not alone, and Olive, with a face pale as death,
stood as if rooted to the spot, incapable for a moment of
speech and motion as she recognised in Miriam’s lover
Charlie Wilding.

‘Olive!’ he cried, in much agitation.

‘‘Charlie! Charlie!’? she answered, in. heartbroken ac-
cents, ‘‘what are you doing here?”

*Do you know my Robin?’ cried Miriam, clapping her
hands together. ;

Then she nestled her head against Charlie Wilding’s
shoulder, but he put her from him, and stood before Olive
with eyes bent upon the ground. ‘

“You did not expect to encounter me here,” said Olive,
in a voice she strove to render calm. ‘‘When last we
parted I little thought to meet you thus.’’

“Whose doing is it??? asked Wilding, in a hoarse voice,
and-without raising hiseyes. “If I have gone from bad
to worse, if I have become a degraded thing, hating my-
self as much as others hate me, you should be the last to
reproach me.”

‘Why ?? i

“Tt is your handiwork. Had you not thrown me over I
could have been a good and honorable man.”

“You are my own Robin,’’ interposed Miriam,

“Go,’? said Olive. ‘This is no place for you.”

“‘} must see you—I must talk to you, Olive.”

She shuddered slightly from head to foot.

“No,’? she answered. ‘‘It is impossible!’

“Olive, by all the love you once bore me, by the heart
you told me beat for me alone, by all the memories of the
past, I beseech you give me an hour's quiet conversation
with you.”’ ;

Olive, with a trembling hand, wrote on a card her new
address.

“Now go.’? , si

Without a word, without even a glance at Miriam,
Charles Wilding left the garden. 1

Then Miriam turned on Olive, her eyes flashing, her
hands tight clenched.

‘You have stolen him from me,’’ she exclaimed, an-
grily; ‘stolen my Robin! How dare you?”

“Jt is for the best, dearest,’? said Olive, tenderly, and
would have encircled the other’s waist with her arm, but
Miriam pushed her indignantly away.

“T hate you,” saidshe. ‘‘You come between me and
my own dear Robin—my darling; you are a wicked,
wicked woman, and I am very miserable. Let me go; I
will not speak to you, I will not stay with you.”

She walked slowly and sadly back toward the house,
followed by the sorrowing girl with whom she was so in-
dignant.

Olive had enough to occupy her mind that afternoon.
The strange and unexpected meeting with Charlie Wild-
ing under circumstancesshe could never have anticipated
gave her imagination much work,

Poor Charlie! She loved him now as she had always
loved him, truly and faithfully, and his reproach to her,
coupled with the words he had spoken when she bade him
farewell at Ripplebrook, stung her to thequick. Had she,
in attempting simply to do her duty, gone too far, and
really driven Charlie, for whom she would have laid down
her life, to mad desperation?

Remorse came over her, and it seemed to her that the
whole world was against her, that whatever she did must
of necessity be wrong, and inher grief she breathed forth
that heartbroken prayer to Heaven:

‘My God, I pray Thee let me die.”’

In her sorrow there came upon her in allits full in-
tensity the misery of loneliness. There was no one on
whom she could lean in her grief, no one in whom to con-
fide her sorrows, no one in whom to look for sympathy,
She was alone in the world, forgotten, uncared for, and
under the agony of accumulated woe her heart feit fit to
break; but at length her grief found vent in that one great
comfort that women haye—tears.

Her head buried in the sofa cushions, she lay sobbing as
if she would sob her heart out, and when she rose, calmer
and happier, the sun had set, and the faithful Phoebe was
bringing in‘the tea-things,

it was past ten o’clock when there came a timorous
double knock at the front door, and Pheebe a few mo
ments later ushered the dwarf into Olive’s presence.

Half-frightened, he stood apologizing in the doorway.
It was the first time he had ever intruded upon Olive, and,

 

 

astonished at his own temerity, he, in the multitude of

fection, and pressed her to remain an inmate of her }

“I shall be at home to-morrow at eleven,” she said. }-

excuses he endeavored to make, stuttered and stammered
in hopeless confusion of language, till Olive gave him
her hand and fairly conducted him to a seat.

“TI wanted to see you,’’ he said, heedless of all his hos-
tess’s assurances that apologies were needless. “I had
something special to say, but I waited till it was quite
dark and no one likely to be about.’’

“Why need you have done that?’

see such a miserable deformity at your door.
very well for you to extend your compassion to me, but
others will not. 1 hate the very light of day that reveals
my hideousness.”

*Is it about Miriam you wish to speak to me?” asked
Olive, thinking it quite likely that that the unfortunate
girl had in her confusion of ideas represented herself as
having received a slight, an insult, or a wrong.

“No, not about Miriam. Ishould not have ventured
here upon my own affairs.”’

“Isit about my business then ?””

“Ves,”

“My father! You have found my father ?” eried Olive,
excitedly, jumping at a conclusion in a way not wncom-
mon with young ladies.

The dwarf shook his head.

“No, no, not that yet.’

“But you have some clue?
hope?’

“7 think so.”

“Oh, Heaven bless you and reward you for all your
goodness and kindness!’ she said.

Then she rose from her seat and took one of the dwart’s
large, ugly hands, and pressed it between her tiny:paims
in excess of gratitude.

Had she but seen the rapture of his face at this act she
would have been startled; but her eyes were full of tears,
and her thoughts were far, faraway at that moment. —

“You will remember,’’ continued Shingles, ‘‘you spoke:
to me about a certain emerald ring ?”’

‘“Yes—yes.*

‘“‘A ring that played a somewhat conspicuous part in
the story you told me?”

‘Yes. Itis the only clue to the mystery.”

‘Since then I have put myself in communication with
every jeweler in London respecting it.”

“How kind of you ?”

“And to-day,” he continued, noticing with pleasure
but not heeding the interruption—‘‘to-day, for the first
time, Ihave obtained some tidings of it.”?

Joseph Shingles took a small morocco case from his
pocket and laid on the table before Olive’s eager eyes the
familiar gold ring, but with only a hollow to mark where
the emerald had been.

“Ts that it???

Yes, yes!’ cried Olive, in eager excitement, taking it
in her hand, and turning it over and over. ‘And see!
here are my mother’s. imitiais, ‘L. M.,’ scratched on the
inside. Oh, how kind you are! Where did you get it?
How did it come into your hands? Now we have some-
thing definite to go upon. We will find out everything;
we will unravel the mystery; I shall see my dear, dear
father again, and be so very, very happy—and it will be
all your doing! We shall go back to dear old Ripplebrook,
the clouds will vanish, and all will be sunshine! Oh,
eer you—thank you so yery much for all you have
done!’ .

Again in the emotion of delight the tears welled in her
soft eyes, but her happiness found no reflection in the
dwarft’s face, which was sad and gloomy.

“Go back to Ripplebrook!’* he murmured, repeating her
words; ‘‘and alimy doing! Iam strangling the only joy
lever knew!”?

You can give me some

(To be Continued.)

 

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS—No. 52, °
BY CLARA AUGUSTA,

Jonathan and me hadn’t more’n got over our trip to the
Shoals, when Tom Bennett he came into our house, one day, with
anew wrinkle in his head. He wanted to start a base ball club in
Pigeon Hollow.

T told him I hadn’t no objection against it, and recommended

ee to start one to once. But he sed he wanted me and Jonathan
to jine.
“The fact of it is, Aunt Jerushy,” sez he, “we can’t seem todo
nothing here without your being into it, and we want you, and
Jonathan. and your ambrill, and that bag of turnovers, to belong
to our club.” ‘

“Land sake! Tom,” sez I, “I never could play ball in the world!
T should beat somebody’s brains out the fust thing.”

But Tom he sed he’d resk me, and then he went on a talking to
Jonathan about bats and scores and basesand catchers and short-
stops and pitchers to such a degree that my head was all mud-
dled up, and that night when I went to sing Jordan at the prayer-
meeting, I forget the words, and got in sumthin about “pitchers,”
and Deacon Grey he thought J was a going to havea fit, and
soused a pitcher of water over me, aud washed all the dyestuff off
from my butiful black eyebrows that it had took me full half an
hour to put on. My eyebrows, peteraee is kinder lightish.
Jonathan he was willing to jine the club, if they would agree
that the Widder Spriggins shouldn’t get at him, and this they did
—for they all felt sartin that the widder wouldn’t be likely to
| show her head to any grate ixtent in Pigeon Hollow.

Last Saturday afternoon the club organized. I was chosen
| President, and the club is called: THs AUNT JERUSHY PIGEON
HOLLER BLACK STOCKING CLUB—and we all wear black stokings.

The fust time we met after we orginized I carried my ambrill
and a bag of turnovers, and sot on the fence while they measured
off the ground and got thingsin order. The ground is Squire Buz-
zell’s front yard. :

Everybody was there. Everybody allers goes to everything in
Pigeon Holler. There hain’t, ginerally, much ixcitement going
on, and when there is anything, all the people turn out on massy

I didn’t want to have nothing to do with the playing, but all of

em insisted on it, and at last I give in. I sot my ambrill up
aginst the fence, and my turnovers alongside of it, and I rolled up
my sleeves and spit onto my hands, jest as the men did, and grab-
bed the ball.
' Alas! would that my foresight had been as good as it is now as
I look backwards! I throwed the ball, and it went over the fence
and rolled clean down the hill on t’other side, into the squire’s
duck pond, and it took nigh about half an hour to fish it out. Then
they sed I’d better catch instead of pitch, and I told em any way
to satisfy em. So Sam Horne he throwed the ball at me, and he
took sech good aim that it hit my. apegrs and smashed ’em all to
nothing, and knocked nigh about all the bridge out of my nose,
and made me see more stars than ever I seed at midnight.

I was mad, and I let drive the ball back at Sam, and it hit his
legs and knocked out his underpinning in a jiffy; then it bounced
and went rite through Squire Buzzell’s bay winder with the glass
five dollars a pane, and hit Mrs. Squire Buzzell in the stummuk,
as she was a leaning over to look out on the gay and festive
scene.

The shock knocked her backwards aginst a poselain jar of juni-
per plants, or verbenys, I’ve forgot which, and over they went
with a crash, and the squire’s wife screeched murder! and we all
run to the rescue, t :

After I had stood and rubbed her with camfire and anerchy
about half an hour, I suddingly thought of my ambrill which I
had forgot to take along with me. is

I dropped the canfire, and run to the place where I had left it!

Alas! alas! it was gone!

Some mean, low-minded rapscallin had filtered it!

And the turnovers, too!

For a minit I thought I should have swoonded! You could
have knocked me down with the tail of a dead mouse! My heart
stood still! Iwas dumfoundered! I wasfriz to a statoot, etc.,
ete.

All of my friends tried to console me, but what could console
me for the loss of that faithful, old friend? It was like a brother
to me, and the staff of my diclining years, though to be shure I
aint so very old as to need any staff yet. Of course I spoke fig-
geratively.
©"An ambrill that belonged to my mother, and to my grand-
mother afore her, whose sticks was real whalebone—made, likely
enuff, out of the bones of the yery whale that Jonah swallowed!

It had a white horn handle, and its kiver was green silk, and
the sed ambrill is hereby advertised, and anybody that will give
information that shall lead to its diskivery by the proprietor
shall be entitled to five dollars. reward, and no questions asked.

I shall give myself no rest until the ambrill is found. For
without I feel like a ship without a hellum!

Yourn in bereavement, JERUSHY R, PERKINS.
THE SHODDY FAMILY AT SARATOGA.

Shoddy reigns at Saratoga, and struts about the hotels as pomp-
ously asif all other people were its subjects, and by some degree
of nature were required to bend in reverence before this transpa-
rent Sham. By aping the manners of gentility, and affecting a
dignity that must appear ludicrous, Shoddy really plays the
clown’s part at our fashionable resorts, and thus unwittingly con-
tributes to the amusement of more sensible people.

Go with me and watch the movements of this group of the
Shoddy family. The father is: hale and hearty looking—a trifle
bloated, perhaps; the mother looks as if she could do the washing
—yes, had done it—for a family of ory and the girls show
breadth of hand muscle enough toscrub all the floors of any ho-
tel in the village. They are all, thus early in the morning, bediz-
zened in silks and laces, while from their ears hang gorgeous pen-
dants héhvy enough to strain the ears of an ass, and on their
delicate (2) fingers are rings enough and large enough to hoop an
ale cask. ;

They are at Congress Spring, and each one—(the ‘‘young hope-
fuls” Raving been taking something else over night, have not yet
risen)—takes a glass of water. It is not to their taste, but others
are drinking it, so they gulp it down, to follow the fashion. They
take two or three glasses apiece more, and _ then start off to the
“Columbian” spring, a few steps distant. Here, with more wry
faces, ignorant and regardless of its being a totally different water
from that just drank, down they pour half a dozen glasses each;
then they walk about the unds a little, and look at the statu-
ettes on the pedestals, which they declare “‘bootiful statoorry,”
but hearing there are other springs, start to find them, and next
they reach the “Crystal,’”? of which they drink, and then to the:
“Washington,” where again their throats are washed; and, being
assured there are no more springs in this direction, they retrace
their steps hotel-ward, pater familias puffing and blowing, while
mater familias looks like the frog in the fable, Misses Snoddy re-
sembling toads who have striven to swallow apple-cores,

They do not goto the hotel, however; some one has told them
ot the “‘Hathorn,’’ so to that they go and pour down a few glasses
each, father declaring it tastes like clam soup. As they comeup
the steps they discover, at the foot of the hill, ‘Columbian
Spring,” and to this they rash and take a glass or two.

Some one suggests to them that they have not yet been to the
“Putnam,” the “High Rock,” the “Todine,” the “Empire ;”? but
these are so far off they will wait until by-and-by, and to their ho-
tel they go, declaring that they are ready for breakfast.

The three “young hopefuls” meet them on the piazza, and old
Shoddy kindly asks ‘‘the boys” if ‘‘they have drank any water?”
“No; but they have had some champagne cocktails,,” and in to
breakfast they all go. : ‘

The waiter places the bill of fare before them, andithe “young
hopefuls” order that everything therein specified shall be brought.
They taste of all—fruit, fish, flesh, fowl; they gulp boiling hot tea
and coffee,and they wash these down with iced, water, They
waddle out to the prazza, where the boys ask old Shoddy if he “will
smoke a weed.” hte is struggling for breath, and decliges, and all
express doubts of the waters agreeing with them; the father
grows pale, the young Misses Shoddy grow still, paler, while the
mother, unable to longer stand the pressure, rushes to the front
railing, just in time to shower her mineral waters and breakfast
upon the walk below, to the great delectation of Miss Frizzle and
young Squibob, who are passing on their way to the springs.

Of course, they all soon disappear, and we see them no more
until toward dinner-time, when they pea pear. each one dressed
in her own peculiar style, composed of all that has been devised
from the days of Queen Sheba down to “the old woman who lived
in her shoe;” but most certain it.is that “Solomon, in all his
slory, Was not arrayed like one of these.” for both he and his tai-

or must have had some taste, while these and such as these, who

here “most do congregate,’ seem to be utterly lacking in all that

approaches good taste in dress. EUGENE.
INEFFECTIVE ENTERPRISE. ;

An inebriated man, passing along a street in Pittsburgh, lined
with second-hand clothing stores, was repeatedly and rudely ae-
eosted by the enterprising proprietors, and asked if he did not
require some clothing. He patiently bore this treatment for a
time, and then suddenly turning upon one of the dealers, he
shouted, in thunder tones: ‘Darn you, nol I don’t want any of
your second-hand clothes. Why don’t you ask me to drink ?””

On another occasion, one of these merchants asked a man to
step in and examine the stock. The dealer had on a very dirty

 

“Why? I would not for the world have your neighbors |
Oh, itis all;

shirt, and noticing this the pedestrian asked: ‘Haye youtany
shirts? Clean shirts?” continued the questioners ‘Yes, sir—per-
fectly clean.’’ Well, then, step in and put one on, for I’lkbe
blamed if you don’t need it’? He passed by unmolested after
that. L. LoWrik Lewis.
A TIMELY MARRIAGE.

The marriage of. Lorenzo Day and Miss Martha Week is thas

poetically referred to:
“A Day is made, a Week is lest,
But we should not eomplain:
There'll soon be little Days enough
To make the week again.”
GETTING EVEN WITH DEATH,

The tamous temperance orator, Ned Buntline, while addressing
a temperance meeting at Tarrytown, and depicting the misery
cause by indulging too frequently in the flowing bowl, had his at-
tention attracted by thesobs of a disconsolate and seedy looking
individual im the rear part of the room. On going to the person
and interrogating him, he was toid the usual tate of woe; among
other sad ineidents that during his career of vice he had buried
three wives. Ned sympathized deep'y with the inebriate, and
consoled him as much as was in his power. Said he, ‘Death has
indeed afflicted you.””. The mourner, sobbing, replied, ‘Yes, yes,
he has,” and pausing a moment, and wiping his nose, he con-
tinued: “But Idon’t think Death got much ahead of me, for as
fast as he took one, I took another.”

SOME ANSWERS MIT DER CORRESPONDENTS.

Chakey.—Vell, it der young lady dold you to skib oud mid your
ear, ven you bobbed out der question, vood she been your vife?
Ve dink, Chakey, dat vas almosd a jentle hint#dot she vasn’t der
gal vat vood vear your behindt name.

Loweezer.—White paints vas der only dings ve know eood made
your hands vite. To make dem sofdt der besdest vay ve know
vood peen to let a elephand shdood on dem for dwo seconds, den
sure dey come sofdt enuff.

Gorns.—Der besdesd vay vat ve know to make gone avay der
gorns mit der feed,. vas to fasden shdrong around dem a siidrings,
und fasden der oder end by der dails of a enchine-hosses; den lay
down yourself by dot hosses und. hafe batienee. So soon ven der
tire-bell shdrikes out, dose gorms vas gone sure quick oud.

Skollar.—**His Sadanie Machesdy” is der didle of a chentleman
whose family frond name yas—vell, nefer mind boud dis cele-
brity; berhabs you find it oud quide, doo,seon enuff vat he vas
ue und vhere he lifs,. und Low he manages his family, und so
tourd. F

Wrider.—Your leedle skedch vas. come.
blotter.

Young Mans.—Respecdfully declined—like der doose!

Boedt Feller.—Your ‘“‘boem” vas come py handt, und id vas—
| Vell, choosed aleedle oggcendric. Der boedry vas kinder irrecku+
lar, und lapsided. Uf yo had folded down aboud one inch of der
side of der manuscribts, und den cudit off, der boetry voodend
jhafe been so much grooked und cut-gored.

Skooldeachers.—‘‘Vas der felocity ot a ganhon. balls on der pro-
pordion of der ratio of der addeaction mit grafidadions? Und
how many ??? Oh! you gosoak oud your headt. Vat you sbose
dot quesdions vas some of our pizzness, innerhow.
shmard.

Young Feller.—‘‘Uf a gal shquints oud her eye py me_yasn’t
dot a sign of a token ?” Sure—somedimes; bud, young feller you
bedder look oud. - MARK QUENCHER.

THE UNWELCOME GUEST.

A certain minister had been entertaining at dinne1 a elerical
triend from some distance. The evening was unpropitions, and
the friend was invited by the minister to remain during the
night, and he accepted the invitation. They walked together for
some time in the garden, and at dusk the minister asked his
visitor to step into the house, while he would give directions to
his man:servant to get his friend’s conveyance ready in the
morning. As the stranger entered the house, the minister’s wife
mistook.him for her husband in the twilight. She raised the
pulpit Bible, which chanced to be on the lobby table, and bring-
ing the full weight of it across the stranger’s shoulders, exclaim-
ed emphatically:

“Take that, for asking that ugly wretch to stay all night !?”

A KNOWING LAD. :

Teacher: ‘Sammy, where is Constantinople ?””

Sammy: “Well, itis in the eastern part of the southern end of
the northern extremity of—— I forget what you call it.”

A MISSING GANNON.

The other’ day, as the steamer Marcella was landing at the
wharf at Yazoo City, the mate ordered a negro who was standing
on the deck to load a small cannon, that was used as a signal in-
stead of the steam whistle. The negro loaded the piece to the
muzzle with: powder, rocks, and. coal. He was then ordered to
earry it.forward and discharge it. He did as directed, and the
eannon bursted, the pieces flying upward, and then disappearing
in the river. The captain, learning of the accident, said: “You
black raseal, where is that cannon??? The negro, nearly fright-
ened to death, said: *‘Why, massa. I haben’t seed dat ar cannon
sence I touched a fire to it.” ANDERAB.

It makes @ firsd-rate

You’m doo

 

ROMANTIC DEVELOPMENTS.

The other day, as David Cummidge was out in search of the
“Enemy that Came Between,” who should he see but “Mabel
Carrington,” and the ‘‘Locksmith of Lyons” looking at the “Josh
Billings Papers,” At this moment up came ‘Squirrel Gap” with
the startling intelligence that the ‘‘Boy Miner”? had discovered
“Markham’s Secret ;” and ‘‘Carlos the Terrible,” hearing of it,
otfered him ‘‘£15000 Reward” to inform the ‘‘Lady Violet” of his
discovery. But, dying suddenly, his secret was lost.. After
“Waiting Two Years,” ‘‘Wrestling Joe” started West, and becom-
ing acquainted with the “Child Bride,” while on his search after
the lady “Who Qwned the Jewels; he asked her if the “Boy
Whaler” had discovered the ‘‘Wife’s Foe;” whereupon ‘Peerless
Cathleen” and “Buffalo Bill” arrived with the intelligence that
“Little Buckshot” and the ‘Phantom Wife” had discovered “The
Skeleton in the Banker’s Closet,”? which so vexed ‘Ramon the
Outlaw” that he revealed the ‘‘Hidden Sin,” and “Conrad the
Convict” told “The Arch-Plotter” that the whole thing was a
“Dead Letter.” For further information send three dollars to
Street & Smith, and secure the New YORK WEEKLY for one year.

ADDISON ALLEN..
‘ A FOP FLOORED.

A conceited young man, whose personal appearance was marred
by a deformed foot, gave himself considerable trouble to affect a
romantic look, by permitting his hair to hang over his brow,.and
wearing an abundance of shirt-collar; An acquaintance flattered
him one day, by the opinion that he resembled Byron. ‘Ah, do
you think so ?? drawled the gratified fop;.‘tin what: respect do
resemble the great poet? ‘‘Not in the face,” answered the
friend, as he saw the fop complacently stroke his chin; “but in
the foot. You remember that Byron had a club-foot.” ARANDA.

“PLAY ON THE SLATE.”
In the days of the volunteer fire department, in New York city,.
there was one “fire laddie’’? whose appetite and fast habits were
cousiderably in excees of his means. He boarded at a hotel near
the engine house, and the items of his expenditure were daily
noted on a slate which hung behind the bar. When flush of funds
a portion of his indebtedness would be liquidated, but he always
contrived to keep a.long record on the slate aforesaid. The hotel
one day took fire, andthe members of the company anxious to
save their comrade’s property, asked our Hero where his room

was, “Oh, to thunder with my room!” answered Billy, “i've
very few trapsin it. Quick, boys! bring m the butt, and play on
the slate!” Cor.

To P. P. ConTRIBUTOSS.—Ike S.—An anciént yarn: .. .Jtstice:—
Do you really doubt that a German was ever the victim or hero
of a ludicrous occurrence? If so, your acquaintances of that
class must have been few, and, like yourself, so bony-pated that
only by a surgical operation ceuld a joke be made to penetrate
their skulls...... Clara J. K.—Very ingenious. But we do not

ublish enigmas...... The following MSS. are accepted: ‘Railway

{at;? ‘Schmidt; ‘Slang Phrases; ‘Hunting for the Secret; ‘Lady
Violet; ‘Literal Cure;’ ‘Wonderful Telescope ;’ ‘No Difference.’.....
The following are respectfully declined: ‘Only Slightly Wounded ;*
‘Advice to the Young;’ ‘Old Bed-bug Story,’ from CG. H. W; ‘Pete
and Sim;? ‘Cool ;? ‘Aunt Matilda and Stella;’ ‘Paragraphs,’ by E.
Mac; ‘Drinking Foot Water; ‘Rubens, Louvre, Paris;’ ‘My Buffalo
Love;’ ‘Not Admitted;’ ‘Brevities;’ ‘Parody on Little Things;?
‘Looking for Water,’ ‘Questions; Varieties.’

 

OUR KNOWLEDGE BOX.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering.

 

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
A, B. C.—CANNED FRvIT.—At this season of the year when we
are receiving and answering so many questions in regard to
CANNED FRUIT, we shall be glad to have the benefit of the ex-
perience of our friends through their recipes, which, if they will
send them to us, we will publish for the perusal of the MILLION
of readers of the NEW YORK WEEKLY...... Isabella Lent.—Yes..
Economist.—WORKING UP WASTE LEATHER.—The working up of
leather scraps into an artificial product resembling the original
material has been very frequently attempted, and to some extent
carried:into practice. Here is a method lately proposed by a Dan-
ishinyentor.. He takes leather waste, cuttings, shavings, or other
small bits of. leather, either new or old, and reduces it to.a kind of
fibrous pulp by hand-labor or by a machine or mill, either by
grinding, pounding, cutting, rasping, carding, or grating;) if old
waste is used, 1t should first be cleaned thoroughly. This matter
or pulp is.then kneaded with India-rubber, which is-rendered fiuid
or disolyed.in oils or spirits, and treated with ammonia. Here
we dissolve the India-rubber in oil of turpentine. To effect this,
the India-rubber is cut into pieces and mixed with turpentine,
after which he lets it remain quiet in a closed yessel until it is dis-
solyed.. When the India-rubber is dissolved, he adds ammonia of a
strength of 30 per cent in the proportion of about.equal parts by
weight of ammonia to the Indla-rubber contained im the
solution; when the mass has become a grayish-white color, it
is ready to be mixed with the pulp...... E. B.—See No. 40..... é
J. S. Williams,—SHELLAC FOR PAINTING.—Alcohol, with gum
shellac dissolved in it, is an excellent vehicle te, mix colors for
painting letters......2. M. H.—See No. 16..... C. H. H.—To make
fine COLOGNE WATER, See No. 34. Bay rum diluted with water
is about the best thing to use for toilet purposes. Many, however,

refer ee water, which is made as-follows: Rectified alco-
Fol; one gallon; oil of English rosemary,.two ounces; oil of lemon
peel,.one ounce; oil of balm, (melissa,),one ounce;. oil of mint, a
quarter of a drachm; esprit. de rose, one pint; extract de fleur
d@orange, one pint. As a general thing it is much cheaper to buy
toilet articles of this description than to make them, unless you
wish to manufacture large quantities...... B, B, F-—BUTTERMILK
CAKE.—One cup of butter,. two cups of buttermilk, soda to sweet-
‘en the milk, three cups of sugar, four eggs, fixe cups of flour......
‘Answer.—A remedy for INGROWING NaILs will be found in No.
27. Also, one for bunions...... Clara W,—Castor oil and spirits
of ammonia will darken your hair...... A. S.—To make GINGER
Pop, see No. 35...... Charles Dargan:—l. Prepared. chalk and or-
risroot will make a very good dentrifice. 2. Anything acid is in-
jurious to the teeth. 3. Clean your teeth with soap ene:
verse dvellie Z.—1. To remove FRECKLES, see No 28. 2 Apply
lunar caustic to the warts...... David Cummidge.—DisTILLED
WATER.—This, the purest state of water, may be readily ob-
obtained by fixing a curved tin tube, three orfour feet long, to
the spout of a tea-kettle, and cenducting itsfree end intoa jar
placed in a basin of cold water and enveloped with a wet towel.
The softer the water is, the better solvent it is of alk soluble ani-
mal and vegetable substances; thus distilled water, being free
from all foreign ingredients, isnecessarily the softest of all water,
and, consequently, it is well adapted not only for diluting in fe-
brile affections, but for pervading the minutest vessels and im-
proving their secreting powers. Distilled water is mawkish to
the taste; this is easily corrected by pouring it from one jug to
another successively for ten or fifteen minutes, soas to involve
in ita quantity of atmospheric air.........2weezers.—TO MAKE
WAFFLES.—Take one quart of flour, two teaspoonfuls of salt, two
of cream of tartar, one of soda, and mix with one-quarter of a
pint of milk........ James Smith.—See answer in No, 40...... +.
C. Fow.—F RIED EGG PLANT.—Peel the egg plants, slice them,
thin, sprinkle a little salt over them,, and let them remain half an
hour; wipe the slices dry; dip them. into beaten yolk of egg, then
into grated cracker, and fry them a light brown in boiling lard,
seasoning them slightly with pepper while they are cooking. An-
other way is to parboil the egg plants, after they are peeled, in
water with a little salt, then slice thin, dust them with corn meal,
fiour, or cern starch, and. fry them brown...., ..... City Life,—To
MEND RUBBER Hoss,—A correspondent writes: “The inclosed
method of mending zubber hose ought to be known to every body
I mended mine in several places. two or three years ago, and it is
yet strong and good. The phambers said there was no other way
but to use couplings.costing. dollar each. I used iron pipe, cut
to order, three inches long, eosting three cents each. @ut the
hose apart whexe it is defective; obtain from any gas-fitter a
piece-of iron pipe two or three inches long; twist the hose over it
until} the ends meet; wrap with strong twine, well waxed, and it
will last a long time... ..... P. S.—We have no such reeipe.......

A. Bake#—~Ist. Avoigistimulants, 2d. Retire earky....

  
   

THE COMPLEXION—See No. 56. 2. Squeeze a little lemon juice in-
to your bottle of glycerine before using it. 3 Redness of the nose
has been modified by bathing the face in wagma water....2) W. H.
—l. Bathein moderately cool water night and morning and take
some tonic. Quassiais very good. 2. They are all quacks, with
rare exceptions. Consult some regular family physician........+
ébeer ves Geo, W. O' Keefe.--You should keep regular hours. .
Fairy.—Bathe your faoe in lemon juice... 6... Mabvle.—Yes,

  

 

 

 

Puddy.—TO MAKE, SARSAPARILLA—See No. 18.........2054- Emme
-~We know nothing better than pure bay rum..........1 Mout,—.
BOO NOUGGy ba os. oss ee Constant Reader.—No........ «». Charley E£,
Morris.—Use glycerine on your hands occasionally......J, Mason.
—We know nothing ofthe merits of the article referred to......
Printer in Trouble——See No 35.........68 James T, Wilson.—To,
REMOVE PRECKLES—See NO. 28..........-200005 B.S. Sx-Wash
your face in’spirits of wine, and take some poyifying medicine,
such as sulphur or sarsaparilla..........4 Admirer.—l. TO IMPROVE

 

.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

eee

 

POO SN

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 7%, 1871.

Lees

 

eee

The Terms to Subscribers:

 

One Year—Single Copy...........sseeeeeee Three Dollars.
A MEL WO UODICS, santas s Kener sees ess Fivi -
< is Four Copies (2 50 each)......... Ten ss
ie Os Meigs COMME oss. oc o's oe tole 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.

ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors,
55 Fulton St., N. W., (Post-Office Box No. 4896.)
The NEw YORK WEEKLY is Printed at PRESTON’S Great Press
Room, 27 Rose Street, New York City.

Another New Story Week After Next.

In number 45 of the NEw YORK WEEKLY will be
commenced a charming story by a new contributor, MISS
EMMA WENBORN. Although her first serial, it is not
marred by that crudeness and verbosity which character-
ize the works of beginners, but on every page bears the
impress of cultured genius.

Luke Peel’s Legacy,

By MISS EMMA WENBORN,
describes in simple but forcible language the eventful ca-
reer of one of nature’s noblemen, a poor man of sterling
principles, who has been left a strange legacy. This lega-
cy entails suffering to the possessor, yet to refuse it would
be cruelty to the living as well as the dead. How Luke
Peel fulfills the trust reposed in him it will be to the in-
terest of our readers to discover, for the story conveys a
moral that must stamp itself indelibly on every generous
heart.

PEPPER GRASS PAPERS.
Mountain-Climbing — Billiards — Hops.

The musical soiree I described for you has been fol-
lowed by other scenes of intoxicating revelry in this de-
lightful spot where we are Summering.

I might say, where we are simmering, because the ab-
sence of shade and the abundance of sand make it about
ten times as hot as the hottest place in the city.

We were told that beautiful groves surrounded the
house. So they do—we can see them in all directions
with the naked eye, at distances of from two to five miles.

The nearest tree is about six rods from the house, and it
has been making most vigorous and praiseworthy efforts
to cast a shadow on the front door, but has thus far fallen
short of success.

“Ye banks and braes,’’ Matilda sings at early morn and
dewy eve. There are plenty of banks—we are bounded on
all sides by sand banks, and the palatial mansion is built
on another.

As for the brays, our landlady’s donkey (the last survi-
vor of a stableful of ‘‘blooded stock” she is fond of talking
about as once belonging to ‘‘the dear departed’’) keeps up
a lively braying, which is only rivalled by that other
donkey, the young gentleman with the loud red cravat
and his hair parted in the middle, when he comes over
from the Highlife House to sing duets with Matilda.

I had nearly forgotten to tell you that we have done the
mountain, andI for one was nearly done by it.

Imagine a somewhat elderly person, slightly corpulent,
and hardly in as good training as Weston for pedestrian-
ism, in fact rather short-winded, scrambling up a steep as-
cent, with a basket full of picnic materials on his arm.

Picture to yourself that elderly and corpulent person fran-
tically grasping branches and roots to aid him in his ar-
duous march. See him coming suddenly in collision with
an unseen limb, which knocks his hat off and him over,
and sends him rolling down amid a wreck of pies and
sandwiches and bottles and currant jelly, until stopped by
a friendly rock. Imagine all this, and then tell me if such
a position is becoming a retired member of the Corn Ex-
change and a trustee of the Select Evangelical Tabernacle.

That was my experience, and if you doubt it Ican show
you the scratches on my face to this day.

Those scratches, by the way, have subjected me to a good
deal of chaffing and Mrs. G. to much unjust suspicion.

But it isa mistake. Sophonisba uses her tongue sharp-

» ly enough sometimes, but never her finger nails.

The marriage contract has no claws to which the
scratches Gan be referred. ; : ;

They are honorable wounds, like Jim Fisk’s sprained
ankle.

By the way, my exploits on the mountain were not un-
like the fat colonel’s celebrated flank movement on Highth
avenue by way of Long Branch.

I go over to the Highlife House every morning to read
the papers and come back very full—of news, and so forth.

* Mrs. G. says it sometimes takes me a long while to read
the papers, and their contents seem to excite me very
much.

“Thash-a-fac, my dear,’? said I. ‘‘Contenz-ish-verx-
shiting.”” She means the contents of the newspapers, but
I don’t.

Once, when I came in with my hat tilted at a dangerous
angle and my necktie shockingly dislocated, gently warb-
ling, ‘‘We wont go home till morning,” although it was
only 8 o’clock in the afternoon, the wife of my bosom was
greatly alarmed. ¥

She thought there must be a financial panic, or a crash
in the money market, or something of the sort, and that
I had been ruined and gone crazy.

Besides the papers and the ‘contents,’ there are

billiards at the Highlife House. On the very day that Mrs.
G. was seized with a panic because she thought there had
been one in Wall street, I was beguiled into a contest with
the young gentleman who parts his hair in the middle and
wears a loud red cravat.

We had played several games, for brandy-smashes for
the party, and [had won most of them.

That fact and the smashes put me in high spirits.

“O,’? said he of the red cravat and middle part, ‘‘I see
you are too much for me. But,’? he added carelessly, ‘‘I
don’t mind playing off with you for the price of the games
and drinks.”’

We played off, and I found that he had been playing off
all the time. I had to pay a nice little bill for the billiards
and smashes.

I don’t like that young gentleman with the loud red
cravat who parts his hair in the middle.

lexplained all this to the sympathizing Sophonisba as
she helped me to bed, where I stayed till late next morn-
ing. Iexpect my explanation was somewhat confused
with accounts of splendid caroms on the light red, double
shots, and the despicable meanness of pocketing the white
ball.

They also have had a hop at the Highlife House, and of
course we attended.

John Jownes devoted himself to a young woman who is
staying there, with pink and white cheeks, pink and white
dress, and pink and white ribbons.

John calls her Rose of Sharon.

He takes her out very often on the lake—that is, he lets
me take her and the rest of them. John’s fondness for
aquatic sports has not returned, and he is no longer am-
bitious to show his skill at the oars.

So when we are on the lake he says a great deal about
Rose of Sharon, but nothing about sharin’ of rows. He
leaves all that to me.

Matilda was surrounded by a bevy of beaux, but it was
evident that she lavished more smiles on my billiard an-
tagonist than on anybody else.

‘There was much round dancing, although I told Mrs.
G. [hardly thought it was on the square.

She said it was the fashion, and was to be expected ‘‘in
our set.’? I couldn’t see very clearly what our set had to
do with a round dance, since our set just then happened
to be an old-fashioned cotillion set, through the move-
ments of which I was leading Mrs. G. in a stately and dig-
nifled way.

I said as much to her, but she called me stupid, and ex-
plained that by ‘‘our set’? she meant tie social circle in
which we moved.

Just then the cotillion set broke up, and she did not
hear my murmured anathemas against some members of
“our set,’”? and my expression of a wish that I was back
in the social circle in which I moved before I married an
aristocratic family.

Being somewhat warmed and fatigued with the exer-
cise, I went ‘‘to see a man.’? He proved such a pleasant
companion that I saw another. He was just as good a
fellow as the first, and induced me to see a third, with
whom I was equally delighted.

How many times I continued ‘‘to see a man,’’ or how
long I had been in the refreshment room, I do not exactly
know, and probably never shall; but when I returned to
the ball-room I saw a sight which made me doubt the
evidence of my senses.

Could it be? No, it surely could not. Yes, it was.

Just then the whirling forms were hidden by interven-
ing spectators, and I was left in a moment, or as it
seemed to me an eternity, of agonizing suspense.

Then the crowd separated as the whirling forms came
down the room again, and all- doubt disappeared.

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes, it was evenso. There was my Sophonisha, the
mother of my children, Mrs. Pepper Grass, the wife of a
respected and solid citizen, actually engaged in one of the
fastest and most furious of round dances.

And her partner—would you believe it?—he was no
other than the apparently deaf old gentleman of whom I
have before spoken.

He had complained not only of deafness, but of rheu-
matics and other ills of gathering age.

The sluggishness of his ears did not seem on this occa-
sion to interfere with the liveliness of his heels. The rheu-
matism had entirely disappeared, and he was bounding
about with an agility which contrasted strangely with his
gray hairs.

I made a desperate attempt to force my way through
the crowd toward the unconscious couple.

‘How dare you, sir,’? I shouted, ‘dance a round dance
with my wife!’

The people stared at me in amazement, and one young
chap rudely remarked that he guessed ‘“‘the old boy was
tight.’?

I made no reply to this, but continued to push through
the throng.

“QO, Sophonisba!”? I cried, “chow could you dance a
round dance? And with one who is almost a stranger!”’

1 believe I should have finally reached the saltatory
couple, and have separated them as I would separate two
boys fighting in the street, but I was unexpectedly saved
the trouble.

The music (a badly tuned violin screechingly scraped
and atin-pan toned piano) was getting along at its most
rapid rate. Mrs. G. and the deaf old gentleman, keeping
pace with it, were rushing down the room. ;

Matilda and my friend, the billiard sharp, were going
up the room at the same headlong rate. ‘

Just then the Rose of Sharon, arm-encircled by John
Jownes, plunged vigorously across the center.

Whether the madly careering craft had lost control of
their course, whether the helmsmen did not see each other,
or whatever was the cause, a collision was inevitable, and
it occurred in the middie of the room.

The billiard sharp caromed on the deaf old gentleman,
and sent him spinning around even faster than he had
been a moment before.

To continue the phraseology of the noble game, Mrs. G.
and Matilda ‘‘kissed’”’ so violently that the rebound made
them ‘cushion’ on the surrounding circle of people.

The sparks did not fly, but hairpins and rats did. My
wife’s magnificent panier was rent asunder, disclosing
the ignominious manufacture of the imposing article,
while Matilda’s superb chignon was torn from her head
as completely as if she had passed under the scalping-
knife of an Apache Indian.

The Rose and John suffered less than the others. The
force of the collision carried them down, and sent them
sliding some distance along the smooth floor; but the
faithful John was resolved to cling to his companion in
adversity as well as prosperity, and both soon recovered
themselves.

“OQ, Sophonisba, how could you?” said I, as I picked
er up. »

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said she, ‘‘ but help me to get to the
dressing-room.”?

I did so, and then disconsolately went ‘‘to see a man.”’
Of course, I saw him, and another, etc.

I remember nothing more until I woke up next morn-
ing in my own room with a headache and a great thirst.

“OQ, Sophonisba!? said I, as I struggled to the water-
pitcher and took along pull, ‘show could you’’—another
pull—‘‘dance a round’’—another pull—‘‘dance.”’

“Nonsense!’’ said she; ‘they all do it—it’s the fashion,
and we must be in the fashion.”

That’s it, you see. We must be in the fashion, and that’s
the secret of all my misery. We must be in the fashion,
or we wouldn’t be here. Yours, fashionably,

PEPPER GRASS.

THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY.

A QUEEN'S CRIME.

BY LAWRENCE LESLIE. : py +. har?

 

 

  

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oe

 

 

The two most glorious names in the history of Sweden:
are Gustavus Vasa, the. great liberator, and Gusta:
Adolphus, the great defender of the Protestant faith. The
faithful Musselman does not cherish the memory of the
prophet with more pious devotion than do the country-
men of these illustrious sovereigns the recollection of their
goodness, greatness, and glory. Though several genera-
tions of Swedes have embellished their graves with lau-
rels, and moistened them with their tears, and more than
two centuries have passed, no other names can now so
quicken the blood of the fair-haired dwellers in that hum-
ble land. :

It is somewhat singular, however, that while these two
sovereigns possessed so fully the alfection and confidence
of Sweden, their heirs and successors quickly earned the
nation’s contempt and hatred, and were eventually forced
to vacate the throne—one dying by violence in prison,
and the other in voluntary exile.

Eric, the son of Gustavus Vasa, was a madman, and,
after deluging Sweden in blood, himself often acting as
executioner, he was dethroned, and died in a dungeon.

Under Gustavus Adolphus the arms of Sweden attained
a degree of proficiency and power they had never beforé
achieved, and, as the head of the Protestant league, he
was the most prominent figure of the early part of the
seventeenth century. When he fell at the great battle of
Lutzen, half the civilized worla wept. It was a raw, dark,
foggy morning when the king, riding at the head of one
of his regiments, which had been temporarily checked by
the masses of imperialists which pressed upon it, was be-
cas by his near-sightedness, and suddenly found him-
self surrounded by the enemy. , iit
A decimating volley swept down all his attendants, and
the king was left alone upon the oct wounded and dy-
ing, and the thrust of a lance, completed. the work of
death. 33

The next day, when the Swedes had beaten:the enemy
and moved on in pursuit of the retreating imperialists, a
few of the wounded, who had been left behind, rolled,
with great labor, a large stone to the spot where the king
had fallen, and roughly cut upon it, ‘“‘G. A., 1632,’ the ini-
tials of the monarch, and the date of the battle. The stone
remains precisely as placed more than two hundred years
ago, but a handsome monument has been erected over it,
sacred to the memory of the Protestant hero of the ‘‘Thir-
ty Years’ War.”’ torn 9 stint

Gustavus’ only child and heir was a daughter named
Christina, seven years of age,and the Parliament was.
asked to accept this child asthe successor of the great
Adolphus.

There was some hesitation on the part of the represent-
atives, and they demanded to see the girl. She was placed
before them, and after eyeing her intently for some time,
one of the exclaimed:

“Yes; she has the eyes and nose of Gustavus Adolphus.
Let her be our queen!’? and she was unanimously ac-
cepted.

A regent was appointed, who governed the country un-
til Christina attained her majority.

The young queen was neverpopular. She was essen-
tially masculine in her habits and tastes, and acquired few
of the soft graces of womanhood. She was untidy in dress
and person, shockingly vulgar in speech, and even on
public occasions would swear like a trooper.

These peculiarities rapidly weakened the respect the
nation entertained for her as the daughter of their great
idol, and when, in addition to her other offenses, she ab-
jured the religion for which her illustrious father had
given his life, and for which the nation had sacrificed and
periled so much, its patience became exhausted, and so
loud were the murmurs of discontent that the queen
deemed it prudent to abdicate.

The Cy of abdication was conducted with due
solemnity, and Christina, stripped of every insignia of
royalty, shed tears as she descended from the throne.

It was near nightfall, and raining heavily; but the late
queen ordered her carriage, and bade her attendants pre-
pare for instant departure. In vain her friends remon-
strated. Her answer was:

“T eannot rest here where I was so lately a crowned
sovereign.”’

And so, amid the gathering darkness, and the rapidly
falling rain, the daughter of the great Gustavus quitted
her country forever. .

Her subsequent life was spent mostly at .ome and Paris.
Catholic sovereigns everywhere extende.! her a cordial
welcome, and she drifted from court to court, accepting
honors and flatteries from those who had directed armies
against her father and her country, despising her people
and her kindred, and as cordially despised and pitied by
them in return.

Scandal followed her wherever she went; her enemies
found ample opportunities for censure, and her best
friends abundant occasion for regret. It was at Fontaine-
bleay, however, that she committed, or caused to be com-
mitted the crime which will blacken her character for-
ever.

Among the attendants which she had gathered around
her was an Italian, Count Monaldeschi. Between him
and another Italian gentleman of the ex-queen’s suit,
named Sentinelli, a bitter quarrel had long existed, and
as both were on intimate terms with her, each indus-
triously sought to prejudice her against the other. One
day Monaldeschi charged Sentinelli with treachery, and
declared that any man who would betray the affection or
confidence of his mistress was worthy of death.

The ex-queen, whose confidence in Monaldeschi had
been somewhat shaken by the tales of his adversary,
smiled at the remark, and charged him to remember it,
for she might yet be called upon to act upon his judg-
ment.

A few months after this conversation she sent a note to
Father Lebel, her confidant and spiritual adviser, request-
ing to see him at once. He found her in great rage at the
treachery of some of her most trusted attendants, the
proof of which had just came to her hands. The reverend
father attempted to calm her indignation, but she would
listen to nothing, and placing a package of papers in his
hands, requesting him to mark them, and note the day
a hour they came into his possession, she dismissed

im.

Ten days elapsed, and Father Lebel was waited upon by
amessenger trom Christina, requesting him to call ata
certain hour alone,and bring the packet she had pre-
viously intrusted to his care. He went, and was shown
into a large hall in a wing of the palace, which had long
been unoccupied. Christina was in animated conversa-

tion with Monaldeschi, and three stalwart men were
standing near her. The door was carefully locked, and
they were leit:alone, The ex-queen’s manner toward the
count then suddenly changed. She demanded the packet
from Lebel, opened it, and produced several letters which
she handed to the count, and with flashing eyes sternly
demanded if they were in his handwriting.

 

He hesitated, turned pale, and finally confessed that

 

the writing was ‘is, and falling upon his knees, implored
pardon most piteously.

Christina placed her hands over her ears, and stamped
with her foot, when the three men already mentioned
drew their swords.

The count trembled, and seizing the ex-queen’s hands,
declared that he could explain all. She listened impa-
tiently, walking rapidly from one side of the room to the
other, he following, uttering his protestations, and vehe-
mently urging her to be merciful.

When he finally ceased, she having said nothing in the
meantime, she came and stood before the priest, and de-
sired him to bear witness how calmly and patiently she
had listened, as she said, with bitter emphasis ‘‘to all that
that traitor has said.”

She then turned to him, and demanded certain Keys
and documents which he had in his possession. He
nanded them over, when Christina, approaching the priest,
said solemnly:

“Father, I leave this man in your hands; prepare him
for death, and have care of his soul.”

She turned to leave; but, horror-stricken, both the priest
and the intended victim detained her, fell at her feet, and
implored mercy, but all in vain.

‘He has done that,’’ she said, ‘‘for which he deserves to be
broken alive on the wheel. He has betrayed me—he, who
was trusted with my most important affairs, and my most
secret thoughts. I have treated him more kindly than if
he had beena brother. His own conscience should be
his executioner.”’

The door closed behind her and she was gone.

The unhappy count turned to Father Lebel, but the three
assassins made a step forward, drew their swords, and
recommended him to confess. The poor wretch begged
so piteously for life, that the murderers were touched
with compassion, and their chief, accompanied by the
father, sought Christina in her private apartments, and
made another effort to soften her resentment. The priest
was especially urgent, and implored her by the love of
Christ, by the offended majesty of the King of France,
whose palace would be desecrated by the act, and by the
good name she would imperil forever, to reconsider her
sanguinary resolve. She stood firmly on her right to pun-
ish a traitorous subject—a right she had expressly re-
served in her abdication, protested that she had no per-
sonal hatred to Monaldeschi, but again exclaimed: ‘He
must die.’’

The priest returned sorrowfully to the hall, where the
trembling culprit awaited his doom. Lebel shook his
head, and the count groaned in agony. The priest took a
seat, and did his best to prepare the dying man for the
fate which now seemed inevitable. It was a touching
scene, for the priest was smitten with fear and pity, and
the penitent was almost speechless with terror.

While these preparations were going on, the door cau-
tiously opened, and one of the officers of Christina’s house-
hold came into the room. Monaideschi at once rushed
toward him, and so convulsively did he beg and pray for
life that the officer was moved with compassion, and re-
turned to intercede with the cruel woman. He might as
well have addressed a statue of stone.

The officer returned, explained his failure, when one of
the swordsmen approached the count, informed him that
longer delay was impossible, and pushing him into a cor-
ner thrust his sword into his right side. The wounded
man frantically caught at the weapon, and as the assail-
ant drew it back, three fingers were cut from the victim’s
hand. The point of the sword was broken, and it was dis-
covered that Monaldeschi wore a steel coat of mail.

On making this discovery, his assailant cut him across
the face. ee :

The mutilated man screamed, and rushed into the arms
of the priest.

The executioners stepped aside a moment at the priest’s
request, while he hurriedly performed the rite of absolu-
tion, and enjoined upon the unhappy man, as a penance,
patient endurance of the death he was about to suffer.

The good offices of the clergyman finished, the victim
staggered from his arms, and fell, receiving as he sank

to the floor, a terrible cut on the head, which fractured

his skull. He retained his consciousness, however, and
as he lay helpless and bleeding, he made a sign to one of

| them to end his misery.by cutting his throat.

At this sign, one of the men made two or three cuts.at
his neck, but the struggle had. pushed up the coat of mail
so that the blows were ineffectual. :

» Father Lebel meanwhile exhorted the dying man to
suffer patiently.
, On hearing the exhortation, the chief of the execution-
ers asked if he should deal the death blow ?

he priest replied that he had no counsel to give, that
his mission was to beg for mercy, not to enforce justice.

Once again-the door of the room softly opened, and the
officer before mentioned again appeared.

The half murdered man, mutilated and covered with

‘blood, saw him, and dragging himself along the floor, ex-

tended his gory hands, as if pleading for mercy. But the
power of speech was gone. e lips moved, but the only
sound that came forth, was alow, touching moan, and
the poor count sank back upon the floor.

At that moment a sword was passed through his throat,
and he was pinned to the floar.

He was held in that positien for a quarter of an hour,
the priest kneeling over him, and shouting into his ear
wot words of exhortation the dying man ceuld no longer

ear.

When he breathed his lasy they. all returned to the
queen to inform: her that her_eonimands had been fully
accomplished.

She exhibited no emotion; but expressed her regret at
haying been compelled to execute Heaven’s judgment on
so foul a traitor. -

The room was closed, and the corpse remained undis-
turbed until Monday—the murder was committed on Satur-
day—when it was privately removed to the parish church,
and decently buried, Christina paying for one hundred
masses for the repose.of his soul. The queen’s crime was
then complete. —

 
 
   

ture of Monaldeschi’s crime was,
- The letters the queen exhibited
have contained some scandal about
: reepted. They were destroyed as soon
= ws count was dead, and the mystery remains a mystery
still. :

The crime soon became known throughout Europe, and
everywhere excited disgust and horror. :

It was in vain Christina claimed that at the time of her
abdication, she had expressly reserved the rights of a
sovereign over her attendants. Granting all she claimed
in defense of her legal right tocommit murder, the act
was nevertheless cruel and unwomanly, and nearly all
who were familiar with its sickening details, looked upon
her with loathing. a ‘

She lived forty years after the murder, and died without
expressing any regret for her part in the fearful tragedy.

_—-0 +
“THE ARCH-PLOTTER’’ has already elicited from our
friends numerous complimentary letters. It has been pro-
nounced one of the most fascinating stories ever published.
Read it, and judge for yourself.

 

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.]

We think that “EB. J..? is somewhat disposed to ‘‘make |
fun’’ of this department. It is true that some of our ques-
tions are of a nature to make one think that they are asked
for amusement, still we do not know but what the inqui-
rers are in earnest, therefore we answer all to the best of
our ability, and with the hope thatsome one may be ben-
fited by our efforts. ‘‘Put yourself in his place’? and im-
agine how you would feel to havea sarcastic reply to a
question you consider of importance in a matter of which
you are entirely ignorant. We only wish ‘“E. J” could
see the letters received by us each week, and know of the
thanks we receive for answering those same questions he
is so much disposed to ridicule.

“Southern Girl.’—aAs hostess, you must endeavor to
forget self, and to make your friends feel perfectly at home.
Talk to the ‘‘wall-flowers,’’ introduce your friends to each
other, and manage if possible to throw the most congenial
elements together. 2d. Ifa stranger accompanies you to
a party, you must of course imtroduce him to your ac-
quaintances, because it is understood that no lady would
accept as an escort a gentleman whois unworthy of intro-
duction. 3d. In a ball-room you have no inferiors nor su-
periors—all are your equals—and ifa gentleman requests
you to dance with him, if you are notalready engaged you
have no right to decline his invitation. In a ball-room
every gentleman to whom you have been introduced
stands upon the same footing as yourself, and is entitled
to due consideration. Outside of the ball-room it is your
privilege to either renew or break off the acquaintance,
for unless you speak to him first upon your meeting it is
a breach of etiquette for him to address you.

“Monica Powis.’’—You should have mentioned the ma-
terial. Ifyou plaid is silk, you can trimit with ruching
of the plaid, or in plain blue, the shade of blue in plaid.
If in wool material trim with bias bands of the same.

‘Mabel Carrington.”’—Yes; linen does not look well
unless it is starched, no matter what color it is.

“Lola.”,—Thank you. The handkerchief-holder should
be worn with the ring uponthe third finger of the left
hand. Our most fashionable ladies do not perfume their
writing paper, unless they can get violets fresh from the
garden to place between the leaves. A simpie wish for
her future happiness is all that is required. Next week
we will tell you about fall styles of invitations. You must
use your abilities to converse intelligently with him, then
he will not feel the absence of music. No; but the wife is
or should be the first object of consideration. If sheis
willing no one else has a right to object. Yes; you should
acknowledge its receipt by the servant who bringsit. If
you consider the excuse sufficient for the neglect, con-
tinue the correspondence. Do not act in haste, the gen-
tleman may have had good reasons for his action. It
seems to us much more sociable to shake hands witha
friend than to bow. You write prettily.

‘“‘Aurora.’”’—A morning dress of white alpaca, a dinner-
dress of blue silk would be becoming and appropriate.
For evening a white Swiss or organdie trimmed with
valenciennes is pretty and stylish. For a brunette, a
morning of brown with facings of rose-colored silk.
Ashes of rose for a dinner silk and a pink silk for even-
ings with white organdie overskirt, straw-color, too, will
be becoming.

“Widow M. L.’—Trim your gros grain with the black
Satin, two yards cut bias will be quite sufficient for the
dress. The sample you send is not appropriate for second
mourning. Pointed waists are fashionable. This fall
dresses will be quite as stylish without as with overskirts,
and if you ruffle your skirt you will not have enough left

La cov THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3==>

for an overskirt. Have your sleeves half-flowing, or if
you wish the coat sleeve, it is stillin favor, and then you
will not have to use undersleeves, cuffs being sufficient.

“Josie L. W.”,—Make your pique with a plain under-
skirt, a pointed overskirt, and a postillion basque; trim
with braid, three or four rows. Get asailor hat for your
little boy. Fine charcoal will not injure the teeth, the
coarse takes off the enamel. It is best always to go to a
friend, tell her what you have heard, ask ifit is true, state
your authority, always remembering that the person who
will gossip to you of others will gossip about you, to the
very same persons, and remember, too, their slander ac-
cumulates as it flies. It is more affectionate to say father
and mother to husband’s parents, but that is something
you must regulate yourself. It is a matter of affection
and respect, not propriety. ?

‘“Lizzie.’”’—Do not worry yourself about sunburn and
freckles, gentlemen will not admire you less for them. If
ores ladies would only spend as much time in improy-

ng their minds as they do in trying to remedy nature’s
defects in their bodies, they would accomplish more satis-
factory results. Try and improve your health, take long
walks and get a healthy brown, thatis better than being
fair. Wear your hairin curls. A rich silk dress should
not be spoiled with trimming. Make your purple with a
train, and wear a white overskirt with it, and a pink bow
at the throat.

‘“May.’’—You are doubtless mistaken.

“Lucie.’’—It is not a breach of etiquette to invite a gen-
tleman to call and see you, if you are pleased with him,
and know that he is worthy of your attention. At the home
of a personal friend you are expected to meet only re-
spectable parties, but at a place of public amusement you
should be more choice in your selection of visitors. Hav-
ing never seen the ointment you allude to, we cannot
tell.

“Mertie.’*°—We are truly sorry for you. A young moth-
er needs advice and directions that only mothers can give.
The tender sympathy of a husband should be affection-
ately appreciated, but you need a woman’s counsel. One
piece each patent valenciennes and edging will cost $3,50,
or $1,75 a piece; embroidered waist, from $3 to $5. Make
the skirt tucked, with an embroidered edge around the
bottom. You can trim nainsook with either ruffles of the
same, or embroidery. Make the bands about halfa yard
long anda quarter wide; make them of cotton. Little
white Marseilles quilts are used now. Have a feather
pillow. Should you desire more information about sub-
jects you would like to consult a lady, or should you want
corer made in New York, you can write to Mary E.

ucker, care of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, and re sure
she will take pleasure in giving you the needful advice.

“TIgnatia’’? and ‘Carrie Johnson,” too, wish to consult
some one upon the same subject, and would do well to
write to Mrs. Tucker.

“Carrie Johnson.’’—Infants’ Gumdrawers cost fifty
cents a pair. The pins are twenty-five cents a box. See
answer to ‘‘Mertie.”’

“Tgnatia.’’—Will have the fall styles next month, and
will then tell you a new way tomake your alpaca. Brown,
black, drab and lavender are the most fashionable shades
in gloves for day. In the evening, light fancy shades are
worn. After anything has been dyed black you cannot
make it a light shade. See answer to ‘Mertie.”? Send
your full name and address, and you will have all the in-
formation you desire.

 

How TO EMPTY A CHURCH.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

 

When you take possession of the pulpit, be sure to re-
member the sacrifices you have made, and compare the
waters of Abana and Pharpar with the Jordan which
flows at your feet.

Ascertain who are the wealthiest people in your congre-
gation, and pay particular court to them, for ‘‘riches have
wings,’ and you cannot afford to lose any of these mag-
nates.

Find out all the weak spots among your people, and be
sure and drive your sharpest nails into their quivering
flesh. Pour on the mustard and vinegar without one drop
of oil, and if the wretches cannot stand it, why they can
vacate their pews. Don’t be surprised if they leave after
the first application of the caustic.

Be very personal, there is nothing like locating your re-
ee it prevents the cap from getting on the wrong

ead.

h

Refer frequently to the flourishing vineyard you left; it
has the same effect as Mr. Thrasher’s remarks to his
second wife, in regard to his “late lamented.’”?. They will
feel like giving you a return ticket.

Ventilate your own private opinions, and so impress
them upon your people that they will be obliged to think
as you do; or else be classed among the idiots or insane.

Keep an open grave very close to the pulpit, and when
some newly bereaved ones enter their pew, seeking for
comfort, strength, and consolation, bring up all the ter-
rors of death, the horror of dissolution, and uncertainty of
all beyond, until the shadows of grief hang heavy over the
place, and the world seems one vast cemetery.

The soil must be well harrowed, and this plowing up of
the emotions is essential to your success.

If you should hear, through any good friend, that some
member of your congregation had spoken disparagingly
of you, lampoon him from the pulpit in a way that shall
distress everybody.

Be very patronizing to the poor of the church. Their
feelings are of no account; and you cannot afford to draw
upon the treasury of Heaven for those who give so little
into your treasury.

Besides, there are the crumbs.

Keep your own sorrows, your own soul-experiences,
prominently before the people; it will awaken sympathy
for you, and prevent their encroaching on the pastoral
cornfield. Their own troubles will grow light by com-
parison, and you will be saved the worry of hearing all
their complaints, and healing all their wounds. They
ought not to expect too much from their pastor.

 

ITEMS OF INTEREST.

o

45> The English papers give us the particulars of the
case of the Earl of Aberdeen, who was knocked overboard
while serving as chief mate on board the Hera, in Janu-
ary, 1870, he being at the time known as George H. Os-
borne. The earl was twenty-four years old at the time of
his death, and had followed the sea under an assumed
name for four years. He was not, in the usual sense, a
‘wild’? youth. On the contrary, his mind was imbued
with decided religious feeling. e held prayer-meetings
among the sailors, and sought the company of mission-
aries. He maintained communication with his family;
but obstinately preserved his incognito. His case seems
to have been one of genuine infatuation for the sea, with
which was mingled ahope of regaining his health, under-
mined by the hard climate of Scotland, and his diversion
from the usual way of young earls was certainly not less
praiseworthy than it was peculiar.

aas- A Troy paper Says that, as a six-oared paper gig
was being rowed down to Albany for the purpose of tak-
ing a part in the regatta lately held there, she encounter-
ed a strong gale to the southwayd. In a few minutes the
boat swamped, and sank several feet under water. The
air-chambers at each end ofthe paper boat were not able
to support the crew, but after it had sunk till the rowers
were nearly shoulder deep in the waves, and were thus
themselves supported directly by the water, the sinking
process ceased, and the men satin the water, with their
six heads sticking out in a row.

4a@> At Vienna there is said to bea girl aged thirteen, a
native of Palermo, named Theresa Gambordelia, who is
covered with hair so thickly that the papers pronounce
her skin more like a furthan anything else. Even the
forehead is entirely overgrown. The head closely resem-
bles that ofa monkey. The shape of herjaws and teeth,
the pliability of her tongue, which she can roll up com-
pletely in her mouth—her excellent appetite, her restless-
ness, etc., strikingly remind one of that animal. ;

aas~ The oldest woman in Maine is Mrs. Bertha Foster,
who was born onthe 15th of June, 1764, and is, conse-
quently, over 107 years old. Since her one hundredth
birthday she has both spun and knit. For one pair of
stockings knit since that time she has received $5. She
has been able to read until within a few years, and to

 

Walk quite well until very recently, when she fell, and has

since been obliged to keep her bed. She still retains her
mental faculties toa remarkable degree, considering her
age.

4a A light and compact steam fire-engine, fitted on an
iron screw launch,has just been completed in England. The
launch is only forty feet long, and is specially designed
for the canals of Venice; itdraws but 18 inches of water
with the engine, boiler, and pump, and having on board
its coal and fresh-water supply, as well as its full comple-
ment of firemen on a trial trip. The speed reached was
between 9 and 10 miles perhour, <A jet of water was pro-
veges Pe a rate of 225 gallons per minute to a distance of

eet.

4a Harriet Tinnin, a colored woman, renowned for
her kind heart and numerous charities throughout Cali-
fornia, died at Jackson Valley recently, in her 63d year.
She was born a slave in Arkansas, but her husband pur-
chased her and his own freedom, and, going to the new
El Dorado in the early days, they acquired a reputation
for good deeds among the bold adventurers and rough
miners which caused them always to be spoken of with
reverence and affection. They were known there as
“Aunt Harriet” and “Uncle Pompey.”

nas It is estimated that the whole number of scholars
in the Sunday-schools of Great Britain and Ireland is over
3,600,000, and of teachers not far from 350,000; and that
there are in the United States 4,000,000 scholars and 400,000
teachers in our Sunday-schools. The American Sunday-
School Union claims to have organized 50,000 Sunday-
schools, an average of more than 1,000 schools a year
since its formation.

4a Pearl buttons come from Birmingham, England.
and Vienna, Austria, though in New Jersey and Philadel-
phia the attempt has been made to manufacture them out
of oyster-shells; but so far they have not been able to
compete with the imported. The pearl used abroad comes
from the East India and the China seas,

kas With the exception of agriculture, the leather in-
terest adds more to the wealth of this country than any
other industrial pursuit. A proof of these statements is
contained in a summary of values. Leather manufac-
tures, $222,600,000; cotton manufactures, $71,500,000, and
woolen manufactures, $66,000,000,

nae William L. Barry, a compositor on the Lebanon,
(Tenn.) Herald, has just passed his 9ist birthday. He is
promptly at his case at 7 o’clock every morning, and sets
6000 ems a day without difficulty. He began to set type
73 years ago, and still follows the business out of love for
the art, having no need to work for money. Barry is still
hale and vigorous.

aa The National debt is constantly diminishing. On
the 1st of March, 1869, it was $2,525,463,260,01. On the 1st
of April, 1871, it was $2,309,697,596,27. Showing a reduc-
tion of $215,765,663,74. Upto July, 31, the total decrease
was over two hundred and forty-two millions. Rate of
decrease per month $8,349,255.

ka A large and prominent rock on Clark’s Island, in
Plymouth Bay, Mass., has been inscribed with the extract
from the journal of Gov. Wm. Bradford,—‘‘Dec. 20, 1620.
Being the Sabbath, we rested.””> The monument is to be
dedicated in August, if possible.

&a5> The dental profession in the United States, com-

twenty-four million dollars. The annual expenditure for
materials, amounts to two millions, leaving nineteen mil-
lion dollars as the net income of the profession.

aa The young Duke Alexis, of Russia, is said to bear
a striking resemblance to his imperial father, whose favor-
iteson he is. He speaks six languages fluently; smokes

 

Make very few calls, and should you meet any of your

parishioners on the street, unless they are the créme-de-
la-créme, be lost in thought and oblivious of their ap-
proach, or, if taken unawares, grant them merely a slight
nod of recognition.
Follow out these suggestions, adding to them such hints
as you may gather from your own, or other people’s ex-
perience, and rest assured that the result will exceed even
your most sanguine expectations.

———_——_-9~4———_
Mr. THOMAS NAST, Artist.

Mr. THOMAS NAST, whose likeness appeared in the last
number of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, was born September
27th, 1840, in Landau, Bavaria, Germany, and was
brought to this country by his parents, when about six
years ofage. Where is the genuine artist who did not
once enchant or disgust his parents by disfiguring his
bed-room walls or the blank leaves of his school books?
If any such there are, Mr. Nast is not one of them. He
began to draw before he could hold a pencil, performing

 

 

wonders with chalk and charcoal. It was in an humble
home in the city of New York that the bent of his taste
thus manifested itself, and it was there, too, that he re-
ceived lessons in drawing for a few months, when he was
about twelve years old.

Never was there a talent more decided than his in child-
hood. Being of a very active, eager disposition, all the
energy of his nature expended itself in drawing. He
~carcely needed any instruction in the rudiments of his
art; he practised it so incessantly that he seemed to have
no more occasion to learn perspective, in order to draw,
than a child needs to learn anatomy in order to walk.
He cannot remember the time when the delineation of
any ordinary object was difficult to him.

It was during the war that Mr. Nast won his national
reputation. Every one remembers those double-page
pictures in Harper’s Weekly, instinct with the best feelings
oi the hour, which he gave us from week to week. In
some of these pictures caricature and burlesque became
little less than sublime, and they moved to tears more
than to laughter.

Mr. Lincoln placed a high value upon this series of truly
national works, and many members of Congress, and
many brave soldiers have testified to the artist, in the
strongest language, their sense of the value of his efforts.

The New YORK WEEKLY and the Phunny Phellow
have also contained numerous illustrations from the pen-
cil of Mr. Nast, who, for a number of years past, has furn-
ished the principal designs for the periodical last named,
and now regularly displays his skill to the readers of this
journal in the unique pictures which illustrate the Josh
Billings papers.

Mr. Nast is still a very young man. It is as a draughts-
man that he has been chiefly distinguished hitherto, al-
though he has executed several oil paintings which have
been much admired. It remains to be seen whether he
will develop into a great national painter or confine him-
self to the branches of art in which Leech and Doré have
won so much distinction. He has the three essentials of
a great career—talent, industry, and perfectly virtuous
habits. Although of German origin, he has not even the
absurd vice of smoking.

——__ > e~+___—_

HISTORICAL ITEMS.

THE first battle between the houses of York and Lancaster was
that of St. Alpans, fought May 22, 1455. The last was that of
Tewkesbury, fought May 4, 1471. In these battles the Yorkists,
or ‘‘White Roses,” were victorious against the house of Lancaster,
or the ‘“‘Red Roses,”’ but in the sixteen years between these dates,
more that thirty great battles were fought with different success,
and half the country was depopulated, and nearly the whole of
the nobility exterminated.

THE Gordian Knot was made of the thongs that served as har-
ness to the wagon of Gordian, a husbandman who was afterward
King of Phrygia. Whoever untied this knot, the ends ot whicn were
not discoverable, the oracle declared should be Emperor of Prus-
sia. Alexander the Great cut away the knot with a sword until
he found the ends of it; and thus, in a military sense at least,
this ‘‘conqueror of the world” interpreted the oracle.

TURNER, the great landscape painter, died in 1851, or ten years
after Wilkie. But Wilkie was born ten years later than Turner.
Atthe time of death, Wilkie was about fifty-six and Turner seventy-
six years of age. There are not extant many examples of oil
paintings prior to the fifteenth century. Leonardoda Vinci was

born in 1452. :

THE table was considered by the ancient Greeks as the altar of
friendship, and held sacred upon that account. They would not
eyes of any meat until they had first offered part of it, as the

rst fruits, to their gods; and hence came the short prayer said
before and after meat in all Christian countries from the earliest
times.

SHAKESPEARE’S tragedy of “‘Macbeth,” like many of his other
pieces, is founded on fact. The action of the drama appears to be
much more rapid than the occurrence of the actual events. His-
tory states that Duncan was murdered by Macbeth in the year

 

 

1040, and that it was not until seventeen years after, namely in
in 1057, that Macbeth was killed by Macduff.

excessively; is a connoisseur in meerschaums and cham-
pagne, and plays billiards like a professional.

&a- No fewer than two hundred and twenty-four life
insurance companies have been wound up in Great Britain
within the Jast twenty-six years. This is twice as many
as now exist there.

kR& The manufacture of paper boxes was introduced
at Richmond, Va., in the spring of 1869. One firm there
turns out daily 2,500 boxes and gives employment to
about thirty women.

copper.

&a> Deaths from diseases of the digestive organs in
England greatly exceed in number those of any other
country. .

coming into favor in New York.
ka Nearly twice as much coal was mined in 1870 asin
860. i

aa Augusta, Ga., sent North in four days recently
15,829 water melons. :

New Hampshire has 21 couples who have been
married over 50 years.

ka= Sam Weller conducts a hotel in Stamford, Conn.
a GE

PERSONAL.

A Good Templar writes as follows: ‘Allow me to offer you my
most sinceie thanks, as 2 co-worker with you in the Temperance
cause, for the great good you are doing through yo NEw YORK
WEEKLY, che most valuable of papers. I write this after readii
Mrs. Mary J. Holmes’ story, ‘Twelve Wine Glasses,’ and I than
both youand her from the bottom of my heart for vee
public at large so striking an example in its truthfulness. May
you continue in your good work, and could I say more to express
my sincere thanks I would willingly doso. Take this for what it
is worth. It comes from a just and not a cowardly spirit.”

H. D.—We thank you for the good opinion expressed in your
letter. We can afford to let our jealous cotempor: “blow its
own horn,” and swell up like the frog in the fable, w bursted
himself in trying to become as large asthe ox. The cause of
their spleen is that the public cannot be made to see the supe-
riority of their paper. With our circulation of over 300,000, we

the mass of the people by disparaging the NEW YORK WEEKLY,
and reply to their snarling at our heels, “It pleases them and
does not injure us.”

J. P. A.—We cannot open accounts with retail dealers at the
office. You must buy your papers of the news companies.

W. A.—We shall commence in a reer few weeks the promised
temperance serial from the pen of Col. E. Z. C. Judson. It is en-
titled ‘‘Peril; or, The Drunkard’s Wite,” and is the result of sev-
eral months’ labor. The scenes and incidents are in the main
portrayed from real life, and in the author’s most vigorous and
graphic style. Mr. Judson has been for several years one of our

quence and earnestness as a lecturer and writer have been the
means of turning many from the intoxicating cup to the paths of
sobriety and industry. In the above-named story the effects of
intemperance are depicted in a most vivid, though no less “truth-
ful manner, and cannot fail toimpress those whom it is intend-
ed to reach and warn, of the folly and utter wickedness of the
course they are pursuing, with its inevitable wretchedness and
misery, not only to themselves but to their innocent and depend-
ent wives and children.

J. Thorp.—The news business may be combined with the segar
and tobacco trade to very good advantage in a village like yours,
where neither is sufficient in itself to afford a fair livelihood. This
is done in many cases by small dealers in either stationery, fruit
and nuts, confectionery, etc., and parties who have failed to make
a living previously, with a very little more trouble, have succeed-
ed in establishing quite a paying business. In many instances
females have combined the news business with fancy articles, ice
cream, confectionery, toys, or some other light trade, which can
be readily done, as it isa clean and respectable business, and are
now making from $10 to $20 a week where it was hardly possible
to earn $5 before. Like all other kinds of business, of course, it
takes a little time to build a a trade, but it will pay in the end.
far American News Co. will furnish desired information, price

ist, ete.

Ignoramus.—We cannot inform you. Address a letter to each
of the institutions. ;

Mrs, A. A. A.—The story would be toe short—about twice the
length mentioned would be quite short enough. You may send
one of that length, and mark the priceyourself. If acceptable we
will purchase it.

Hulda Henderson.—The MSS. were sent to your address, Kan-
sas City, Mo., with stamp enclosed, but the postmaster returned
them, marked “uncalled for.” f ;

a
The Phunny Phellow.

This mirth-inspiring publication teems with comical
yarns, ludicrous incidents, side-splitting jokes, pungent
repartees, and illustrations so excessively droll that one
glance at them wiil cause a fit of uproarous laughter more
potent in its curative effects than a week in the country.
As a promoter of health the Phunny Phellow is the most

 

 

\ successful physician of the age.

Try him!

 

 

prises 18,000 members, who earn an aggregated income of »

&a@> An exploring party in Texas found near Wichita §~
an arrow-head of pure gold and some fine specimens of ~ °

ka The use of gold and colors in architecture is fast

can look calmly on their futile efforts to bring their paper before °

most successful workers in the temperance cause, and his elo- .

 

 

 

  

pate Me ¥

 

 

 

phi OF

St
with.

 

 

 

 

 

- to feel sore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

“THE WORKING GIRL.

- BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

The working girl! She labors from the dawn

Until the sunset hour, then like a bird

She ’scapes her prison house, and though her lot

In life be hard, and home be but a name,

Her youth asserts itself, and joy, bright joy,

For this brief season of beloved rest

Tinges her cheek, and calls up from her heart
Hope’s sweetest songs.

 

 

Insult her not!
Take no advantage of her humble birth. .
Oh, man, to tempt her feet astray, to lead
Her where the sharpest thorns do grow,
Though hid by flowers! Oh, tempt her not
As you do dread the threatened curse of Heaven!
And you who have her welfare in your hands,
Who pay her for her weary, toiling hours,
The wear and tear of body, and of mind,
Such scanty wages; do you never think
Who count a reckoning day in every seven
That soon the reckoning day for you will come ?
Oh, when you grind the poor, to swell your purse
And offer human lambs as sacrifice
On Mammon’s altar; do you never dread
The wrath of Him, who when on earth deciared
The laborers worthy of their hire ?

The Wife’s F'oe;

OR, THE

Skeleton in the Banker's Closet.

A STORY OF BAD LOVE AND GOOD.
By Mrs. M. V. Victor,
Author of “WHO OWNED THE JEWEES,”

“DEAD LETTER,” “FIGURE EIGHT,”
“PHANTOM WIFE,” etc.

 

 

 

[The Wife’s Foe,” was commenced in No. 34. Back numbers
can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER XXVII.—(Continued.)

He came in smiling, easy. He looked about like a mas-
ter of the mansion. With him it was plainly a question
oftime. He had perceived, far more plainly than Katrine,
where his power over Mrs. Glaston was strongest. He must
not only hold over her the threat to injure her dead Har-
ry’s fame, but he must also seek to convince her that Har-
ry, knowing her poor and helpless by his own wrong-do-
ing, would wish, had he any knowledge of his earthly af-
fairs, to repair the poverty and desolation he had brought
upon her, by seeing her speedily united to his best friend
and her truest protector.

When he offered to shake hands with Katrine, she put
the tips of her fingers in his; but her dark eyes flashed
defiance. He smiled undisturbed. His smile seemed to
say:

“You, too, my high-mettled beauty, will have to suc-
cumb.”?

Katrine took up her fancy-work and sat apart, while the
visitor told the news of the day in a friendly, quiet way
to Mrs. Glaston. : :

As she bent over her work, she silently studied the two.
She saw how her sister trembled in his presence, yet dared
not dismiss him.

‘Will he master her yet 2’ she asked herself.

‘He wili have to master me first,’’ she answered herself.

Katrine discovered that she had taken aslight cold from
the dampness of the snow which had blown in about her
neck pretty freely when she was out. Her throat began
On her principle of doing all things in sea-
gon, she laid aside her crocheting, and ran down to the
kitchen to ask cook to prepare her an antidote in the
shape of some hot vinegar-butter-and-sugar. Her light
step on the stairs was not heard; and as she entered the
kitchen, she almost screamed to behold, cosily seated at
table, and boldly chatting with the cook—that fellow

n.

rs. Bridget was mightily flustered at this revelation of
her charitable proclivities for feeding poor men on her
mistress’ provisions. She came close to Miss Bromley,
whispering: , :

“Indade, it’s but seldom I gives bit or sup to beggars.
But he seemed so genteel—not one of the common Kind at
all, at all. He said he wasa stranger, travelin’ on foot,
widout jist the means at prisent to pay them big prices to
the hotels—would I give him some supper, and a cup 0’
warmed-over tay. What could a poor woman say? Shure
I could’t refuse, and him so swate-spoken, like a broken-
down gentleman.” — ae

“Yes, you could refuse, Mrs. Bridget, if you tried hxrd
enough. These persons are the ones to beware of. Gen-
tlemen are not mewally beggars. Doubtless he has already
a wax impression of the outside and inside basement-
door, and as soon as he can get his keys manufactured he
will pay.us a midnight visit. He has made good use—or
rather, bad use!—of those keen eyes, P’ll warrant!”

“May the saints defind-us!”” murmured Bridget, “if ever
I thought o’ that! Hadn't I better go at oncest for the

lice ?”? : eo

“No. You can’t prove anything. I will speak to the
man, and make up my mind what he is. Good evening,
sir.”

His head was bent down over his plate; he just nodded
it, without looking up. ;

“You do not seem to have found Mr. Smith’s yet,” she
observed, ironically—Miss Bromley was brave as a lion
when danger was in sight—it was only sneaking, stealing,
midnight danger that made her timorous.

Besides, if the man, believing there were only women
in the house, had bad designs, she was conscious of Spi-
derly in the sitting-room; and for the first and only time
was glad that he was there.

The stranger raised his face at this second observation
with such an appreciative laugh in his eyes, that, for the
life of her, she could not refrain from an answering smile.

“It was John Smith for whom I was looking,’’ he said.

Miss Bromley was somewhat taken aback by his pre-
sumption.

“You have had your supper,” she said, ‘‘would you like
anything else ?—because I think best to see you dismissed
before I go up-stairs.”’

‘“‘Well, yes! I should like to stay all nigi*.”’

“That we cannot permit,’’ she responded, firmly. ‘But
if you really have not money to pay for a lodging, I will
give you that much.” .

“You are an uncommonly kind young lady,’’ he an-
swered, with what she deemed a most impertinent smile.
‘But I mean to stay here.”

“If yeu think we are alone in the house, you are mis-
taken!” :

Katrine was both angry and uneasy at his boldness.

“There’s another lady, I know. Cook told meso. I’ve
made up my mind I’d like to see her. <A pretty widow,
they say.”

“You impertinent wretch! there’s aman in this house
quite capable of attending to your case. He will see that

ou are lodged in the station-house. Bridget, call Mr.

piderby!’

“Stop a minute!” exclaimed the man, springing from
the table and placing himself against the stair-case door.
‘*Who’s Spiderby ?°’

“The owner of this house. Our friend and protector.”’

In her fright, and her desire to appear represented by
ane of the burgler-coping sex, Katrine stretched a point
in the character she gave the banker.

‘Ha! Owner of this house! Going to marry you, my
pretty young lady ?”’

‘No, not me.”

“Perhaps the other one—the pretty widow ?”

“What business have you to ask such questions?
Bridget, run out to the pavement and call help.’’

“She need not. Call down this Spiderby to put me out
if it will be at gratification to you. I’m quite willing to
swear that I will never annoy you again.”

Some great change had come over the intruder’s voice
and looks. Heretofore he had seemed to annoy the young
lady out of pure audacity and recklessness; now he cer-
tainly drooped and shrank as if guilt or shame were
silencing him. But Miss Bromley was too thoroughly
alarmed and angry to let him off so easily. She flew up
stairs, calling Mr. Spiderby.

He came out into the hall, wondering at the outcry.

“There is an insolent fellow down-stairs. A beggar, or
burglar, or what-not. I want you to put him out.”

The banker took his gold-headed cane from a stand in
the hall and went down into the kitchen. Katrine, eager
to see the bold rascal expelled, ran after him. She stood
on the lower stair, peering through the half-open door, as
Spiderby, cane in hand, advanced upon the intruder, who
had reached the outer door, and had his back to the gen-
tleman.

“Be gone, fellow! Out of this house!’

; The man wheeled about and looked the speaker in the
ace.

The eyes of the gentieman and the fellow met, and re-
mained fixed.

The cane, which Katrine expected to see broken over
the man’s shoulders, dropped from its threatening posi-
tion. He appeared to have magnetised the banker, who
was staring at him open-mouthed.

“No offense, sir,’? finally muttered the vagabond, pull-
ing his hat down as if he had pulled his forelock, servant-
fashion. “I was only joking the girls a little. Ill take
myself off without no more rumpus,”’

And he took himself off.

Spiderby drew along, long breath, and turned to go up
stairs.

“Lock the door,” he said, hoarsely, to Bridget. ‘‘Some
tramp, who ought to be sent to the lock-up,” he remarked,
as he preceded Miss Bromley up stairs.

He mounted the stairs very slowly. Katrine noticed
that his step was unsteady ashe walked across the hall.
As he opened the sitting-room door, where Mrs. Glaston
still sat knitting, unconscious of the scenein the kitchen,
so absorbed was she in herown reflections—as he opened
the door, he tottered on the threshold, clutched at his cra-
vat as once before, in the bank, he had done, and present-
ly sank to the floor. His fall was not violent, for he had
broken it somewhat by his own endeayors. When the two
ladies reached him, his face was purple, his eyes staring

 

Rosa, who came down from an upper chamber where she
had been sewing, and was sent for a physician.

By the time he arrived, however, Mr. Spiderby was
much better. He had raised himself from the floor, and
now lay back in a stuffed easy-chair.

He had recovered his speech, but looked ghastly and ex-
hausted.

The doctor inquired minutely as to the nature of the at-
tack.

“Too full-blooded,’ he said. ‘You must diet.”’

Then he kindly took the banker to his hotel in his own
carriage, where he ordered him some brandy, remaining
with him until his patient seemed quite recovered and
ready for a night’s sleep.

“Apoplexy—a siight attack,’? muttered the physician, as
he drove away. ‘‘Spiderby’s fine wines and hotel dinners
are getting the better ofhim. He must diet, or die, with-
out the t, just as he chooses. I shall warn him.”

And the next day he did warn him.

Spiderby did not appear so alarmed as he had expected;
he promised, good-naturedly, to cut down his bill of fare.

“TI know what was the matter with me better than he
does,’ he said to himself, as the doctor left him. ‘“Sucha
shock might well be the death of a man—but it was not
apoplexy. And I guess there’s no danger of my encount-
ering another. I was a great fool to fancy what I did.
‘Twas not ‘a dagger that I saw before me,’’ and he at-
tempted to laugh, but the failure was a sickening one.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
SORTING THE MAIL.

The morning following the snow-storm Peter Cooper
had a tough job ofit, clearing away the thick drifts from
the steps and pavement before opening the bank. Once
he would have sung or whistled merrily over his work,
for he was a powerful fellow to whom the heaviest task
was play; but since Mr. Glaston's loss Peter had greatly
changed. Once he had kept a jest or merry word for every
one; now he was not only silent but sullen. The dull,
dead weight of an awful secret pressed down his buoyant
temper; the thought of insult and wrong to a sister, who
was his one idol, added to his gloom. He had never
“paid attention” to one of the opposite sex; had no
thought of marriage; all his hope and pride had waited on
his pretty, lady-like sister—no one could have dreamed
how deeply he took to heart the blight which had come
upon Effie.

For she was blighted.

Not actually in her honor, but in her thoughts, her hap-
piness, the whole bloom and beauty of her young maiden-
hood. Her very nature was changed. At home she was
irritable and restless; she no longer cared to be seen
abroad with her uncouth brother, no longer attempted to
relieve her mother of any of the household care. When
she was not sewing for others she was making ornamen-
tal additions to her Own dress. Every day she would
wear her best attire and walk past the bank; not, as once,
to exchange a smile or a word with her brother, but with
the foolish, wild, insane

‘Desire of the moth for the star,”

which was leading her beyond the bounds of discretion,
and rapidly unsettling her whole character.

It was this daily witness of Effie’s folly even more than
that other black secret which worked and wore upon the
sturdy porter. On this special morning he tumbled and
flung the snow about with a savage spitefulness, sugges-
tive of the idea that he imagined it some enemy upon
whom he was wreaking vengeance.

“J wish it was Spider,’ he muttered more than once.

When he had cleared the way he went into the bank,
and down to the cellar to attend upon the furnace.

He never descended those stairs without a cold thrill
running down his back. He went, with hesitation, look-
ing about him nervously, for Peter-had told the truth when
he asserted that he was afraid of ghosts. No ghost rose
upto confront him, however, since the pale lips of the
dead are not permitted to unclose and shriek out the story
of their wrongs. ;

He found the fire very low, and had some difficulty in
resuscitating it. As usual his eyes were roving about in
search of any and everything which concerned his em-
ployer. He had noticed, when he first opened the upper
furnace-door, some black ashes of burned papers, which
still retained a shadowy outline of their former shapes.

“He’s been down here aburnin’ up some of his papers,”’
remarked Peter. ‘He’s up to some new mischief, I swan,
Nothin’ so sure as fire to take those things out 0’ the way.
I wish they wasn’t quite so far gone. I’li vow hestaid by
and seen ’em consumed. He’ssly. O,a weazle ain’t to
be compared with him! A fox would slink his tail be-
tween his legs and vamose the ranch if he saw Spider a-
comin’. I’ve been cogitating on it five weeks, as patient
as a hen on a Sittin’ o’ eggs, why Treddle went off to: Chi-
cago, and I hain’t hatched anidea yet. I can’t make it
out. It bothers me worsen the rule of three. It was shab-
by of Treddle, to give me the mitten in that style. ButI
swear, by old aunt Abby’s red flannel petticoat, that I
aint to bescared out 0’ my course by his desartin’ the ship.
If he wants to take sides with a murderer, I must fight
‘em both. But I didn’t think Timothy Treddle was a man
to bebought. I’d a said‘his price was too high for this
ereconcarn to secure him. Dod rot ’em all!’ exclaimed
Peter, flinging down his shovel with a to
feather his nest ck as down, and I be left outin the
cola? Since bribery and corruption’s the order of the
day, supposin’ I look out for a portion of the spiles. Sup-
posin’ J step up to Mr. Spiderby and say: ‘If you don’t
want nothin? said about that little scene in the cellar, give
me'‘ten thousan’ dollars, and pay my passage to Califor-
nia.’ 2: :

“Supposin’ I go further, seein’ Effie’s such a fool, and
say—‘give up your lady that you’re going to marry, and
marry my sister, seein’ she wants you so bad.. Take your
choice atween her an’ a rope that will hug tighter ’n she

 

 

 

will. He’d have to take her, no mistake; and she’d be
the banker’s wife—which she seems to have a hankerin’
fur—and about as happy as a hen tryin’ toswim with a
lot 0’ swans.

“Hal? continued Peter, reflectively, ‘‘why shouldn’t I
be better than my betters? I can fling down work this
minute and play the gentleman all the rest of my life, if
lve a mind to let that sly scoundrel shut up my mouth
with a gold key.”’

The idea of playing gentleman tickled his fancy into a
somewhat less gloomy aspect.

“Pq cut as handsome a dash as an elephant on ice,’’ he
continued. ‘No, Peter Cooper, thar aint money enough
on this little spere to tempt you to become Spider’s broth-
er-in-law; or to stuff your mouth so you won’t tell the
truth when the time comes,—and that aint far ahead,
nuther. You’re ’most to the end of your rope, whether
you guesses it or not, Mr. Banker—murderer—Spiderby.”’
* So saying, he went up to the first floor to sweep out and

ust.

As he was sweeping about the register he noticed a
piece of white paper fluttering inside the flue; he imme-
diately remembered the burned documents, and lifting
out the iron plate he secured the scrap, which had been
carried upward by a current of hot airand lodged under

 

 

and set.

There wasa silver water-pitcher on a small table near
at hand. Mrs. Glaston threw some ofits contents in his
face, as once he had done that service for her. Katrine
stooped and pulled off his cravat, then rung the bell for

the register. It proved to be part of an envelope, and on
it was written an address, the most of which had been
torn off, but on this remaining portion, Peter made out
the name ‘‘Bromley,’’ and the post-mark ‘‘Chicago.”’

‘Hal? he muttered, ‘‘what’s that doin’ here?’

He placed it carefully in his pocket, while he restored
the register to its position and finished his sweeping.
While the dust was settling he made another study of the
torn envelope.

“Mr. Treddle’s letters don’t get no further than this
bank, that’s plain. I’d know his hand-writing in a thous-
and,—that’s his, no mistake. He’s been a writin’ to Mrs.
Glaston’s hansome sister, and old Spider, he has all the
letters sent here from the post-office. He’s so mighty
kind, he sends Mrs. Glaston the mail every day,—aster he’s
sorted it. Miss Bromley may cry them black eyes of hers
out of her pretty face, an’ ’ll bet she won’t get no love-
ee from Timothy Treddle. It can’t be her Spiderby’s
after ?

It was natural that Peter should suspect this. Spiderby
had been so cautious—feeling the dangerous ground on
which he was treading—that no human being besides
Mrs. Glaston and Katrine, except Effie Cooper, whose
jealous eye had detected the truth, suspected that he was
anything more than a family friend to the young widow.

“T}] block his game in that direction,” said the porter,
with a grim smile. ‘He shan’t creep in between them—
notif I knowsit. Thank goodness, and the deestrict-
school, I can make pen-marks when I’m hard pushed.
Not that I ever took to writin’ as I did to slidin’ down hill
in winter. Ud ruther tackle a ten-acre lot with a rusty
plow than a sheet 0’ paper with a steel pen; but I’ll write
a letter to-night, if I have to set up till cock-crow.”

This was to be a day of adventures to Peter. After he
had put all things in tidy-order, he sat down on the sunny
door-step, quite warm and dry just then, to guard the
portals while waiting for the arrival of the book-keeper,
and to ‘‘cogitate’’ his letter.

Presently he was interrupted in his meditations by a
shadow falling on the steps, and looking up, he saw a
queerly-dressed individual, who immediately accosted
him:

‘Have you a job of any sort to give a poor fellow ?”’

Peter stared at him with open mouth without making
the least reply.

“I say, can’t you give me something to do?”

‘Taint the boss of this ’ere shop,—did you s’pose I
was??? returned the porter, still staring blankly at the
man.

‘How should I know? You seem to be taking it easy.”’

‘Wall, taint a hard place; that’s a fact,—don’t give me
enough exercise to whet the edge of my appetite. But,
lordy, man, this ’ereis a green-back shop. 1 don’t handle
nothin’ here but the broom an’ the coal-scuttle.”’

«Well, well, ’m only anignorantcountryman. I’m not
used to these big towns. I came to N-—— to get work;
but I don’t find any. Whose wood is that?”

“That’s a young lawyer’s who rooms up-stairs. Come
to think, he asked me to saw it upfor him, if the boss was

willin’. Now, if you need the job wuss’n I do you shall
have it. It’s half-a-cord; an’ sawin’ an’ splittin’ll be a
dollar.’’

“Ym heartily obliged to you,’ said the man; ‘‘where
can I get a saw ?”’

“Pll get you mine, directly. It’s in the cellar; but, you
see, I ain’t expected to leave this front door till Mr. Smith
arrives. Isee his head comin’ round the corner this min-
ute—his buddy’ll come in sight in the course of time. You
see Smith’s got a long neck, and a habit of carrying his
head poked forrad like a gander. But he’s a good feller
—he’li bear holdin’ up to the light like a sound egg—
which is more than can be said of his betters.”’

Here the book-keeper arrived, nodded to Peter, and
passed in.

“He looks honest,’’ said the stranger—‘‘what did you
mean.by saying he was better than his betters ?”’

All this time the porter had been watching the man
with a covert scrutiny. As he asked this question their

 

 

 

 

eyes met, and Peter fairly jumped to his feet.

 

 

ha bang. “Is he to.

“What’s the matter?’ queried the other; ‘‘did you ever
see me before? You look asif you were trying to make
me out.”’

Peter wiped the sweat from his face with his red silk
handkerchief.

“You do look uncommon like an acquaintance 0’ mine,”’
he stammered, ‘‘only he’s dead an’ gone, and that’s what
affected meso. You see, you remind me of him—power-
ful! It’s techin’ to be reminded of dead friends,”’ he con-
tinued, embarrassed, for there was a strange, odd look,
almost like a mocking smile, in those eyes whose every
glance so disconcerted him.

“It’s very touching,’? responded the other, in a tone
which the porter felt to be sneering, although he might
not be able thus to express it. ‘May I make free to ask
how long your friend been dead ?””

“T took a liberty in ca 7 him friend, that’s so, stranger.
He was one of this firm. You see the name, ‘Glaston &
Spiderby’—well, sir, he was Mr. Glaston; and a friend he
a even to poor folks like me. He was as different from
—from——

“T° other partner?’ suggested the stranger.

“Yes—but why should I say that to you? Mr. Spiderby’s
a gentleman, 1 dare say—ahem! He treats me well
enough. Ifyou weren’t a stranger in these parts you
wouldn’t ask no questions about Mr. Glaston,’’ continued
Peter, feeling moved to gossip, he knew not why. ‘‘Every-
body in this county knows how “ie died.”’

“T am, a total stranger. How did he die?”

“They say he committed suicide by drowning.”

‘What do you say? don’t you know for certain?’

Again the eyes of the two met in that curious look.

“His body was fished up and buried,’? answered the
porter, evasively.

“Indeed ??? exclaimed the man, apparently much ‘inter-
ested. ‘

“Yes; it was. Leastwise, Spiderby swore to it.”

“] should have thought his wife would have been the
person surest to recognize it.”

“They wouldn’t let her see it. O, Lordy, no! he wasa

sight by the time they found him!”’
“So she did not see him ?”’
“Lord, she was nigh enough killed without that! she’s
the broken-heartedisi young thing you ever seen, sir.
She never will recover, so they say.”
“Look-a-here, young man! a woman’s heart is made of
putty. You can’t hurtit. I'll bet you, two to one, this
grieving widow will take up with her husband’s partner
as soon as common decency will allow them.”

“With Spiderby?”’

“Tf that’s his name.”

Peter was silent for a full minute. The idea was creep-
ing into his brain. Once there, andit was like a lamp,
suddenly lighted in a dark apartment, making all things
clear. In one gleam he beheld Spiderby’s purpose, trom
beginning toend. He fairly staggered, and was obliged
to lean against the buildingfor support. Cold chills crept
over him. :

Mrs. Glaston!—that angel from heaven!

Was it round about her the subtle spinner was weaving
his web?

He saw her fair, child-face floating in light over that
scene in the vaults of the bank. Rough, ignorant fellow
= ee was, Peter could not endure the picture presented

0 him.

“That’s worse ’n anything I ever thought of,” he
groaned.

“Dear me, ‘twas only a guessof mine,’’ retotted the
other, with a grimsmile. “I makethe bet on general
principles. Human nature is human nature, I take it.”

“{ ort to thrash you for sayin’ it, instid of lendin’ you
my saw,’ said Peter, reproachfully. ‘But, in course, it’s
cause you don’t know the lady. If youhad ever seen her,
you’d take back your bet quicker ’n lightning.”

“Oh, Idare say. Then there isn’t any talk about it in
the town?’ <-)

“J should think not,—and Glaston five m ths dead,
only.” nae ee ee t QU iT
“Oh—h. Well, you see, I got myself in a Serape talking

about people and pines knew nothing about. If you'll
be so Kind as to get me that saw. I'llset to work.’

Peter went in and returned. with the saw. The fellow
took it and immediately began upon the wood. Peter
lounged about the steps, watching him. | wt

‘‘He’s a dreadful awkward euss—at sawin’ wood,’? was
his mental comment. ‘‘Either he’s lazy, or he don’t un-

stand his business. I’ve half a-notion to saw it up for
him, an’ let him have the money. *Twould be the cheap-
est way to git rid of him, for he’s spilin? the saw. Look-

eee fellow, Ireckon your true purfession is that of a

entist.* ‘ oe pee : :

“How so?? asked the other, pausing in his task at this
interruption. a
_ Coz r takin’ all the teeth out 0’ my new saw neat
as ever see it done,—and don’t use no laughin’-gas, nu-
ter,2", %5 _ ; 2

“Pm sorry if I’ve hurt it,’? said the stranger, ruefully.

“J didn’t hear it make no complaint. But I tell you
whee Tlido. Hev you had your breakfast?” %

*N 0.”? .

“Wall, you take this fifty-cent bill and go over to the sa-
loon and get what you like. Dll ad¥ it, on the job,
you see. When you get some hot vittles into you pares
you can run the machiné a little less like a worm-fence.”
_ The countryman took the money, with a nod, and
crossed the street.” * eT

Peter was quite certai he saw the water come in his
eyes, and he felt warm about the heart ag one does who is
conscious of a Kind deed. He seized the saw and wielded
it so vigorously that when tbe other emerged from the sa-
loon, and came across, the work was athird done.

“You leave this job to me,” said Peter, handing him
another fifty-cents; ‘I don’t want my saw spiled.”’

’ ‘Tt you do the work how shall I pay you for my break-
ast 7’? ;

“Qh, it’s all right.’

“You were never
countryman.

‘I make poor work shaving my own chin, let alone
shaving other people’s notes,’ latighed Peter. ‘You
don’t seem totake kindly to the razor, nuther,’? observ-
ing his companion’s unkempt beard,

“It’s warm in winter. Who’s t coming along the
walk? Give me the saw, please dos must be at work.”’

“That’s Spiderby. Never mind.c ’s too proud to no-
tice us. He’ll think you’re some el

The stranger wrenched the saw from Peter’s grasp, and
ae his back toward the pavement, went vigorously

0 work. cts

As Spiderby came up, he paused and looked earnestly
at him; but the man kept his face turned, pretending to
be very busy. However, Spiderby recognized him—the
same vagrant who had frightened Katrine Bromley the
previous evening, and who had given him such a shock.
He turned perfectly white now, as he found the impudent
intruder engaged in front of his premises.

He wanted to order him off, but he found himself tongue-
tied. He desired the man to look around, that he might
see his face by daylight, yet not for the world would he
have asked himtodoso. After a brief hesitation, he
turned and entered the bank. - :

When Peter followed, shortly after, to ask if it were time
to go for the morning’s mail, the banker, in a hesitating,
embarrassed manner, d’fferent from his usual smooth
coldness, called him back, after once letting him go, and,
with his eyes on the floor, asked:

‘Who is that vagrant out there??? « 2.

“J don’t know his name, I’m s rv. He asked for a
job, an’I gave him the wood. Is there anything wrong
about that ?”? “Sy

“TJ don’t know that there is—only about premises like
ours we can’t be too careful whom we employ. For in-
stance, that fellow may be a professional burglar, out from
New York. He affects to be a countryman, when any one
can see he isn’t that. Does he strike you as a person from
the interior, Peter?’

“His clothes is rural enough, sir—as rural as the wool
on a sheep’s back. But he certainly does talk rather fine,
now that I notice it, sir.”

“QO, he can get clothes in which to disguise himself—
that’s a commonruse. You saw how he kept his face
away from me? That same fellow begged a supper at
Mrs. Glaston’s last night. We must look out for him. He
has some object. And, Peter, don’t you detect—a resem-
blance—to—to somebody ?”

The black eyes were fixed on his face keenly enough
now. The porter knew in an instant whom the banker
meant; he Rad recognized a flitting, mocking likeness to
another in this man—a likeness at one moment showing
itself with startling vividness, only to disappear the next,
leaving the observer perplexed and doubtful. Peter knew,
but he would not too quickly betray his knowledge.

‘He certainly does remind me of somebody I’ve known,
but 1 can’t for the life of me say who. Twoor three times
I was certain I knew him, and was goin’ to ask his name;
but I forgot it, after all.”’

“Ten to one, he’d give a false one. Peter, I’ll tell you
mor he looks like. It is Mr. Glaston whom he reminds me
of.”?

“That’s so!’ responded the porter, slapping his thigh.
“You're as right as ever, Mr. Spiderby. It’s aston-
ishin’.” :

‘Not particularly astonishing, Peter. Mr. Glaston, like
all other men, must have had relatives—some poor ones,
or mean ones, of whom he wasashamed. This is some
one of his shabby relations. I’m sure of it. The fellow
has heard of his death, and has come sneaking about to
pick up what information he can. As there are no chil-
dren, he wishes to learn if there is a will. Doubtless he
supposes that Mr. Glaston died with a fine property, and
he has come to demand his share. When he finds that
there is nothing left, he will take himself off. That ex-
plains all,” went on the banker, with a sigh of relief;
“his resemblance to Glaston and his impudence at Mrs.
Glaston’s house last evening. Doubtless, had he got sight
of the lady, he would have avowed himself, and set forth
his claims, whatever they may be. I am glad I drove him
away. Mrs. Glaston must not be annoyed by such in-
truders. Now he hangs about the bank, to worm out of
you and others such information as he can, before making
himself known to me, “I dare say he asked you questions
which an ordinary poor farmer would not have asked—
eh, Peter?’ " : i

Peter was conscious that such questions had been asked.
Still he had rather fancied the vagrant, and he did not care
how much his employer was annoyed with him, so he an-
swered carelessly:

‘He wasn’t no ways impertinent, sir; and, if he had
been, I know how to keep my tongue still. I don’t let out
the affairs of the bank to every beggar that needs a break-
fast, sir.’

“| know you aresteady and faithful, Peter. I believe
ou are true to the interests of the bank. I would like to
feel that you were a friend, Peter, I have so much interest
in you and your family.”’

The banker looked at him inquiringly, with a keen,
searching glance, eager, indeed, to read some sign of
loyalty in the. face or voice of this poor porter, whom,
more than any other humambeing, he feared and doubted.

   
    

i out for a broker,” observed the

 
 

   
  
  

 

 

 

Peter’s face flushed a deep crimson, It was only by a

* st

*

i

_| muttered, dissatisfied.

 

 

tain words which trembled on his tongue; but he felt that
his own safety, even life, depended on the concealment
of his knowledge and his purpose.

“Honest and stiddy I be, sir; but as to Jriendship, gen-
tlemen don’t usually bargain for that when they hire their
underlings, sir.’?

“Of course—of course. But you’ve been with me along
time, Peter. I don’t feel toward you asif you belonged
to the ordinary run of men. You started with us when
the firm started. Ddlike to have you stay on with us
always, as far as Iam concerned. But in your own in-
terest, Ihave often thought of offering you the capital to
setup some small business of yourown. A man can’t
get rich On wages; but he may become so in a small,
thriving, steady business of his own, especially when he
starts without going into debt. You are shrewd enough
to get along very -well for yourself; you can write and
keep accounts. Your mother, too, would like something
to do. Supposing she sells out here, and returns to the
city. If she will buy a small store there, I will engage to
fii it with fancy goods entirely atmy own expense. I
will put in at least three thousand dollars’ worth, a free
gift. The family can live over the store; and Effie can be
saleswoman. It will be easier and more agreeable than
sewing at Madame Daumont’s. Then you may choose
any small business which suits your taste, andI will
start youinit. It is a chance for all three of you.”’

“Why should you be so free with us, Mr. Spiderby? It
don’t git through my noddle why you should waste your
money on folks like us. I’ve made observations with
both eyes, ever sence I got out 0’ my cradle, an I never
before see a gentleman givin’ away his money without a
consideration.’

cies they looked each other through, man and em-

“Nonsense!’’ said Spiderby, laughing lightly; ‘I’ve had
my consideration in three years’ faithful service. Be-
sides—my conscience’’—(‘‘Oh, Lord!’? groaned Peter)—
“has never been quite easy about your sister. I knew I
did wrong there. And the most painful thing about it is this:
She seems still to be attached tome. She is losing her
fine health and spirits. In fact, she is fond of me. I ex-
pect to marry another woman; and it grieves me, makes
me uneasy, to think and see that Effie feels as she does.
I put it to your good judgment, Peter, if the best thing to
be done for her is not to take her away from this place.
In the city, amid new scenes, and pleasantly situated, she
would soon forget N—— and her little romance here.
She would be courted and admired by well-to-do young
men; and doubtless soon would marry. It is on Effie’s
account, chiefly, that I have been urged to consider this,
and make you the offer which I now make. Think itover
through the day; consult your mother to-night, and tell
me to-morrow, what you think of it, Peter. Don’t be in-
fluenced too much by Effie; for itis not improbable that
she may object to the change. You are so fond of horses,
Peter—what do you say to a handsome, lively span, and
anice carriage or two? You could clear five or six dol-
lars a day, sitting on the box, driving your fares about.
But there; ivshalfan hour past mailtime. Goto the
post-office, and when you return, do something to get rid
of that fellow out there.”’

“Yes, sir,’ said the porter, and went off with the little
bag into which it was the custom of the clerk at the office
to deposit and lock the mail matter.

“J can’t tell whether I’ve made any impression or not,”
mused Spiderby. .

Uneasy, miserable, discontented as he now was at all
times, he could not remainin his room with the con-

violent effort that he restrained himself from saying cer-

 

sciousness of that stranger in front of the building. He
went out into the business-room and reconnoitered the
street from the windows. The man was haggling away at

the wood, apparently with no eyes for anything else.

“The resemblance is strong,’? murmured the banker,
with ashiver. ‘Great Heaven! how he startled me last
night. Ive halfa mind to call him in and have it out
with him at once. He must be a poor relation, lounging
around to find out about the property... When he learns
that there is nothing, even for the: widow, he will clear
out. I will state the case to him, pretty plainly.”

Nevertheless, he could not make up his mind. Even to
this vagabond he did notlike to talk about Harry Glas-
ton’s affairs. If it should become necessary, he would do
it; meantime, he would try to find: out something about
him without direct questioning. It made him feel sick
and strange to meet that fellow’s eyes, for they were dark-
blue and bright like Harry’s; and, although they were not
laughing and clear like nis, but ugly, threatening, unread-
able eyes, they were enough like his late partner’s to
arouse some vivid memories of a certain look of anger
and surprise which Harry had once given him. —

No; he could not call him in just then; he would wait
and watch. _ ; side. Sk ccciiiei iil

Peter returned with the mail while he was considering
the matter. — Be tise

Spiderby took the bag into his private room and sorted
its contents. There were letters for himself and the new
cashier, papers for himself, a letter and some papers for
Mrs. Glaston.” Ne Lah Rats 1 A
It had been customary when Glaston was alive to have
all mail-matter brought to the bank; and poor Mrs. Glas-
ton had never taken thought to order it differently since.
Indeed, she had taken it as a favor that Spiderby always
sent his porter so promptly to her house when anything
came for her. Expecting to do this errand, soon, Peter
lingered in the outer room, near the cashier’s desk. The
curtain was drawn back from the little square window
opening into the banker’s room; and he kept watch
through that while apparently engaged looking over the
morning paper. :

He saw Spiderby examine the envelope of a letter and
place it, unopened, in his breast-pocket. The large, round
hand, even at that distance, proclaimed it Treddle’s writ-
ing, and the porter did not believe that it was addressed
to the one who had pocketed it.

Soon after, Spiderby called him ir.

“Take these to Mrs. Glaston. It’s hardly worth while
sending; but as you are idle at present, you may as well
go now.”’

“Yes, sir.”?

When Peter got well away from the bank he examined
the superscription of the solitary letter in his little pack-

age.

“Tt’s only a note from them relatives in New York,’’ he
“There aint nothin’ here will
brighten Miss Bromley’s eyes. I’ve as good a mind as
ever I had to eat, to put a flea in her ear about where her
letters goes to. It’s too abominable to be stood.”

He thought so, still more keenly when, just as he had
his hand on the bell, the door opened and Miss Bromley
appeared stretching out her pretty brown hand so eagerly.
He knew that she had been watching for him at the win-
dow. This was not the first morning, by many, that she
had met him at the door, flushed with anticipation. And
every day she had seemed more anxious, and more
ashamed of her anxiety. At first she had smiled so
brightly, and said ‘‘thank you,’ so sweetly—now her
smile was a sort of quivering, make-believe one, and her
voice was so very sad when she said ‘nothing for me,”
over the same, every morning.

This particular morning Peter observed that her eyelids
were red as if she had been crying; she looked at the soli-
tary missive for Mrs. Glaston, and the tears ran over,
though she said nothing. é 7

The porter felt intolerably sorry for her. He just began
to understand the case—irom whom Miss Bromley ex-
pected letters—and why those letters never came. He
felt savage enough to take a certain gentleman by the
neck and shake him. He could not go away without say-
ing something to cheer the young lady. Yet he did not
know what sentiments she might entertain toward Mr.
Spiderby,—for all he knew, she might be one of his firm
friends and admirers.

“*You’ve been expectin’ to hear from Chicago, hain’t
you?’ he asked, awkwardly.

Katrine looked at him in wonder, blushing a little, too.

“There’s a break in the line, somewhere,—I won’t say
where. Letters that’s writ, and sealed, and had the stamp
put on, all right, don’t always arrive. Now, if you could
take your own letters from the post, you’d get ’em oftener,
I daresay. But don’t say I said so—there,’’—and the por-
ter was hurrying away leaving Katrine looking after him
with a puzzled expression which gradually changed to
one of incredulity, and from that to conviction.

‘He gave me that hint to some purpose,’ she thought,
as she wentin. “I fully believe Spiderby capable of it, if
I could only see any object init. Oh, Timothy, how happy
lam!” and she began to laugh and cry together.

It was incomprehensible what had made her happy.

To be continued.
—_—_—>- 0+

REMARKABLE DREAMS.
DREAM OF A GCLERGYMAN’S WIFE.

 

An afflicting event took place in the family of a promin-
ent New York clergyman, a few summers since, which
was strangely and sadly foretold in a dream.

The time of the annual vacation of Dr. —— was at hand,
and the family, consisting of himself, wife, and several
children, were to proceed to their accustomed resort in
one of the New England States.

The doctor was considerably broken in health by the
severe pastoral labors of the year, and now looked for-
ward to the period of relaxation from care and labor with
great exuberance of spirlts. Not so his wife.

“My dear husband,’ she said one morning, ‘‘I feel
greatly depressed. All my preparations for the country
are made with a reluctance of spirit which is unaccounta-
ble. I have tried to shake off these feelings, but it seems
in vain.”’

‘1 am surprised,’’ said the doctor, ‘‘to hear you talk in
that way. You know what reliance I place in your
strength of mind on all occasions. Why, my dear, this
sounds very much like weakness.”’

The doctor emphasized weakness, for he was slightly
provoked to hear the confession made by his wife.

“Pray tell me,’ he continued, ‘‘why our going to the
country should depress you?’

“T cannot answer the question,’’ replied the wife calm-
ly. “I can only tell you that I have a strange and terrible
dread of some impending evil.”

“The providence of God guides and guards us in city
or country, and it is not proper that any Christian should
fear to trust explicitly to it at all times, and in all places,”’
said the clergyman.

“I accept your rebuke, my dear husband and pastor,”
returned the wife with a gush of tears. ‘But my heart
is sad and desponding indeed.’

The doctor now turned to his wife with many affectionate
and sympathetic words, for he saw by her tears that she
was really in sorrow.

In a short time she went about her household duties,
and the subject was not renewed again during the day.’

 

That night, however, the doctor was aroused frorn ‘his’
siumbers by a piercing shriek from his wife. -She''sprang !

‘e

 

 

 

 

up in bed and would have plunged headlong to the floor
if he had not seized her.

“Oh, save him! save him!”? was her agonizing cry.

“Wife! wife!’? cried the doctor; ‘‘what do you mean?
Are you dreaming ?”’

“Thank Heaven, it is a dream!" said the wife, pressing

her hand to her brow.
hold!”

“What was it??? asked the doctor, in a tone of half se-
verity and half kindness,

“T saw our Willie drowning in a pond.”

“Now, wife, I must scold you,”” said the doctor. “It is
very painful to have a dream like this, but all the trouble
comes from your waking thoughts, which, as you told me
to-day, are brooding over some anticipated calamity.”

“T cannot help them, and day and night suffer a misery
that I cannot describe. Let us stay at home! There is
no danger from ponds in New York.”’ {
These words were a severe shock to the doctor, and for
an instant he could not reply.

“What!” he exclaimed; ‘do you take counsel of your
miserable human fears and weakness instead of your re-
ligious principles? Do you think that you can gain any
additional safety for our son by staying in New York?
Why, my dear, I must say that you are worse than a
pagan.”’

“Tam a timid mother,’) said the lady; ‘‘and I admit
that my fears are stronger than the teachings of my
faith. Pardon me for it. I will pray for strength to the
Heaven Ifear I am offending.”

“Most grievously,’? said the doctor. ‘‘Yes, my dear,
your duty is in prayer for help. Mine will be to leave

“Oh, what a sad sight did I be-

come all these foolish fears.”

The next day the doctor and his wi
town. The mother had given herself t
too, was in vain. After what had p:
again declare her feelings to her hus'
none theless keen and overwhelming. y
greatest pain that she watched Willie running about the
house, and counting the hours for the time of departure
to arrive. She looked upon him as doomed, and invol-
untarily found herself muttering:

‘He will not come back alive. Joyous to-day, perhaps
to-morrow will find him a corpse.”

With these feelings the poor mother set out. Ifshe had
been going to the execution of a member of her family she
could not have taken more repugnant and hesitating
steps. She kept Willie by her side, as much as _ possible,
and was in terrible alarm whenever he was out of the
reach of her protecting and loving arms.

The summer retreat chosen by the doctor was enchant-
ing in the extreme. A lovely valley, with magnificent
scenery of adjacent mountains, it was a place where na-
ture had made her most fascinating handiwork. The
country was in a high state of cultivation, and well-to-do
farmers and wealthy city gentlemen had each as a class
vied with the other to add to the natural charms. There
were streams and ponds, but they were useful and beauti-
ful, and no danger seemed to lurk in them as they lay,
mirror-like, in the summer’s sun. ;

But the mother had not forgotten her dream. She
shuddered whenever she saw the silvery streams and
glittering ponds, and many times each day charged her
children to avoid going to them. Thus glided on the de-
lightful days of the summer. Delightful and happy to ali
save the mother, who would have taken it as a reprieve
of her son from death if she could have fied from the
locality.

At last the blow came. One day the stillness of the
scene was broken by loud shouts men, women, and
children.

“A boy is in the mill-pond.”

‘“Help!—help!”” .

These were the words that were borne on the air.

All was over in afew moments. A little body had sunk,
and rose, and stretched out its little arms for help, and
finally it had gone beneath the waters to rise no more in
life. A frantic mother, and a not less frantic father, ran
hither and thither, and now their wild lamentations were
joined in by all who had gathered on the brink of the peace-
ful but treacherous waters. Then came the solemn drag-
ging of the pond for the body.

A few days later the funeral took place from the rectory
in New York, and to this day that dwelling has the
shadow of sorrow within it. When the mother and father
stood looking upon the placid face of their darling, before
the funeral, the sobbing mother remarked:

“Behold the realization of my dream.”

The sorrowing father, and Christian minister, clasped
his hands, and on the coffin, and turning his face heaven-
ward, uttered the ejaculation:

“Father, Thy will be done.”’

The Lone Ranche.

A TALE OF THE STAKED PLAIN.
By Captain Mayne Reid.

ba pean
[“The Lone Ranche,” was commenced last week, Ask any
News Agent for No. 42, and you will get the first part of the story.]

CHAPTER VI.
r..:: THROUGH THE SMOKE.

In making their bold dash, Walt Wilder was not acting
without a plan. He had one preconceived. The smoke
with its covering cloud might be the means of conceal-
ment and salvation. At all events, it might cover their
retreat long enough to give them a start of the pursuers,
and then the speed of their horses could possibly be de-
pended upon for the rest. ea :

They followed this plan, but unfortunately soon found
that the smoke was not drifting in the right di
The breeze carried it almost direct toward the line
carpment, while their only chance would be to §
the open plain. * ‘ a

At the cliff their flight would be stopped, for “ap-
peared to be no passage either for man or horse. So far
the smoke had favored them. Thick and stifling in the
immediate vicinity of the wagons, it had enabled them to
slip unperceived through the line of savages. Many of
these, still mounted, had seen them pass outward, but
through the blue film had mistaken them for two of their
ownmen. They perhaps knew nothing of the animals
inside the corral, and did not expect to see any of their
caged enemies attempting to escape on horseback. Be-
sides they were now busy endeavoring to extinguish the
fires in the wagons—all resistance being at an end.

As yet there was no sign of pursuit, and the fugitives
kept on still with the protecting smoke-cloud around
them.

In the soft sand their horses’ hoofs made no trampling
noise, and they rode on toward the cliff silent as specters.

On reaching the rocksit became necessary for them
either to change the direction of their flight or bring it to
atermination. The red sand-stone cliff towered vertically
before them, like a wallofrudemason-work. A eat could
not have scaled it, much less horse or man.

Already the smoke was fast thinning around them; the
Indians having nearly extinguished the fires in order to
save the treasure—which had no doubt been the object for
their attacking the caravan.

y,

Delay would only add to their danger, and with this
thought urging them on, they wheeled their horses to the
left and headed them along the line of the bluff.

Six seconds after and they were riding in a pure atmos-
phere, under a clear dazzling sunlight. ote

But it gave them no joy. A yell from the wagons told
them they were seen, and simultaneous with the shout,
they saw a score of savage horsemen spurring at full speed
toward them.

They were both splendidly mounted, and might still
have had a fair chance of escape; but now another sight
met their eyes that once more drove them to despair.

A promontory of the cliff, stretching far out into the
sandy plain, lay directly in their track. Its point was
nearer to their pursuers than to them. Before they could
reach and turn it their retreat would be intercepted.

They might escape in the opposite direction.

Again suddenly turning, they galloped back as they had
come, again entered the belt of smoke,,and riding in
through it, reached the clear sunlight beyond.

Again a torturing disappointment. Another promon-
tory—twin to the first—jutted out to obstruct them.

There was no mystery in the matter. They saw the
mistake they had made. In escaping under cover of the
smoke they had gone too far—having ridden into a deep
enlargement of the cliff.

Their pursuers, who had turned promptly as they, again
had the advantage. The projecting point was nearer to
them, and they would be almost sure to arrive at it first.

_For the fugitives there appeared no alternative but to
ride on and take their chances of hewing their way
through the savage host.

“Git yur knife ready, Frank!’ shouted Wilder, as he
dug his spurs into his horse, and put the animal to his
fullspeed. ‘‘Let’s keep close thegither—livin’ or dead,
let’s keep close thegither.”’

Their steeds needed no urging. To an American horse
accustomed to the prairie, there is no spur like the yell of
an Indian, for he knows that. along with it usually come
the shock of a bullet or the sting of a barbed shaft. :

Both bounded off together, and went over the soft sand
silent, but swift as the wind. All in vain. v

Before they had half reached the projecting point, tne
savages were clustering around it, and with spears
couched, bows bent, and clubs brandished, stood reddy to
receive them. Perey

It was a gauntlet that Simon Girty might despair of be- ,
ing able to run. tpt

Truly seemed their retreat now cut off; and surely did.
death appear to be staring them in the face. poe

and family left
; but this,
could not

  
   
  
   
 

 
   

 

 

?

despairingly toward his companion. = gp ChE eat
With a quick, searching glance Wilder ram his eye along
the base of the cliff. The rock of red-sandstone rose rug...
ged and frowning full five hundred reet bveriieud. “TO, the
superficial glance it seemed to forbid ‘all chance either Of,
being scaled or giving concealment.’ There, was. not

ter from the shafts of the pursuers. For

tion. : . GN <n
“{t must be the place!” he wiutterad! «tt 'is, ny’ the
Eternal!” he added more’‘emphatically, .,once. more
wrenching his horse aronnd, and crying out.f0 his com- i
AON UO OLIOW. Tidite! ee: PR See ene ee ees
Hamersley obeyed, and rode off without knowing what
next. Butin another instanthe divyined the mtent of this’

Was an opening’ in the’esca ent! -

 

‘> Tt Was'a mere crack or hing, _SCaree'so Wwidé 48 'adoor,
way, and barely large enough to

$i FP tra MPL EO

  
     
   

admit a man’ on: horses,

town to-morrow, so that in new scenes you may over- -

So thought the young prairie-merchant, as’ hé tarned ‘a

even a boulder below, behind which’ they could find shel: - ;

| of the pr ali that, Wilder |.
continued to scan it as if it suggested’ some old recollee-
tt Ob Yrs ¥ wad f Juli t ‘

sudden ‘chinge’in the tactics of his fellow fugitive. There

r
1
|

 

 

 

 

tap casein

 

  

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

back. Vertically it traversed to the top of the cliff, split-
ting it from base to summit.

“Fyrom your horse!’ cried Wilder, as he pulled up be-
fore it, at the same time flinging himself off his own.
“Drop the bridle and leave him behind. One o’ them’ll
be enough for what I want, and let it be myen. Poor crit-
ter; it's a pity, too! But it can’t be helped. We must
have some kiver fo screen us. Quick, Frank—quick! or

i they'll be on us!”?

| Painful as it was to abandon his brave steed, Hamersley
did as directed without well knowing why. The last
speeches of the guide were somewhat enigmatical, but he
knew they must have meaning.

“Now, up into the kanyon without: losing a second.’
Hyar, take my rifle an’ load both 0’ ’em, whiles I tend to
the closin’ o’ the gap.”

Seizing both guns in his grasp, Hamersley sprang into
the crack, stopping when he had got well inside the jaws.
Wilder followed, leading his horse by the bridle. There
was a stone lying across the aperture, over which the
horse had to straddle. It was above two feet in hight,
and when he had got his fore legs over it Wilder held him
atastand. Though hitherto following with meek obedi-
ence, the horse trembled, and showed an inelination to
shy back. There was an expression in hisowner’s eye he
had never seen there before—something that frightened
him, But he could not now escape.

With his ribs close pressing the rocks on either side, he
could not rear round, and a firm hold in front hindered
him from backing. - ry

Hamersley, busily engaged in loading the rifles, never-
theless found time to glance at Wilder's doings, wonder-
ing what he was :

“It's a pity!” %
same words, an

eo
a

   
    
  

exclaimed the guide, repeating the
e€ same tone of commiseration.
“But it must be done. If thar war a rock big enough, or
a log or anythin’. uf thar ain’t ne’er a thing—no other
chance to make kiver! So hyar goes for @ bit o’ butch-
erin)

As the guide thus delivered himself, Hamersley saw him
pluck the bowie-Knife from his belt, its blade black-red
with human gore. In another instantits edge was drawn
across the throat of the horse, leaving a gash behind from
which the blood gushed forth ina thick, strong stream,
like water from the spout ofa pump. The animal made
a desperate effort to back; ‘but with his head dragged
down to his fore legs over the rock, he was unable to stir
from the spot. After a convulsive throe or two he sank
down till his belly touched the stone underneath. In this
attitude-he ended his life, his head after a time sinking
down, his eye apparently turned with a last reproachful
look upon the master who had murderedhim. ,

“It hed to be done; thar war no help for it,’’ said Walt.
Wilder, as he hurriedly turned toward his companion.
“Have you got the guns charged ?””

Hamersley made answer by handing to the guide his
own-gun. It was loaded and ready.

“Durn the bloodthirsty cowarts!”’ he exclaimed, grasp-
ing it, and then facing toward the plains. ‘I don’t know
how it may all eend, but that’ll keep ’em off a while any-
bow.”

As he spoke he threw himself behind the body of his
slaughtered steed. That, sustained in an upright position
between the counterpart walls, formed a safe barricade
against the bullets and arrows of the Indians, who now,
riding straight toward the spot, made the rocks resound
| with exclamations of surprise—shouts that spoke of a de-
|

 

layed, perhaps defeated vengeance.

They took care, however, not tc come within range of
that long, steel-gray tube, which, turning like a telescope
on its pivot, commanded a semicircle of at least a hundred
yards radius around the opening in the cliff.

 

 

i CHAPTER VII.
THE PURSUERS AT BAY.

Despite all the earnestness of their vengeful anger, the
Savage pursuers were now fairly at bay, and fora time
could be kept so.

Hamersley looked upon it as being but a respite—a meré
temporary deliverance from danger, yet to terminate in
death: They had got into a crevice of rock, where, to ali
{ appearance, they could defend themselves as long as their
; ammunition lasted, or they could withstand the as-

saults of thirst or the cravings of hunger. How were

they to get out again?» As well might they have been be-
sieged in a cave with no chance of sortie or escape.

These thougnts he communicated to his companion as

_ soon as they found time to talk.

“Hunger an’ thirst haint nothin’ to do wi’ it,’ was Wil-
der’s response. ‘We aint a goin’ to stay hyar, not
twenty minutes if this child kin manage it, as he intends
fo do. Ye don’t s’pose [ rushed into this hyar hole like a
chased rabbit. No, Frank, I’ve hern of the place afore
from some fellers as, like ourselves, took refuge in it from
a band of pursuing Kimanch. Thar’s agway leads out at
the back; an’ jess as soon as we kim throw dust in the
eyes 0’ these yellin’ varmints in front, we'll put straight
for it. I don't know what sort 0’ a passage thar is—up
the rocks by some kind 0’ a ravine. We must do our
best to fina it.*’

“But how do you intend to keep them from following
veut ce speak.of throwing dust in their eyes. How,

alt! 2

“You wait, watch, an’see. You wont hev yur patience
terrifically tried; for thar aint much time to Spare about
it. Thar’s another passage up the cliffs, not far off. Not
a doubt but these Injuns know it; an’ ef we don’t make
haste, they’ll git up thar, an’ come in upon us by the back
door, which that won’t do, no how somedever. You keep

[ yourself in readiness, an’ watch what I’m agoin to do.
i When you see me scoot up backwards, foller without say-
in’ a word.’
! Hamersley promised compliance, and the guide, still
kneeling behind the barricade he had so crueliy con-
commenced a series of maneuvres, that held his
n in speechless conjecture.
aced his gun in such a position, that the bar-
cross the hips of the dead horse projected be-
- In this position he made it fast, by tying
U h a piece of string to a projecting part of the
saddle. He next took the cap from his head—a coonskin
it was—and set it so that its upper edge could be seen
alongside the pommel, and rising about three inches
above the croup. The ruse was an old one, with some
new additions and embellishments.

“It’s all done now,’ said Wilder, turning away from
the carcass, and crouching back to where his comrade
awaited him. ‘‘Comeon, Frank. If they don’t diskiver
the trick till we’ve got time to climb up the clift, then
thar’s still a chance tor us. Come on, an’ keep ciost arter
me! :

Frank followed without saying a wore. He was confi-
dent that his guide, well known and long trusted, had a
reason for everything he did. It was not the time to
question him, or discuss the prudence of the ster he was
taking, There might be danger before, but there was
death—sure death behind them.

In less than a dozen paces from its entrance, the cleft
opened into a wider space, again closing like a pair of
callipers., It was a hollow of elliptical shape—that of an
old-fashioned butter-boat—scooped out of the solid rock,
on all sides precipitous, except at the upper end. Here
a ravine sloping down from thesummit level above, would,
to the geologist, at once proclaim the secret of its forma-
tion. Not so easily explained might seem the narrow
outlet to the open plain. But one skilled in the testimony
of the sandstone, would there detect certain ferruginous
yeins, that refusing to yield to the erosion of the running
stream, had stood for countless ages, ;

Neither Walt Wilder nor the young Kentuckian gave
thought to such scientific speculations, as they re-
treated through the narrow gap, and back into the wider
gorge. All they knew, or cared for, was that a gully at
the opposite end was seen to slope upward, promising a
path to the plain above.

In sixty seconds after, they were in it, toiling onward

and upward amid a chaos of rocks, where no horse could

follow—loose boulders that looked as if hurled down from
heaven above, or belched from earth, underneath.

The retreat of the fugitives up the rayine, like their dash

| gut of the enclosed corral, was still but a doubtful effort.

Neither of them had full confidence in being able eventu-

ally to escape. It was like the wounded squirrel clutching

at the last tiny twig of a tree, however unable to support
‘} it. They were not quite certain that the sloping gorge
wouid give them a path to the upper plain; for Wilder had
only a doubtful recollection of what some trapper had
told him. But even if it did, the Indians, expert climbers
as they were, would soon be afterthem, close upon their
heels. The ruse could not remain long undetected.

They rushed up the rock-strewed ravine; now gliding
along ledges, squeezing their bodies between the great
boulders, springing from one to the other, in the audacity
| — of théir bounds rivaling a brace of big horns.

They had got more than half-way up, when the cries
of the Indians came pealing up the glen behind them.
The shouts of the pursuers caused them to increase their
eiforts, and. they hastened on. All at once they were
bronght to a stop—though not by anything that ob-
structed their path.

On the contrary it only seemed easier, for there were
now two ways open to them instead of one—the ravine at
this point forking into two distinct chasms. There was a
choice of which to take, and it was this that caused them
to stop, at the same time creating embarrassment.

The pause, however, was but for a brief space of time—
only long enough to make a hasty reconnoisance. In the
promise of an easy, ascent there seemed but little differ-
ence between the two paths, and the guide soon came to
a aetermination.

“It’s a toss up atween ‘em,’ he said; ‘but let’s take the
one to the right. It looks a leetle the likest,??

_Of course, his fellow fugitive did not dissent, and they
struck into the right-hand ravine; but not until Walt Wil-
der had plucked the red kerchief from his head and flung
it as far as he could up the left one, where it was left lying
in &@ conspicuous position among the rocks.

He did not say why he had thus strangely abandoned
the remnant of his head-gear; but his companion, sufii-
ciently experienced in the ways and wiles of prairie life,
stood in no need of an explanation.

The track they had now taken was of comparatively
casy ascent; and it was this, perhaps, that had tempted
Wilder to take it. But like most things, both in the moral
and physica! world, its easiness proved a delusion, They
had not gone twenty paces further up when the sloping
chasm terminated, It opened upon a little platform, coy-
cred with large loose stones, that there rested after hay-
ing fallen from the cliff above.

_ But at asingle glance they saw that the cliff could not
be scaled!

They had entered into a trap, out of which there was
now ho chance of escape or retreat without throwing
themselves back upon the breasts of their pursuers,

he Indians were already ascending the main ravine.

By their yoices it could be told that they had reached the
point where it divided; for there was & momentary sus-
pension of their cries, as with the baying of hounds thrown
suddenly off the scent.

 

 
 
   
    
    

  
 
  

 

 

 

om: — _ a =,

It would not. likely be for long. They must first follow
up the chasm where the kerchief had been cast; but,
should that also prove to be without an outlet at the rear,
they would return and try the other.

The fugitives saw that it was too late to retrace their
steps.

They sprung together upon the platform, and com-
menced searching among the loose rocks, in hopes of
gaining some place of concealment.

All at once an exclamation from the guide called his
companion to his side. It was accompanied by a gesture,
and followed by the words, low muttered:

“Took hyar, Frank! Look at this hole!
let’s get into it."

As Hamersley came close, he perceived 4 dark aperture
among the stones to which Wilder was pointing. It
opened vertically downward, and was of an irregular
roundish shape, somewhat resembling the mouth of a
well half-coped over with slabs.

Dare they enter it? Could they? What depth was it? |

Wilder took up a pebble and flung it down. They could:
hear it descending—not at a single drop, but striking and
ricochetting from side to side, :

It was long before it reached the bottom and lay silent.
No matter for that. The noise made in its descent told
them of projecting points or ledges that might give them
a foothold,

They lost not a moment of ‘time, but commenced letting
themselves down into the funnel-shaped shait, the guide
going first.

Slowly and silently they went down—like ghosts through
the stage of a theater—soon disappearing in the gloom be-
low, and leaving upon the rock-strewn platform no trace
toshow that human feet had ever trodden it.

CHAPTER VIIi.
IN DARKNESS.

Fortunately for the fugitives, the cavern into which
they had crept was a shaft of but slight diameter; other-
wise they could not have gone down without dropping far
enough to cause death, for the echoes from the pebble
spoke of a vast depth.

As it was, the vertical void proved to be somewhat like
that of a stone-built chimney, with here and there a stone
left projecting. It wasso narrow, moreover, that they
were able to use both hands and knees in the descent;
and by this means accomplished it.

They went but slowly, and required to proceed with
caution. They knew that a false step, the slipping of a
foot or hand, or the breaking of a fragment that gave hold
to their hands, would precipitate them to an unknown
depth. They did not go further than was deemed neces-
sary to serve for concealment. There was noise made in
their descent, and they knew the Indians would soon be
above, and might hearthem. Their only hope lay in their
pursuers believing them to have gone by the left-hand
chasm, and the plain above. In all likelihood the Indians
would explore both branches of the ravine, and if the cun-
ning savages should suspect their presence in the shaft,
there would be no hope for them. These thoughts decided
them to come to a stop as soon as they could find foothold.
About thirty feet from the surface they found this, ona
point of rock or ledge that jutted horizontally across the
shaft. It was broad enough to give both fair standing-
room, and they were now in intense darkness.

It was not long before they saw that which justified
their caution—the plumed head of a savage, with his neck
craned over the edge of the aperture, and seen conspicu-
ously against the blue sky above. And soon half-a-dozen
similar figures beside it; while they could hear distinctly
the talk that was passing between them.

Wilder had some knowledge of the Comanche tongue,
and could make out most of what was being said. Amid
exclamations that spoke of vengeane¢e, there were words
in a calmer tone—discussion, inquiry, and cpnjecture. ©

From these it could be understood that the pursuers
had separated into two parties—one following on the false
track, by the path which the guide had baited for them,
the other coming direct up by the right and true one.

There were bitter exclamations of disappointment, and
threats of an implacable vengeance; and the fugitives, as
they listened, might have reflected how fortunate they
had been in finding that unfathomed hole. But for it they
would already have been in the clutches of a cruel enemy.

However, they had little time for reflection. The talk
overheard at first expressed doubts as to their having de-
scended the shaft; but doubts readily to be set at rest.

The eyes of the Indians having failed to inform them,
their heads were withdrawn; and, soon after, a stone
came tumbling down the chimney. :

Something of this kind the guide had predicted; for he
flattened himself against the wall behind, and stood as
“small? as his colossal frame would permit—hayving cau-
tioned his companion to do the same,

The stone passed without striking them; and went
crashing on till it lay on the bottom below. 7

Another followed, and another; the third striking Ham-
eaip. | on the breast, and tearing a couple of buttons from

is coat.

This was shaving close—too. close to be comfortable,
Perhaps the next boulder might rebound from the wall
above, and strike one or both of them dead. |

In fear of this result they commenced groping to find
whether the iedge offered any better screen from the dan-
gerous shower that promised to rain for some time longer
upon them.

Good! Hamersley got his hand into a hole that opened
horizontally, and proved big enough to admit his body,
as also the larger frame of his companion. Both were
soon inside it. It wasa sort of grotto they had discoy-
ered, and squatted inside it, they conld laugh to scorn the
storm that still came rattling from aboye, the stones hiss-
ing and hurtling like aerolites, as they passed close to
their faces,

The rocky rain at length ended. The Indians had sud-
denly come to the conclusion that if was either barren in
results, or must have effectually performed the purpose
intended by it; and for a short while there was silence
above and below. ~ ayit

They who were hidden in the shaft might have supposed
that their persecutors, satisfied at what they had accom-
plished, were retiring, or had retired, from the spot.

Hamersley did think so; but the old prairie man, more
skilled in the Indian character, could not console himself
with such a fancy.

“Ne’er a bit o° it,’? he whisperingly said to his compan-
ion. ‘They ain’t a-goin’ to leave us that eezy; not if
Horned Lizard be amongst ’’em, They'll either stay there
till we climb out agin, or try to smoke us out. Ye may
take my word for it, Frank, thar’s some’at to come of it.
Look up! Didn’t I tell ye so?”

Wilder drew back out of the narrow aperture, through
which he had been craning his neck and shoulders to get
a view of what was passing above.

The hole leading into the grotto that held them was
barely large enough to admit the body of a man. Hamers-
ley took his place, and turning his eyes upward at once
saw what his comrade referred to. It was the smoke ofa
fire that appeared in the act of being kindled near the
edge of the aperture above. The smoke was ascending
toward the sky, diagonally, drifting across the blue disc
outline by the rim of the rocks,

He had barely time to make the observation, when a
swishing sound admonished him to draw back his head;
and there passed before his face a mass of falling stalks
and faggots, in which sparks and flame were commingled.
Some of this settled upon the ledge, the rest sweeping on
to the bottom of the abyss.

In a moment after the shaft was filled with smoke, but
not that of an ordinary wood-fire. Even this would have
been sufficient to stifle them where they were; but the
fumes now entering their nostrils were of a kind to cause
suffocation almost instantaneously.

The faggots set on fire were the stalks of the creosote
plant—the ideodondo of the Mexican table-lands, well
known for its power to cure asphyxia. Walt Wilder re-
cognized it at the first whiff.

“Ji’s the stink-weed!? he exclaimed. ‘That darned
stink-weed 0’ New Mexico. It'll killus ifwecan’t keep
itout. Off wi’ yar coat, Frank. It air pigger than my
hunting-shirt. Let’s spread it acrost the hole, and see if
that’ll do.”’

His companion obeyed with alacrity, stripping off his
coat as quickly as the limited space would permit. For-
tunately it was a garment of the sack specialty, without
any split in the tail, and when extended offered a good
breath of surface. It proved sufficient for the purpose,
and before the little grotto had become so filled with
smoke as to be absolutely untenatable, its entrance was
closed by a curtain of broadcloth.

For nearly half an hour they Kept the coat spread, hold-
ing it close around the edges of the aperture, with heads,
hands, knees and elbows.

Withal some of the bitter smoke found ingress, tortur-
ing their eyes, and half-stifling them.

_They bore it with philosophic fortitude, and in profound
silence, using their utmost efforts to prevent sneezing or
coughing.

From what Wilder had heard, their persecutors were in
doubt about their having descended into the shaft, and
this uncertainty promised to be their salvation. Unless
sure that they were taking all this trouble to some pur-
pose, the red-men would not dally long over their work.
Besides, there was rich booty to be distributed from the
captured wagons, which would attract the Indians back
to them, each haying an interest in being present at the
distribution, p

Thus reasoned Walt Wilder, as they listened to detect a
change in the performance making use of all their ears.

Of course they could see nothing, no more thanif they
had been immured in the darkest cell of an inquisatorial
dungeon. Only by their ears might they make any guess
at what was going on. These admonished them that more
of the burning brush was being heaved into the hole.
Every now and then they could hear itasit went swishing
past the door of their curtained chamber, the stalks and
sticks rasping against the rocks in their descent.

After a time these sounds ceased to be heard; the In-
dians no doubt thinking that sufficient of the inflamable
matter had been cast in to cause their complete destruc-
nee inside the cayern they must by this time be stifled
—dead,

So must have reasoned the red-skinned fumigators; for
after a while they desisted from their brutal task,

But as if to make assurance doubly sure, before taking
departure from the spot, they performed another act of
unequally merciless intent, During the short period of
silence their victims could not guess what they were about.
They only knew by occasional sounds reaching them from
aboye, that there was some change in the performance;
but what it was they could not even Shape a conjecture.
The silence at length ended with a loud rumbling noise;
that was itself suddenly terminated in a grand crash, as
if a portion of the impending cliff had become detached
and fallen down upon the platform.

Then succeeded a silence, unbroken by the slightest
sound. No longer was heard either noise or a yoice, not
the murmur of one.

Darnation!

 

it was @ silence that resembled death—as if the vindic-

 

 

THE NEW YO

— ee ailnaiini ena

 

tive savages had one and all meta deserved doom—by
being crushed under the cliff.

For some time after hearing this mysterious noise, which
had caused the rocks to tremble around them, the two
men remained motionless within their place of conceal-
ment. At length Wilder cautiously and deliberately pushed
aside the curtain. At first only a Small portion of it—a
corner, SO as to make sure about the smoke. It still oozed,
but not voluminously as at first. It had evidently become
attenuated, and was growing thinner. It appeared also
to be ascending with rapidity, as up the funnel of a chim-
ney, having a good draught. For this reason it was car-
lied past the mouth of the grotto, without much of it
drifting in, and they saw that they id now safely with-
draw the curtain.

It was a welcome relaxation from the irksome task that
had been so long imposed upon them—and the coat was
at once permitted to drop down upon the ledge.

Although there were no longer any sounds heard, or
other signs to indicate the presence of the Indians, the
fugitives did notfeel sure of their having gone, and it was
ne time before they made an attempt to re-ascend the
shatt,

At length, however, perceiving that the tranquillity con-
tinued, they no longer deemed it rash to risk a reconnois-
ance; and for this purpose Walt Wilder crawled out upon
the ledge, and looked upward. A feeling of surprise,
mingled with apprehension, at once seized upon him.

“Kin it be night ?’? he asked, whispering the words back
into the grotto.

“Not yet, I should think,” answered Hamersley. ‘The
fight was begun before daybreak. The day can’t all have
passed yet. But why do you ask, Walt?”

“Because thar’s no light comin’ from above. Whar's
the bit o’ blue sky we seed? Thar ain’t the breadth 0’ a
hand visible, It can’t a be the smoke as hides it. That
seems most clured off. Durned ef I kin see a bit o’ the
sky! ‘Bove us, below, everything’s as black as the ten 0’
spades. What the duse kin it mean?”

Without waiting a reply, or staying for his companion
to come out upon the ledge, the giant rose to his feet, and
grasping the projecting poiuts above his head, commenced
ascending the shaft in a similar manner to that by which
he had made the descent.

Hamersley, who by this time had crept out of the cavity,
stood upon the ledge listening.

He could hear his comrade as he scrambled up—htis feet
rasping the rocks, and his hard breathing.

At length Walt appeared to have reached the top, when
Hamersley heard words that caused a thrill of horror to
pass through his frame.

“‘O, Heaven !’’ cried the guide, in his surprise forgetting
to subdue the tone of his voice. ‘‘They’ve built us up!
Thar’s a stone over the mouth o’ the hole—shettin’ it like
a pot-lid.
Frank Hamersley, it’s all over wi’ us!
alive !?

We're vuried

(To be Continued,)

The “Arch-Plotter!

A TALE OF CRIME AND RETRIBUTION

{“The Arch-Plotter” was commenced in No. 40._ Back Nos. can
be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER VY.

The Manor of Stoke Pogeis, or the Moat, as it was popu-
larly designated, was still, at the period of which we have
to speak, a fine specimen of old English taste, though
shorn much of its extent and beauty by the inexorable
hand of time.’ Where the Manor house stood had once
risen in feudal pride, ‘‘a castle gray,’’ with battlements
and all the usual paraphernalia of the days when might
was right, and royal and noble robbers made the high-
ways unpleasant for all men not spurred and helmeted.
But in.more peaceiul times a certain Sir Geoffrey Beau-
champ had pulled down the castle, and built out of the
materials a Substantial house of two stories only—but
pleasant in its situation and aspect. He did not fill up
the moat, because it diversified the scene and.madea
solid boundary to his lawns, and so the ditch kept fresh
and pleasant by communication with a river, still in our
modern time surrounded the house at a sufficient distance
to leave a charming amount of ground for walking.

These grounds were well planted and laid outin gar-
dens and shrubberies, while in one corner was a terrace
bounded by a tower, aremnant of the old castle, from
which the view over the surrounding country was exten-
sive and commanding.. ’ ;

It was a perfect paradise, and when we add that the
owner of that house was also owner of all the fair lands
that stretched around, as faras the eye could reach, we
need scarcely say that he would have had complete hap-
piness within his reach, if happiness were ever the result
of outward circumstances. eee ke vt

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A stone!|arock that no mortal could move. }

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‘As you please, sir,’ said Arthur. ‘I have a lovely
girl—a beautiful daughter for you, sir—good and beauti-
ful—as proud as yourself, sir—ready to call you father.
ay, but the word, and you will find me dutiful and obe-
dient.”’

“She is a Frenchwoman!”’ replied the baronet, with
fierce emphasis. His son’s calm and rigid determination
had driven him nearly mad.

‘You have said all you will ever say, sir?’ inquired
Arthur, still gently,

“No Frenchwoman shall ever be my daughter-in-law,”
replied Sir Archer, sternly.

A strange smile played across the mouth of the young
man.

“At all events,” said the baronet, rather uneasily, ‘I
— never own her—I willnot give you a penny while I
ive,’

Arthur rose from the table and retired. He remained
the rest of the day closeted in his room. Late in the eve-
ning he sent off two yoluminous packets to the post.

‘Two or three days later, Colonel Medway—whio, to mar-
ry @ Woman with a couple of thousand a year, had changed
his name—came down, and had along conference with
Arthur. Shortly after, he started for the Continent.

The father and son remained together. Arthur was
pale, agitated, and seldom spoke. His time was passed
in the library and in the lonely tower. He sternly refused
to join in the baronet’s amusements. He sat at the tabie
with him, and conversed on ordinary subjects, as with a
Stranger.

_On several occasions the baronet tried _to tduce him to
visit the neighboring gentry, especially these who had
charming daughters, but Arthur coldly refused. He bur-
ied himself more and more in his books, moved only to
anything like an interest in the outward world when he
received letters from Paris.

At length one came which added to his melaneholy and
despair. He seemed utterly annihilated by it. For seyen
ro he scarcely exchanged another word with any-

ody. ;

Then came another letter—a very short and prettily
written note, ina female hand—which changed the whole
manner of young Mr. Arthur.

He had glided about for a long time in a state of listless
apathy, which seemed the prelude to a dangerous illness.
Now he roused himself, his color returned, and he became
as agitated and full of moyement as before he had been
dull and motionless. A
Again Colonel Medway was sent for, and again he went
on the Continent, This time he remained more thana
month absent, and, when he returned, the news he
brought seemed to give the young man a melancholy kind
of satisfaction. He thanked the colonel heartily, and that
worthy returned once more to London.

Time passed, and Mr. Arthur Beauchamp relapsed into
melancholy; but a calmer kind of sadness it seemed to be
than that which had preceded this patient state of mind.
The first stage had been an unhappiness which bordered
on utter despair. There was now evidently a grain of
consolation and hope mixed with his sorrow.

For some days previous to that on which we introduce
Mr. Arthur personally to our readers, he appeared in a
kind of febrile state of excitement, which was noticed
even by the domestics. With his father he had scarcely
any relations whatever. They met without speaking—
each feeling the other’s misery by the consciousness of mu-
tual error. The haughty baronet knew himself in the
wrong—that is to say, though still as prejudiced and full
of hate as ever, he could not repress the voice of con-
science, which told him that he was assuring the ruin of
his son‘s hopes , in obedience to an absurd prejudice. The
son was equally aware that he was filling his father’s cup
with bitterness at an age when men at a!l events hope for
peace and tranquillity; but he could not even think of
changing.

Still, as we have said, there was an alteration visible in

“the young man’s manner sufficiently marked about the

time of which we write to excite even the attention of the
father, who at breakfast noticed a slight return of color
on the cheeks of his son, whose pallor for some time had
been horrible to look at. <
The baronet secretly hoped that Arthur was wearying
of resistance, and that the hour was approaching when
he might hope again to broach the subject of marriage
‘with an English girl of his own age and rank.

‘Lord Pontington has asked me to dinner,’ he said,
almost timidly; ‘will you go, Arthur ?"’

“No, thank you, sir,”’ replied the young man, rising and
moving away with the slow, dignified step whicii appears
attendant upon great grief.

The father’s eyes followed his only son with rage and
despair. He understood the full meaning of that answer
and the smile with which he had spoken it.

It was a struggle then of a mortal kind. Foramoment
the baronet felt. inclined to yield, as with dismay he sur-
veyed the horrible,prospect which seemed to spread out

 

 

EE

 

“There issome ingernal mystery under all this~are
they all leagued together?’

And more puzzled than ever, he rode off, with Jones
Still behind him.

“At last!’’ muttered the baronet, as the other closed the

door after him; and he rose and clutched his gray hair
with , Waniacal violence. “At last I can curse at my
ease.
_ And thatolad man, who heldin his hands the keys of
inexpressible happiness for himself and only child, blas-
phemed his Maker for ever giving him a son, and roared
forth impotent threats of vengeance. The very violence
of his passion at length calmed him,

“And now,” he muttered, ‘for actien.”?

And he fell in a fit of musing which lasted some hours.

Meanwhile, a stillmore terrible scene had taken place
between Arthur and Colonel Medway.

They entered the tower, and the young man took a
chair. He looked anxiously at his cousin, who was really
overcome.

‘‘My poor Arthur,’ he began, ‘I have very bad news
for you—very bad, indeed,”

“Speak!” said Arthur, ina hollow yyhisper.

“Clarice is sternly resolved—all is G¥er between you—
she intends marrying,’’ began the colonel, speaking with
downcast eyes. a -
aoue ing!’ repeated Arthur, mechanically; “and why,

ay ?? :

“She will not force herself into a family which rejects
her. Pride is strong within her).

“Walter, 1 will openly brave my father’s anger first—I
will produce our child and the papers.”

The colonel held down his head. His eyes were fixed
with a strange persistence on the ground. “Arthur shud-
dered. He suspected something terrible indeed.

“Goon,” he whispered, clutching the other’s arm};
“go on,? ;

“The child, nurse and papers have disappearea—not the
remotest trace of them is to be found,”

“Oh, Heaven!” said Arthur, wildly; “what has become
of my child?!

Arthur Beauchamp was one of those young men whose
superiority of mind and heart was peculiarly manifested
in the affections. At first his ardor, his genius, his fer-
tile brain had fixed themselves upon a political career,
but one day a woman crossed his path, and Arthur Beau-
champ loved,

She was_ beautiful, her education was perfect, as far
as knowledge went, while even accomplishments had not
been neglected. She was proud, pure and passionate—
one of those marvellous creatures who sometimes cross
the path of a man of mind, and make him a devoted ser-
vant forever.

Clear-sighted, a keen judge of character, Clarice had un-
derstood Arthur at once, and at seventeen had given her
whole heart to him.

Two natures out of the common order, two hearts of
the purest metal of which humanity is made, they ap-
peared one.

Poor, with no protection but an infirm old man—pre-
maturely old from suffering—Clarice was easily persuaded
to marry the young Englishman. She was ignorant of

 

the world’s ways, and, indeed, in the bewilderment of
loye, both she and Arthur forgot that they had any will to
consult but their own.

They were married; and atthe end of the honeymoon
Arthur started for England to announce to his father. his
change of position.

_ He knew the baronet's general hatred of the French na-
tion, and he expected resistance—resistance, however,
which he promised himself to conquer by gentleness and
by the description of his wife’s perfections.

The character of his father’s opposition astounded him,

 

and he wrote to Clarice a full account of his return home,
begging her to be patient, as he too had made up his
mind, and it was hard if he did not succeed in conquering
the prejudices of the old man. °
Clarice replied that nothing would make her enter a
family which repelled her, and added that if the consent
of the baronet were not immediately obtained, she would
destroy the document which proved their marriage, and
enter a convent. ;
They had been married by the chaplain ofan English
regiment in Paris.
Then the too confident Arthur sent his cousin oyer to
Paris toimplore Clarice to wait. He found her with her
father, publicly known as Mrs. Arthur Beauchamp.

She coldly informed Colonel Medway that circumstances
had changed, and that she could not enter a convent.
A letter informed Arthur of the reason of this change.
oben was about to become a mother, His joy knew no
bounds.
Arthur was one of those men, made, as it were, solely
for the domestic affections. The love of a wife, of a child,

 

before him. But pride, that incarnation of Satan, re-
strained h and Arthur walked across the lawn ignor-
ant that he had been: a breath of happiness.

But he neyer knew it, and went away to the tower, sad,
yet hopin ‘ ‘ ;

 

We doubt if in the three kingdom$ there were two more
happy beings than the residents at the Moat, at the time of,
ushich we speak. ‘Sir Archer Beanchamp, baronet, was a
hale and hearty man of sixty, who ever since his boy-
hood had held the title, and resided on the estate, where,
in fox-hunting and good cheer, he spent his days. He
had not an idea of aaything beyond his county, the affairs
of which were to him far greater in importance than the
affairs of the nation. ‘He was a tolerable landlord, a sen-
sible man in many things, but with an imperious and ob-
stinate character, the result probably of his early acces-
sion to his title and estates. Nothing during a long ca-
reer had ever resisted him, and never having been thwart-
ed, his mind was not prepared to suffer even the most
faint resistance. v

One of his peculiarities was an intense hatred of all for-
eigners, and particularly of Frenchmen. Ih the time of
his childhood he had been taught to detest the French as
hereditary foes. . There were no terms in the English lan-
guage energetic enough to,express his feelings whenever
the subject was broached.

He had endeavored to nurture his only child, young Ar-
thur Beauchamp, in the same ideas; but the exaggeration
of his sentiments defeated his darling object. The old
Tory father produced a son whose extreme liberality
stopped short only of that which was violent and imprac-
ticable. pape

Arthur Beaucham
France, of French I te :
his frequent visitgto the metropolis he had mixed much
with ‘‘emigrants, "simply from curiosity to see the say-
ages against whom his father was always inveighing.
The exaggerated descriptions of the father being found
supremely absurd, Arthur went to the opposite extreme,
and looked upon his French friends as the only people in
the world, studied their language, and finally paid two
visits to Paris, ifnotin actual defiance of his father, yet
much against his secret inclinations.

The baronet, however, was so wedded to his theory that
he saw no cause to fear his son’s being tainted.

When, therefore, Arthur returned, which was one day,
unexpectedly, just as Sir Archer was sitting down to din-
ner, in company with several of his county cronies, the
baronet chuckled with delight.

“Well, my boy,’’ he cried, *‘had enough of the cringing,
crawling mounseers, eh ???

‘My dear sir,’ said Arthur, quickly, “I love and esteem
the French nation; I admire their genius, and I delight in
their language and literature,’? ‘

“Sir !’? thundered the baronet, his eyes almost starting
from their sockets, ‘‘you don’t mean to say u

Here indignation and passion almost choked his ut-
terance.

“JT mean to say, my dear father, that shut up athome
here, we acquire ideas and opinions with regard to other
nations which experience demonstrates to be erroneous.
If you were only to go to Paris——”’

“What? roared the fox-hunter. Ar-
thur, not another word.’

Arthur could not repress a smile.

“You may laugh, sir,’? continued Sir Archer, gravely;
“but let this subject never again be raised between us.”’

The baronet’s astonishment may be conceived when
the next morning the sulject was perseveringly renewed
by the young man.

This was about eighteen months before the commence-
ment of our narrative.

They were seated at the breakfast table.

“Tam very sorry to offend you, sir,’’ said Arthur, who
was very white and agitated.

He was three and twenty, tall, with fair hair, blue eyes,
and a calm, gentle expression which concealed a will as
iron as that of his father, as determined and as obstinate.

‘Arthur!’ replied the baronet, looking hard at him,
‘what is the matter?”

“Tam compelled to returnto asubject which is un-
pleasant to you, sir,’ .

“Knowing it to be unpleasant?” said the baronet, with
a calmness which no one could mistake for anything but
the gathering of a storm.

“Circumstances compel me,’’ replied Arthur, quietly.

‘What circumstances ?’’

“My dear father,’ said the young man, with a solem-
nity which startled the baronet, ‘I have fixed my affec-
tions on a young lady of rank and high position in
society.”?

“Well, sir???

“She is as perfect in character as she is in beauty; she
is poor, it is true, but her family is older than ours.”

“Older!’? said the baronet sternly.

“Older, and of royal connections; she is the only daugh-
ter cf a marquis ruined by the revolution.”’

“A French lady, I presume?’ continued the baronet,
with a sneer, which, to any one who Knew his character,
was terrible. ;

“Yes, sir; Clarice de—~—"

“Arthur,” said the baronet, quickly, ‘‘do not fell me
her name—that I may never curse it. Mark me, you are
my only son and heir. Ican neither keep from you my
title nor my estates, at my death. But ifyou marry a
Frenchwoman!—a beggarly adyenturess—of royal connec-
tions, forsooth!—you shall never have one penny while I
live, and I will never see you again.”

“Sir Archer,’’ replied the son, whose face was livid
with emotion, “I told you she was poor. I have nothing,
how can we live without a moderate allowance ?”’

“Starve!’ said the baronet, sternly; and then he added,
“Arthur, look around—amid the fair and noble daughters
of England, choose where you will, and I promise you
success—you shall have my income.”’

“You have spoken your final word, sir,’ replied Arthur;
‘hear mine. No argument, no temptation, 20 power on
earth, shall ever make me marry an Englisuwoman.

’

:

 

    
          
  

Was an enthusiastic admirer of
rature, andof Frenchmen. During

 

 

 

“Go to Paris!

‘Stop!’ almost shrieked the baronet. ‘Although you
succeed to my title, should you fail to have issue, it will
revert at your death to your rascally cousin. Isthat scamp,
Walter Beauchamp, to inherit my unstained title and my

 

ancestral wealth 7!

The See rein the summit of the old tower was exten-
sive, and the windings of a river amid a country covered
with rich farms and dotted by house-tops, formed a par-
ticularly attractive feature. But the eye of the young
man rested not upon the beauties of the landscape; it was
fixed on the London road which passed close at hand, and
stretched like a long white streak through the country.
He had scarcely taken up his position when he distin-
guished in the distance the form of a horseman, galloping
as hardas a good horse could take him along the road.
Arthur quivered in everylimb., Atlast! On came the
horseman, andinafew minutes more, so rapid was his
pace Arthur was able to distinguish Colonel Medway.
Scarcely had he done so, when another horseman ap-
peared in view, also galloping with energy and rapidity.
His horse was inferior to that of the colonel, and yet it
went nearly as quick, so unsparing was its owner of whip
and spur. :
Who could this be? thought Arthur. for a kind of in-
stinct told him that he was interested in the stranger as
well as in the colonel.
Behind, scarcely a hundred yards distant, suddenly ap-

 

 

 

 

peared a third individual, who also rode quick, keeping
up to the two men who preceded him, Arthur sat down,
oppressed by the weight of his emotion, and then slowly
descended the steps of the tower. At the foot of the
stairs he met the colonel, who was pale and agitated.

“Be refused to everybody until I have told you all!’ he
said, quickly.

Arthur turned to a servant who had come to take his
orders:

“Jf any one ask for me, show him into the library.*’

At this instant, and just as the young man was in the
act of closing the staircase door, the voice of Beekford
was heard.

“T wish to see Mr. Arthur Beauchamp,” he cried, ‘‘and
that instantly!”

“Mr. Arthur is particularly engaged,’’ said the servant,
respectfully; ‘if you will walk this way?’

walked across the lawn to the front door. The servant
took him straight to the library, and showed himin. To
his great astonishment, Sir Archer himself arose from an
arm. chair.

“T beg your pardon, Sir Archer,’’ said the servant.
“But Mr. Arthur said I was to show the gentleman in
here.”

“Walk in, sir. Where is your master?’ replied the baro-
net, with a quite dignity which impressed the observant
officer with profound respect.

“With the colonel.”

The baronet frowned. The officer bit his lip.
probably too late.

The servant retired.

“If you will sit down, sir,”’ said the baronet, ‘“‘my son
will probably be at leisure shortly.’’

“J beg your pardon, Sir Archer; ‘“butif you will be kind
enough to answer me a question I shall not, perhaps, re-
quire to see Mr. Arthur.’?

“Any question to which I can reply,’? began the baronet.

“Sir Archer—is your son married 2° said Beekford, in-
terrupting him.

The baronet glared at the speaker with a look which
bordered on insanity—a look of furious horror.

“Sir!? replied he, ‘‘you have ridden far, surely not to
ask so ridiculous a question.”

“Sir Archer,’’ said Beekford, calmly, ‘‘the question I ask
is not at all ridiculous.”

“Any beggar boy in the county would teli you, sir, that
my sonis not married,” continued the baronet, with a
ferocity which made the officer examine him keenly.
“Strange!’? he muttered. “Are you quite sure, Sir
Archer ?”?

“Quite sure,” said the baronet, who at the same time
shook all over with passion.

“Quite sure, sir, that he is not privately married, and a
father ?*' continued the officer.

The baronet rose and locked the door. When his face
was again turned toward the officer, he seemed calm and
collected.

“Your name, sir?’ he said, sternly.

‘My nameis Beekford, chief constable of the town of
Douro,’’ replied the other, coolly.

“Mr. Beekford,”’ said the baronet, sarcastically, ‘will
perhaps inform me why the chief constable of Douro sup-
poses that my son is secretly married ?7'

“Sir Archer,”’ replied the officer, ‘‘my reasons may ap-
pear very ridiculous to you, but I myself have a profound
conviction. Itis along story.”

“T listen,’ said the baronet, who threw himself back in
a chair, and prepared to hear the story of the officer with
an air of compassionate politeness which was meant to be
insulting.

The officer, without noticing the other’s manner, began

his narrative, of which the other lost nota syllable. He
never interrupted the speaker, nor spoke, until he was
silent, and waited a reply.
“And so, Mr. Beekford, chief constable of Douro, on
such a fabric you have built up a very pretty novel? An
English baronet’s grandchild lugged about by a French
nurse! A colonel of dragoons poisoning the said French
nurse to rob the child! Faith, sir, you are a mighty in-
genious fellow. Shall I ring and have my son and the
colonel here? They will be vastly obliged to you I am
sure. My son will take it asa highcompliment. I would
advise you to drop a hint of it to my Lord Pontington. It
might break off my son’s marriage, sir! The colonel will
forgive your audacity for the sake of the joke. A mighty,
mysterious plot altogether.”’

“Sir Archer,’? said the officer, very. gravely, “I have
done my duty; [have discovered my mistake—your son
is not married, the colonel is innocent, and Beekford is a
blockhead. I trust to your honor to Keep all that I have
said a profound secret. Sir Archer, your obedient——”’

“Don’t go,’’ replied the baronet, with a cold, bitter
sneer; “my son will be really delighted to see you. I will
send for him.’’-

“No, thank you,’’ said Beekford, hurriedly.

A man in his position was no match for one holding the

He was

 

Beekford dismounted, gave his horse to a man, and |.

of children, seemed to him the real paradise on earth. To
be a husband and a father was to the young man joy un-—
utterable, 2

He determined to brave all and send for his wife.

Colonel Medway stepped in, persuaded him not to irri-
tate his father, and promised to arrange all.

From that day Arthur received no answers to any Of nis
letters, and he learned from the colonel that Clarice had
left Paris, confided her son to @ stranger, and resumed her
maiden name. She declined any communication with a
man who had deceived and betrayed her. ;

Arthur insisted on having, at all events, the child and
es Depem The colonel promised that they should be
ound. ;

The result of his expedition he was now explaining to
the unfortunate and deluded Arthur. ;
Colonel Medway stood near a window overlooking the
lawn. His eyes were anxiously cast in that direction.

He had seen Beekford enter.

Arthur Beauchamp was seated, his hands concealing

his eyes. He weptin agony. The better life seemed de-. —
parting from him, and another existence developing itself.
The lover, husband, father, were dying—a man only re-
mained—cold, insensible, without hope.
“Colonel Medway,”’ he said, in a low voice, ‘my illusion
of lifeis over. Life itself will not last long. Such are the
dreams of youth; I hoped for a gentle, happy existence, a
kind parent, dear wife, loving children—I have no father
—no wife-—no children.’’ ;

“Your father cannot live forever,’’ replied Colonel Med-
way.

“T cannot even look for happiness in his grave,’ said
Arthur, gravely.

‘Why ?”

“She is dead to me. Had she been true, had she but.
borne with circumstances, I could have braved all, But
my illusions are over, my life is now in my child, if it
pleases Heaven to restore him to me.” ;

The colonel made no reply; he was gazing with an anx-
ious and curious look at Beekford, who was leaving the |.
Manor House. a

“Ts there no trace whatever ?’’ he continued. .

“None.”

“But have you been to Cormeil yourself?!

“T went myself—I saw the husband—he was wild with
anguish—Marie had gone out with the child—late at night
she had not returned. On examination he found that the
money sent for the boy, together with the papers, all had.
disappeared!”’

‘Cruel Clarice,’? murmured Arthur, bending his head,
aane his face in his two hands—‘‘not even thy
child.’

Walter stood above him with a haggard and pallid coun-
tenance—his knees shook under him—he looked about
as if for a means of escape, and saw none. Fortunately,
for him, Arthur was for along time incapable of taking _.
notice of his emotion. i ;

Colonel Medway never took his eye off the lawn, He
had seen a female form pass across it, a form he could not.
but recognize, despite a cloak and hat. Slie had just.
stepped out of a carriage. Ruin was staring himin the
face, and yet he could do nothing. ma Pag

Presently Arthur raised his head. Poa

“Colonel Medway, I am ill—I feel that the heavy hand
of sickness, perhaps of death, is upon me. To you I com-
mit my child—go seek him out—find him—tollow up the,
woman who has stolen my boy—give me back my son,
and Clarice may marry. She has betrayed me. She is
lost to me forever.*’ ;

“Perhaps not,’’ said Colonel Medway, with a singular
intonation of voice. a

“What mean you?’ replied Arthur, quickly. 2

“Who knows? the heart of woman is impenetrable, ~
Write once more,’’ said Colonel Medway, who was talk-
ing without the slightest consciousness of what he was
saying.

“I have written. Ihave said all that becomes a man.

I can do no more.”’

“AS you will,’? said Colonel Medway, breathing more
freely, for he saw the same figure, with bowed head and
agitated mien, cross the lawn, leap into the carriage and
drive off. ;

“The child is, now all T have to care for,’? replied the
young man, rising and walking toward the house. __ :

In the evening the father and son were left alone. And* |
now began a life of agony and sorrow impossible’to be —
deseribed.

For eighteen years that old man sat in the same room
with the only child of his heart, reading, but never speak-
ing to him except before strangers. It was a living death
for both; and yet neither would yield. There was the
same determination, the same passive resistance, the
same calm; and the Manor of Stoke Pogeis was gradually
deserted by the whole country, and pointed out as the den
of useless misanthropes, who had voluntarily excluded
themselves from all the world.

Sir Archer was seriously ill for about a month. During
this illness Arthur nursed him with the assiduity of a fond
wife, read to him when he was better, and then when all
danger was over, retired without saying a word.

It was a week more ere he met his son in the drawing-
room, where, because of the beautiful prospect, he had
chosen to breakfast. :

Sir Archer Beauchamp was now a man of seyenty-eight
years of age, who, though much debilitated by illness,
showed that old age had even still touched him but light-
ly. He was thin and pale, and his cheeks were gaunt;
but, despite these evidences of the ravages of time, there
was no doubt of his rapid convalescence. He took a cup
of teay and placed an unopened letter which the servant
handed to him, beside his cup. His eyes were fixed, sad-
ly, but not angrily, on Arthur.

Arthur was now past forty years of age, bordering on
forty-one. He was still very handsome—but so pale, so
thin, so worn, he was like a shadow of his former self.
The face could be recognized still, but there was a terrible ©
look of perpetual anguish which altered his every feature.

“Arthur,’? suddenly began the old man, when the serv-
ant had closed the door, ‘I wish to speak with you.”

“Sir! said the young man, trembling as he spoke, his
color changing at every breath. :

“T have been very ill, Arthur; you have been a very
good son; my time is getting short. Am I never to be fore

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IEMA A NN

“Sir! repeated Arthur, who, never having spoken a
word on any personal subject to his father for eighteen
years, Was overwhelmed with emotion and surprise.

“Arthur, do you forgive me?”’ é

“Sir! said his son, rousing himself, and standing erect.
before his parent, with flashing eyes, and a mien that was
really frightful. ‘Forgive you what?”

“The evil I have done—the evil I did now nearly twenty
years ago,” said the old man, almost humbly. _ :

‘Ha! ha!? cried Arthur, with a kind of ferocious joy.
‘‘You recollect that, nearly twenty years ago—you recol-
lect, sir, that you blasted the existence of a youth that
loved you—that you condemned him to misery, beside
which the galley-slave’s yocationis joy. Twenty years
have I carried my chain, which now curdles my very
blood, and twenty years have I expected this moment of
repentance.” ‘

‘Arthur,’ replied the baronet, scarcely able to articu-
late, ‘will you kill me?” ;

“You did worse, sir. Death had been kind, but you
condemned me to twenty years of wretcnedness—the
beautiful spring of existence you turned into a—but let us
understand one another. You have broached the sub-
ject. Once for all, sir, do you know what itis you have
done?”

‘Speak!’ said the baronet, feebly, while the tears rolled
down the cheek. ’

“Twenty years ago I loved. Clarice was all that could
adorn the home of a human being. She was beautiful and
virtuous, of noble blood, but proud—too proud, alas! I
loved her—she loved me—we were married. Do youhear
that, sir?—she became my wife,’ and Arthur groaned with
anguish. ;

“I knew it,’ replied the baronet, in a low, hushed tone.

“J came,” continued Arthur—‘“I came home to an-
“nounce my happiness. Need I detail my reception?”

It was clear that he had notas yet understood the full
meaning of the words, “I knew it.” ;

“So terrible were your imprecations against the French,
that I dared not own my marriage. Hearing this, my wife
offered to gointoa conyent, and suppress our marriage;
and she would have done it, had not she found herself
about to be a mother.”

“Go on.”? :

‘Even this, sir, moved her not; for, once recovered of
her illness, she sent to inform me that all was at an end,
and she was about to be married to another.”

‘And the child ?”” f y i

“Utterly disappeared with the proofs of its legitimacy,”
continued Arthur. ‘And nowy, sir, that for nearly twenty
years I have suffered, you come and re-open my wounds.”

“To heal them!’ said the baronet, in a voice which had
all its old energy and vigor, while his eyes flashed, but
with anticipated pleasure. ,

Arthur looked uneasity at his father. and thought him
insane. There is profound cunning in those deprived of
reason, sometimes, which enables them to feign senti-
ments they do not feel. The baronet wished probably to
be reconciled to his son before he died, and his feeble in-
telligence, Arthur thought, just enabled him to make

‘promises he could not keep. The son made then no
reply.

P Arehur,? said his father, with an earnest solemnity, ‘I
have interrupted you because I have heard enough for my
punishment. Henceforth we must be as one—one in will,
One in heart. Therefore 1 stopped you from utteriug
things of which youmight repent.”

Arthur listened increduiously. ' :

“T am not the author of your separation from your wife.
All my influence would not have Kept you apart had not
another——"’ :

“Father! exclaimed Arthur, as ifbit by a venomous in-
sect. ‘To whom do you allude?’

“Who was your agent? who came and told you that
your wife was about to marry? Who by fearful pictures
of your father, restrained her fromrushing to your arms ?”?

“Ay, who?’ said Arthur, trembling all over as if with
a stroke of paisy.

“Who, when she did come here——
baronet.

“My wifehere?” wildly shrieked the unfortunate hus-
band. as.

‘*There, where you stand, she knelt to this obstinate
old man, who by a word sent her from his presence,’
said the baronet humbly.

“That word??? asked Arthur, huskily.

‘*f. said—eurse not your father, who is old and feeble—
I sait-that I had the power and the will to put you in a lu-
natic asylum, for your natural life, if you disobeyed me.”

“You said that??? exclaimed Arthur, who stood rivetted
to the spot.

“I did.”?

‘And what did she say ?”?

“She swore never to see you again without my consent,
and fied, believing my will and power,’’ continued the
baronet.

‘sAnd Heaven permitted this 7’? began Arthur.

‘You have not heard all,” saidSir Archer. ‘When she
had gone, I made inquiries about her, and I was told she
was light, fickle, ambitious of money and station.’’

“And who dared??? asked Arthur whose brow was
somber and threatening. Leiiti

“Colonel Medway, your loving cousin,”’ said Sir Archer,
with bitterness; ‘‘it was all a lie—I know it now.”

“My wife then lives!’ cried the son.

“Arthur, I have every reason. to believe that she lives,
and is as true and faithful to you as you have been to her.
And now, Arthur go find her, and bring her home, that I
may see you happy once more before I die.’*

“Father! father!’ cried Arthur, in wild agony ‘‘you for-
get nw child!”
~ “Tac not." :

“Why did she keep it from me?”

 

 

 

continued the

“Arthur is there more than one person in the world in-

terested in destroying your son?”

“You mean——”’ ’

“T mean that yonr wife weeps for her lost child, taken
from her in your name, by Colonel Medivay, supposed
neir to your title and estates.”’

“The double-dyed villian!—liar—my poor child!"

“Arthur, your child is living and well,’? said the baro-.

net, rising, and laying his hand upon his son’s arms,
“ever since its birth it has been watched over, educated
and taken care of by its grandfather.”*

“Father, father!’ exclaimed Arthur, clasping the old
man to his heart, ‘‘Heaven bless you.”’

“Bless you, my son—thank you—the proud old man has
been well. punished.”’ p

‘Incomprehensible human heart,’ muttered Arthur,
almost unconscious he was speaking aloud; “he repelled
the mother, he served the child.’’

“Arthur,” said‘the baronet, gently, “to meshe wasa
strange woman, but the child was yours and mine.”

‘‘And now, then, to fetch them home,” cried Arthur.

“My son, be calm. Your wife I have lost sfght of for
several years, ever since her father’s death; but be not
alarmed, we will find her. I am rich, Arthur—very rich;
and I will go with you to London. But there is one thing
you forget.’?

“And that is——*”

“The nurse who brought the child over to you, had with
her your marriage certificate, the child’s baptismal regis-
ter, and other proofs. When she was murdered——”

“Murdered!’’ shrieked Arthur.

“When she was murdered,” continued the baronet,
> “By whom ?”? ;

. “By Colonel Medway! said the father, solemnly.
4 ‘When she was murdered these proofs, these papers, all
g PS ym Now we must be cautious. No scandal.
My S0n, the name of Beauchamp is pure and unstained.”’
“But I cannot prove my marriage—my child will be ille-
ate!’ cried the son.
“We must be cautious, Arthur—butif we cannot trace
these papers, there is always an accusation of murder.
If he will force us to that, we must console ourselyes and
remember he is only a Medway.”

“Father, he shall give me back my child, or he shall die
upon a gallows.”

“Arthur,” said his father, in*a low, hushed whisper,
“he is nearer, I think, to the gallows just now than ever
living man. Thisis an azcful secret which I alone sus-

‘pect. I will tell you more on our way to town. I feel as
if we were a family of Borgias when I think of that man.
Now for pleasanter things.’

The baronet drew two letters from his pocket.

“This,’* he said, pointing to one of which the seal was
broken—‘‘this is from Reddington, my solicitor. He is

_Making inquiries about—about Clarice, both in London
and Paris, and has already found a clwe."!

“Thank Heaven! Wemust advertise!’ cried Arthur,
who had read with curiosity the advertisements which in
the newspapers conceal sometimes terrible domestic tra-
gedies—sometimes ridiculous mystifications.

“We will adopt every promising plan. This letter
which Thave just received will explain the position of
your son,” i i

The baronet broke the seal, read hastily, and fell back
insensible in his chair.

Arthur rang violently, and then read the epistile,
as fellows:

“Srr:—l amrequested by Lord Thistleton to inform
you that the youth, William Linley, has disappeared, and
that every effort to trace him has been useless. My lord
begs me to add that none of the family plate has been
Mmissiag, but itissuspected that he took a trifling com-
modity with him in the shape of ahuman heart. Lord T.
isnot Squire Western—but W. L. is very like Tom Jones,
and Lady Fanny has something of the Sophia in her.
My lord adds, that you will sufficiently comprehend that
he desires no further intercourse with a family of which
W. L. appears to be an offshorf:: Lord T. will be happy to
renew his old friendly commihications with Sir A. when
W. L. is hanged or transported, :

“Your obedient servant,
, ‘THOMAS GRAVES, Steward.”

While Arthur was reading this strange.and character-
istic epistle from the choleric old lord, the baronet was
slowly recovering, aided by a favorite old housekeeper.

“That will do, Brown—go away. And now, my dear
Arthur—-~”’

The housekeeper was closing the door. -She started.
The baronet nodded and smiled. In ten minutes the joy-
ous hews was over the whole house. The seryants were
in raptures.

“And now, my dear boy, to work. We will find them.
[a the first place, tocalm old Thistleton, write a formal
nete, asking the hand of Lady Fanny Leland for your only
son and heir, Archer Clarice Beauchamp.”

' Arthur made no reply. He was too overwhelmed by
all that occurred to speak. He even seglected to write
the letter,

We must leave the reconciled father and son te follow
the fortunes of our hero, and to develope the propertions
of the new and Rorrible crime of Colonel Medway, to which
the baronet had so shudderingly alluded.

(To be continued.)
——_ 4+

“@ There is a tree in Greenland, N. H., which mea-
Aures 27 feet in circumference,

It was

 

 

rece sqrerasenarn ecm naam

SELLING A BIRTHRIGHT.

BY BELLA FRENCH,

 

 

Long years ago, while yet a child,
Impulsive, thoughtless, gay, and wild,
Unled by reason, calm and cold,
I, somewhere in the Bible, read
How Esau, starving, almost dead,
His birthright for some pottage sold.

T thought him very foolish then,
And read the story once again,
E’en though the tears would thickly fall;
And now to-night I sit alone,
My pale lips uttering a moan,
As I that ancient tale recall.

For like that foolish youth of old,

While starving, I my birthright sold, hs
With only this slight difference:

For love and sympathy my soul

Was dying, and I gave the whole
For one kind word as recompense.

And now, my birthright gone, I will
A wanderer be, and starving still,
No father’s blessing on my head,
Until, like foolish Esau, I gf ER
Among the shadows dark shallery,
And wish ofttimes that I were dead.

. ——__—-.- > &< — es
A STORY OF WILD ADVENTURE.

The Wood-Giant:

OR,

SPOTTED DICK, THE RANGER.
By Duke Cuyler.

[The ‘‘Wood-Giant” was commenced in No. 41. Back Nos. can
be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. }

CHAPTER VII. '
IN THE JAWS OF DEATH,

Let us now return to the Wood-Giant, whom we’ left
snugly caged in the trap into which the dwarf had led
him.

For a moment he was so astonished by the turn of af-
fairs that he was as motionless as though turned to stone.
The sudden appearance of his enemy, and the certainty
that he had him in his power, for a moment bewildered
him. Butit was only fora moment. The next he had
required his self-possession.

He held his rifle in his hand, but he knew thatthe first
motion he made to raise it would be the signal for his
death. He knew but too well the enemy with whom he

 

 

 

 

had to deal.

A sardonic laugh like that of a fiend broke upon his
ears,

He turned his head quickly, and beheld The Snake
standing near him, holding aloft a flaming torch.

His hedious tace was all twisted up with the joy he felt
at the manner in which he had performed the task allotted
him by his master.

Near him was still another of his own race, but as un-
like him as well could be. Tall and straight as an arrow,
his dress betokened that he was a chief. Spotted Dick re-
cognized him at once. Though still a young warrior, he
was one of the most implacable enemies of the whites in
all the Miami country.

Perhaps he had been made thus through association
with the renegade, for in all the rails upon the whites

o¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &*

 

== Se a ee

The renegade strode out of the cavern, following close
on the heels of the chief.

No sooner was his back turned than the Snake com-
menced to make the most horrible’ grimaces at his -back.
He danced about as though in the greatest glee, like the
harlequin in the pantomine. Though he did the bidding
of the renegade, it was evident that he held him in sn-
preme contempt. He might have fear of him while in his
presence, but it was gone the moment his back was
turned.

Spotted Dick watched him curiously. He could hardly
make out what sort of a being he was. Was he after all
the traitor he seemed to have proved himself to be?
Might there not be some hope that he would yet aid him
2 escape from the terrible death that stared him in the

ace?

For full two minutes after the renegade had gone he
continued making the grimaces he had done after him,
and then he turned toward the captive.

For a minute he gazed down upon him, and then with
@ shrill laugh he held the torch down so close to his face
that the flame almost scorched the flesh.

“What are you doing you imp of Satan? cried the
ranger. ‘‘Do you mean to burn me up here where I lay ?”

A mocking laugh was the only answer, while the dwarf
danced about him as though in the gfeatest giee at the
sport he was indulging in.

Again and again did he whirl the torch about, and more
than once did the flame come so nigh the face of the
ranger that his beard was scorched by it.

At last he seemed tired of this diversion, and pausing,
he contemplated his charge with an earnest, steady look.

“You are a pretty redskin, aint ye?’ said the latter,
gazing up at him with a look that showed that if he only
had his liberty the moments of the dwarf would be few.
“Ye’s got a handsome carcass, and I guess yer soul is as
crooked as yer body.”

The redskin did not seem to be at all offended at these
words. On the contrary he seemed to be inclined to
break out with renewed merriment. Then he said:

“What can the pale-face expect of the Snake? He is
as crooked as his namesake that crawls in the grass, and
is no more to be trusted. He bites or stings when none
expect him. It is his nature and he @annot help it.”

“Then if you area snake in nater as well as in name,
ye’ll bite a friend as well as an enemy. I want to ask ye
a question or two, thongh I don’t expect you to tell me
the truth.”

“The words of the Snake can be crooked as they can be
straight.”

“Will you answer me?”

“Let the pale-face speak. TheSnake can tell beiter
then,’

“Where are the gals I came here arter??

The dwarf pointed away toward one of the passages
that led from the chamber where they were.

“The pale-face maidens are yonder,’ he said.
‘Close by ?”? said the ranger, eagerly.

The dwarf nodded his head.

“What shall I give you to let me speak with them ?”?

The redskin pointed mutely to the way the renegade

and the chief had disappeared.
“The Snake cannot do it,’? he said a moment after.
“They would grind his head to dustif he did.”
“Can you not help them to escape from here?
will you shall be a richer man than your chief.”
“What would be the use of riches when one was dead?
Neither the red men or the white ean take them to the
Spirit Land. The pale-face heard the words of the white
warrior when he went out; and the Snake knows well
that he would keep’ them. He would have to sing his
death song at once, for he would strely take his life.”
“But you could fly with us. Once outside of this place,
and I have friends that would help us: .Cut these thongs
that are eating into my flesh, and help me to escape, and
I give you my word that no harm shall come to you.”
“The Snake hears the words of the pale-face, but they
fallupon hisears like the wind when it goes sighing
amid the tree-tops. Let him think no more of life, but
commence to sing his death-song. There is no hope for
him. Whenthe sun rises the stake will be planted and
the fire kindled, and he will die.” .

If you

 

they had been hand in hand together.

Spotted Dick saw that jor once in his live he was ina
tight place. Turn which way he would he saw no hope of
escape. .

But there was one thing he coutd do. He would sell his
life as dearly as possible. Hadhe but the dwarf at that
moment beneath his heel he would have ground him into
the dust. He was angry with himself at having been duped
so easily. But there was no help forit now. Ifhis time
had come he could die as befitted a brave man, and one
who had no fear of death.

The rifle of the renegade was pointed at his breast, and
the hand of the chief was upon his tomahawk. The one
stood ready to take his life did the other fail. fi

 

 

 

For a few moments not a word passed between them.
Then the renegade, with a smile almost as fiendish as that
of the dwarf, exclaimed in a tone of triumph:

“Throw down your rifle, Dick Grant. My turn has
come, and ZI have you now. For three years you have

 

‘Yprother. Set themat Vberty again, anda Iwill throw down

from off your shoulders.”’ .

been on my track hunting for me, that you might take
my life. But the tables have turned nowsmnd I hold the
Winning hand. Throw down that rifle I say, if you hope
to have another moment to live.”

The finger of the villain was on the trigger of his rifle,
and the ranger knew him too well to doubt that he would
make his word good. Still he did not then comply with
the demand.

“T came here to-night, Sam Green, not so much to take
your miserable life, as I have sworn to do, but to rescue
the girls that you carried off after you had slain their

my rifle, and you can do with me as you choose.”

The renegade uttered a loud laugh.

“A fine bargain would that be to make—what is it that
you have to give. You are in my power as surely as they.
The beautiful Ruth is mine, and the other, Springing Pan-
ther here, will take to his ownlodge. But drop that rifle,

 

 

Dick Grant, or I will puta bullet through your heart, and
send you after the rest of your family.”

“T can but die,” exclaimed the ranger, without offering
to comply with this demand. ‘“Itis nothing for you io
take the life of a feller critterin cold blood. Doyer worst,
only be quick aboutit. But perhaps you have got to be
such a savage that you would like to have me tortured at
the stake?”

“You shailbe!’ cried the renegade, ina fury. ‘Die
at the stake you shall, and the savages shall dance about
you, and mock your dying cries. Bring hither some stout
cords, Snake, and we will bind him hand and foot, Mind
that they are strong enough, for he is another Sampson.” |

At this command the dwarf hastened into what seemed |
to be the heart of the rock, and soon reappeared with the’
desired material for securing the prisoner. eS

Then all three advanced toward him to carry out their
purpose. At first a desperate resolve took possession of.
the mind of the ranger, to seize the moment when they
should attempt to bind him to make his escape by shecr
force of strength. But he did not attempt to carry it ont
for the reason that this thought gave place to another.

His life would be spared for a little while at least, and it
might be that in that time he would have a chance to
communicate with those whom he had come to rescue.
It might be, that bind him as strongly as they would, he
could find means to free himself. He would try the ex-
periment at least. Therefore when they approached him
with the cords to bind his limbs, he made no objection,
but submitted with the best possible grace. But he was
sorely tempted to strike for that vengeance upon the ren-
egade for which he had waited solong. As hebentdown
before him fettering his limbs, it was with difficulty that

And it was wonderful ‘that he did have such command
over himself. He was likewise tempted when the dwarf,
to whom he owed his present misfortunes, hustled abont
him so officiously in helping to secure him, and giving
utterance ever and -anon to his laugh as though he re-
joiced, as doubtless he did, at the scrape he had got him
into. He would have given h to have grasped him
by the throat and choked the fat of him. But forthe
object he had in view, he withstood all of these tempta-
tions, and stood still as they placed the bonds upon him.

His arms they bound tightly behind him, but his feet
were left for the present so that he could walk without
difficulty. This done, the renegade bade the dwarf go in
advance with his torch. Then he took his captive by the
arm and led him forward. A little further on there was
another cleft in the rock similar to the one through which
he had passed. ¢
This appeared to lead into the very heart of the cliff. It
was not open above their heads, as the other had been,
but seemed to form the entrance to a cavern. For some
twenty paces they went on, the torch of the dwarf light-
ing the way. Then they emerged into a chamber of con-
siderable dimensions. ;

The torch illuminated the roof, and the dark rocks that

formed the sides of the chamber, and revealed a couple of
passages leading therefrom.
A half-formed suspicion had entered the mind of Spot-
ted Dick that he should find within a place fitted up as a
human habitation. That Ruth and Edith Haven were
somewhere within he had no doubt, and he cast his eyes
about the cavern, half expecting to see them. But they
were not there. Neither were there any comfort or con-
veniences to be seen. Only the stone floor and the dark
gray walls on either side met his gaze; yet there ‘might
be more chambers within, and they might be there, ©

But his captors did not conduct him further. Rougtily
the bonds were tightened about his limbs, till it was im-
possible for him to move,

Then the renegade turned to the chief.

“Letus gol’? he said. ‘There may be more who came
with him without. Let us see te them.”

“The words of the pale-face warrior are those of wis-
dom. Weshould have thought of this before. Springing
Panther is ready. Comel?

The renegade-cast a malignant smile upon his captive.

“I shall be back soon,” he said. ‘The maidens you,
seek are Not far off; but youcannot goto them. You
have hunted me for years, but to-morrow your search shall
be over. The stake shall be planted, and by it you shall
die. Let that be your comfort while I am gone.”

“Don’t be £00 sure of me yet, you bloodthirsty yillain !”
cried the ranger. ‘Your day of reckoning ain’t a great
ways off, even iff do go under now. The airth will get
tired of holding you one of these days, and then if yer
don’t get yer fill of brimstone, then Spotted Dick misses
his guess’?

The eyes of the renegade gleamed with an evil passion,
and for a moment it seemed as though he would have
slain him then and there. But he changed his mind, if
that was his intention, and said, as he turned away:

“T can affordto wait, for then my vengeance will be all
the sweeter.’’ Then turning to the dwarf, he said: “See
to him that he doesn’t escape. There-is little chanée for
him to do so; but if he does I'll cut your ugly head from’

“The white warrior shall be obeyed.

ied ee
ut still. they clung to if,

to avert

will ever implore the Great Spirit to bless

but she cannot do as the pale-face maiden asks.

 

 

back lie shall find his captive here.’

 

ee ond r
When he cones

v

Suarded, that no chauce of escape may be left.

As the dwarf said this, he turned his back upon the ran-
ger, and stood listening intently, as though some sound
had follen upon his ear.

.

 

CHAPTER VII.
THE CAPTIVE SISTERS.

In another apartment of the cavern, similar to the one

in which the ranger lay, and only alittle apart from it,
were the sisters, Ruth and Edith Haven. -

Overcome with fatigue and horror at the scenes they
had witnessed, and what they had undergone, they lay
upon @ couch of furs clasped in each other’s arms.

Their surroundings were much like that of the ranger,
but the hand of man had’ done much to der it more
comfortable as a dwelling4 It had’evidently been
used as an abode for s : previous to\their being
placed init. In fact the rene
poses of his own, and at time

The dwarf was a servant of savyho waited upon him
here, and had general charg le cavern. ¥

There was but one passage which led into this chamber,
and in this a door had been ace d,so that none
might intrude unless their company was desired.

There were several articles of comfort. scattered about
the room, and the whole was illuminated by a lamp which
burned upon a rude table.

Upon the couch the sisters lay motionless, but they were
not asleep. Slumber had not yisited their eyelids since
the night before, when they had been sq rudely roused hy
the fierce onslaught of the savages,
there enacted was cotstantly passing before their eyes.
They saw their brother and his wife and children -mur-
dered, and the cabin which had been “their happy home
committed to the flames,

Their own liveshad been spare only that they might
be reserved for a far worse fate than that of death.

  
  
   
  
   
  

.

fe made his home here. -

Already had the purpose of the ‘renegade and the chief

been stated.to them. “fhey claimed them as their own.
Ruth was to become thé property of the white savage,
while Edith fell to the lot of Springing Panther. It wis
or the purpose of gaining possession of them that the
cabin of Frank Haven had been selected for assault. They
had carried out their purpose, and the maidens they cov-
eted were in their power. :
' They had assured them that they should be treated with
respect, and should want for nothing, Servants should wait
upon them, and they shoud in all respects betreated as
princesses of the tribe. But these offers they had spurned
with all the honor and contempt they deserve 1
they did from those whose hands were.s
blood of their kindred. oe eee ae
Then they had been left to themselves, but —
comple

horrible consciousness that they we! y
Hope of escape was sane indeed, in ir hearts,

      
    
      
      
   
    
   
  

hey, knew that Simon and
Philip had gone to the Wood-Giant to receive his as
> danger that they feared threatened thi
ment, and it might be on their retttrn that they w
tempt to rescue them. , : c bis

They knew they would if it lay in their poy
But the prospect of their so doing was poorif
could they find them in this spot where the
hidden them away ?

Sleep was impossible. Lying in each other’s arms, they
thought of those who were dearer to them than life,
and wondered where they were at that moment. Yet
could they haye seen the danger impending over them,
their alarm and distress might have been increased.

Springing Panther and the renegade had gone out frem the

  

  
  

ors had

he could prevent himself from striking him to the earth. | chamber not more than an hour when their ears, on the alert for
danger, caught the sound of footsteps outside the door.

They held their breath and listened. Some one had approached

the door, and was standing there motionless.

Was it the renegade or Springing Panther returning?
Their hearts took new fright at the thought, and they clasped

each other still closer, as if for mutual protection.

They heard a hand upon the door, as though some one was re-

moving the fastenings without,

It ceased, andjagain a dead silence reigned, Evidently the one

without was listening as well as, themselves. Then itwas renewed,
and a moment more they heard the door swing open, ’ :
terror ran through them, though they saw not who their visitor
was

A thrill of

S. ie

They had no thought but that it was one of their captors, and
they iid their faeces in the disheveled tresses of each other, that
they might not see him. ; i

The door swung to again, and they heard a footstep approaching
thé couch upon which they lay.) It moved slowly, and sounded $9
ehe that it could hardly be either of thosé. they dreaded to be-

old >

Somewhat assured by this, Ruth raised her head, and turned
her gaze in the direction of the new-comer. As she did so she
gaye astart of surprise, and a slight ery eseaped her lips.

Their visitor was one of their own sex. It was an Indian maid-
en, hardly older than herself, dressed in all the fanciful ornaments
of her racé, She was tall and queenly, and ‘her bearing as well as
her dress prociaimed that she was a person of rank in the tribe.
Her features were regular and her face beautiful, though now a

spirit, of amger was stamped upon it, which somewhat marred its

expression, - ,

In_ her right hand she held along slender dagger, and, fr6m
the light which flashed out from lier eyes, Ruth knew that she
meant them harm. That her errand there was to take their lives
she had no moredoubt than:though she had. expressed it in so
many words. ef ‘

Another cry broke from her lips as she sprang up, with Edith
beside her. Within a pace of the ecuch: the Indian girl paused,
and stood gazing down upon them, as though;she Would stamp
every lineament of their features upon her mind. Aer

For the space of a minute neither spoke, nor did one flinch from
the gaze of the other. ik o eS

The knife of the Indian girl was fast clasped in hethand, ready
to perform its fearful service at the moments thought. _

At length she broke the silence that weighed so oppte:

vely
about them. ‘

‘ : : ] i f
“The pale-face maiden is as fair as the morning. Hereyes are

like the stars that shine down through the tree-tops. They have
won the heart of the white warrior away from his Indian wife,

and he would cast her offas he would a plaything of which he was- ,
i But the eyes of the white maiden shall look no more ih.

tired.
his, They shall not sce the sunlight again, for she must @iz.? 19°

The hand which held the knife was raised, and she took another
step toward her intended victim. ’

“Harm me not!” cried Ruth, holding out her hand toward her
ina supplicating manner. “I am not guilty of that you lay tomy
share, nor is my sisier here. Wehave no love for this white-war-
rior, nor for the chief; for their hands are both red with the blood
of our-friends, We would far rather die by your haud than sub
mit,to the fate they would doom us to.”

“The tongue of the white maiden may be as crooked as the rest
of her race. They will speak soft words to deceive, when they
mean murder in their hearts. The pale-face maidens may not
love the white warrior or the chief, but they would have them in
their wigwams, and make slaves of those who rightfully belong
there. The ears of the Indian girl are not deaf, neither are her
eyes blind, and she knows all that has passed here to-night. The
pale-face maidens must die, and their time has come.”

Again she made a menacing motion toward them with her
knife, while Ruth stretched out her hand as thongh she would
ward off the blow.

“Do not slay us,” she cried, “do net have our blood upon your
hands. There are those in search for us whom we love. Set as
free. Show us the way from this place that we may reach them,
and then we shall not be in your way. Yoummust know the secrets
of this place well, or you would not be here. i Let us go, and we
you) )

The Indian girl slowly shook her heard. ;
“The feet of Minnona knows all the .ways of the hollow cliffs;

The ways are all
And were the

rade had fitted if up for pur-

he horrible scene.

-| reloaded his rifle.

 
 
    

white maidens without, their feet would fall into the snare set for
them, as their friends have already done.”

Ruth uttered a cry of alarm.

“Our friends have not fallen into the hands of the savages?”
she asked, in a tone of despair.

“The strong man, whom they call the Wood-Giant, is lying
bound without,” she answered. ‘They lured him hither so that
there was no escape. There were other pale-faces with him, and
the red men are seeking for them. The pale-face maidens can-
not escape, but they can die.”

Despairing, and overcame by this intelligence which banished
from their hearts all the thoughts of escape that they had cher-
ished there, the sisters sank back upon the couch utterly devoid
of hope. There was nothing now for them ‘to do but meet their
fate, and they could welcome the knife of the Indian girl in pre-
ference to the life their captors proffered them.

For a moment it seemed as though a pitying thought had enter-
ed the heart of the Indian girl as_ she gazed upon her victims.
The look of fierce determination died out for a moment, and the
hand that held the knife dropped to her side. But it was only for
amoment, Aswift revolution followed, and she saw what she
had to fear, did she forego her intentions. Fear and hate again tri-
umphed, and once more she raised her arm and sprang forward to
strike the fatal blow to the heart of Ruth.

But the blow did not fall. A hand like the grasp of iron arrest-
ed it midway in its descent, and Ruth was saved.

With flashing eyes the Indian girl turned toward the one who
had thus thwarted her. A look of intense anger was upon her
brow when she saw it was the Snake who stili held her by the
arm.

“Snake that you are, let go your hold upon my arm. Slave,
what do you mean thus to stand between me and those I hate?”

But the dwarfdid not obey her. Neither did he flinch beneath
the angry gaze she turned upon him. Firmiy he kept his hold
upon her arm, holding it as motionless as though it was ina vice.

Again the Indian girl repeated her command, but the dwarf did
not relinquish his hold. ede

““Minnona must not take the lives of the captives,” he said.
“The white warrior would be very angry did she do so. Let them
live in peace, Come, let us go from here before he returns. Should
he come and find us here his anger would be like the tempest when
it drives through the forest in winter. Like the trees, we should
be laid prostrate before his wrath.”

The eyes of the Indian girl flashed out all the anger and defi-
ance she felt.

“Let go thy hold, slave! How dare you touch an Indian prin-
cess? Snake that you are, down and creep beforeme! The Great
Spirit ordered that such as you should creep all the days of thy
life! Do you hear me?”

“The words of the chief’s daughter are in the ears of the Snake.
Still he must not allow her to pronounce her Own doom,” said the
dwarf, earnestly. ‘“Ifshe would save her own lite, she must let
the captives live.”

The incensed girl struggled with all her strength, but it availed
her nothing. She might as well have attempted to escape from
the clutches of a bear when its arms were fastened upon her.

Convinced at length that this mode of preceedure would ayail
her nothing, she ceased to struggle and stood motionless in his
grasp.

At this moment other footsteps were heard approaching. Every
eye was turned in the direction of the door, and a moment later
the renegade himself strode into the room.

At a glance he seemed to comprehend what was going on, and
stepping toward the group he laid his hand upon the arm ot the
Indian girl just as the dwarf let go his hold upon it. ;

He silently pointed toward the door, and the Snake glided away
and was soon lost to sight.

“Come, Minnona,”? he said. ‘This is no place for you.
us go,”

She did not stir, but gazed down upon the captives with a ma-
lignant look which spoke all the hate she felt toward them.

The renegade repeated his summons, this time in asterner tone,
and the Indian saw thatshe must comply. With his hand stil!
upon herarm, she followed him from the apartment and stood
quietly by his side while he secured the door behind them.

CHAPTER IX.
IN THE TOILS OF THE ENEMY.

We will now go back and follow the fortunes of some of our
friends whom we have neglected for a time.

The reader will remember that we left Rube Granger, the Irish-
man, and Philip, hastening back toward the Indian eamp for the
purpose of attacking the savages, and if possible to destroy them
all while they slept, that they might beable to pursue their search
for the missing ones with some prospect of success. They will
also recollect that they had hardly turned back, when they were
startled by the report of a rifle which they judged to be Simon’s,
followed by a fierce warwhoop on the part of the savages.

The sound startled them ail, and told them at once that their
scheme was frustrated. Rooted to the ground they stood for a
moment, not knowing what todo. It was the voice of Philip that
brought them back to their senses, and decided them to act.

“Come on,” he exclaimed, springing forward. ‘Simon is in
danger, and Jet us do what we can to save him,”

Neither Rube or the Irishman needed any other invitation.
Philip sprang forward and they followed him close. After the
shout had died away, all was as still as death. What had become
of Philip, and what were the savages doing? Neither of our friends
could tell.

All that they could do was to hurry toward the spot as fast as
ae taking all the precaution in their power to preyent being

iscoyered.

At last they had approached to within a few rods of the camp-
fire, and close to the spot where they had parted with Simon. An
eager glance about did not reveal him to them. He was gone,
but whether he was in the hands of the enemy or had fled away
they had no means of determining,

For a moment they stood puzzled as to what next course to pur-
sue. Should they approach the fire and sce if the sayages were
still about it. It seemed hardly probable that they would be there
after the shout they had raised.

our is’

 

Let

saare was that of the Irishman, and in a moment they were
all still. ‘

Eagerly Rube and Philip listened for the repetition of the sound
that had roused the exclamation on the pait of Pat. But an in-
tense stillness reigned around them, unbroken save by their own
half-bated breaths.

What had become of the savages? The next moment the ques-
tion appeared to be answered, A sound of a footfall, so light as to
be almost imperceptible, fell upon their ears. The next moment
there was another from a different direction. Both were near
them, The red-skins were moying about. Perhaps they were
aware of their exact locality, and were doing their best to hem
them in. They were sure of ‘th S, when another footfall froma
different direction also met their ears.

There could be no doubt now but that their situation was each
moment growing more and more dangerous. Still the darkness
about them was so great that as yet they had not caught sight of

& ¥ ;

ae nin the question, what they had better do. Should
they remain where they were while thenetwas tightening around
then, or rould t ley at once try-towreak from its nieshes?

. Phey,chose the Jatter. isk:

in a low whisper Rube bade the others follow him. He took a
step forward and then recoiled suddenly. A sayage stood in his
“path with an uplifted tomahawk, ready to hurl it at his head. So
close a he that Rube could have touched him: by reaching out
his hand, 7 Cae

The next moment. the tomahawk: came. whigzihe toward him
and passed so close to his head that it seemed as though the blade
must. have grazed the skin, -

It was the Jast voluntary action ever made on the part of the
red-skin for the next moment Rube had sent a bullet through his
heart. j i D

The report of the rifle as it echoed over and over again was half
drowned by the yells that arose fromthe throats of the sayages
about them.

“Faith, and it is a hornet’s nest ye are after hayin’ stirred up!”
eried Pat. 7

“You are right,’ answered Rube; “and we shall have the whole
of em about our ears in a moment,”

“Here they come!” said Philip. “Boys, I’m afraid we are in
for it!”

“Thar ain’t any doubt of that,” answered Rube, as he hastily
“ve known that for an hour baek, All we
ean do is to fight as long as thar is a chance, and then givé under,
It we were safe out of this spot I should be glad. We ¢an’t do the
gals any good here that I can see.”

“Or LT either,” said Philip. ‘The chances are against us, and I
see little hope of getting clear, Ti we but had the ranger and Si-

mon with us, there would be some hope. Everything has gone
‘against us to-night.” ‘ 3

“Faith, and we’ve gone agin some of the haythen as well!” ex-
claimed Pat, after giving a whoop of defiance in answer to the
savages. ‘‘Bad luck to em, and it is Pat Malloy that will crack a
few more hearts for ’em yet!”

Another yell from the savages almost deafened them, and a
moment after they beheld them closing in upon every side.

“T see no hope in fighting further,” said Philip. “If we surren-
der now it may be that they will spare our lives.’’

“Only to roast us at the stake,” answered Rube. “TI know the
renegade and Springing Panther too well to think that they will
spare us,” ropa Br

“J see no other hope,” said Philip. ;

Hardly had these words left his lips than with another yell the
red-skins sprang upon m. . :

For a moment the struggle was fearful, but it was of short du-
ration. -In the darkness our friends could but mike but a slight
defense against the fearful odds with which they had to contend,
and in a very few moments the strife was ended.

Overcome by numbers, they Jay prone upon the earth, disarmed
and at the merey of their captors. That merey they thought
would be little else than instant-death: Neither as yet was se-
verely hurt, for it seemed to be the purpose of the redskins to take
them alive if possible. A dozen times in the melee they could
have slain them had they been so inclined; hut they had not done
so. But now, as they lay helpless upon the earth, they expected
every moment that the fatal blow would be given. It was a mo-
ment of terrible suspense; but 1t was soon ended.

“Do not kill them—let them live for a time; I have need for
them alive. The tribe wishes for sacrifices, and they shall die at
the stake. Bind them sothat they may not escape, and carry
them in with the others.”

Our friends recognized the voice at.once. Tt was that of the
renegade; and they knew that they had a respite for a little time.
But it was only that they might De reserved for a fate from which
the stoutest heart could but recoil.

The command of the renegade was at once obeyed. The say
ages set about their work, and in a little time our friends found
themselves bound securely hand and foot. ‘

Philip and Rube made no protest, but the Irishman used his
tongue and his fists to considerable purpose, doing considerable
execution with them both. He made two savages see more stars
than there was in the sky, by a couple of well-directed blows, and
in return he would have had his head split open by the irate red
skins had it not been for the interposition of the renegade. Sc-
cured at last, he gave the order for them to be borne into the cay
ern, and a couple of the savages at once raised each of them from
the earth, and proceeded to carry out his orders.

Once borne into the place where the ranger had been entrapped,
a light was procured, and our friends gazed inquiringly around
them.. They marked the high walls upon either side, aud the dark
entrance to the passage that seemed to lead into the heart of the
cliffs, and they no longer had cause to wonder at the sudden dis-
appearance of the sisters, or of Spotted Dick himself.

That the captives were hidden somewhere within the dark re-
cesses about fhe they had no doubt. They hoped that the ran-
ger and Simon, as well as Edith and Ruth, were safe as yet from
harm. If they were, there might be some way in which they
could yet ettect their éscape.

They kept. their eyes about them, and at Jast the light of the

orch showed them) two figures lying upon the earth. ‘their cap-
‘tors bore them along and deposited them beside them, and the
ight falling upon their faces showed them to be Spotted Dick and
mon.

 

(To be continued.)
=

 

“Mabel Carrington.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Terrible days of the siege, only not monotonous, because each
day seemed colder, darker, and sadder than the last. The young
and the weakly were perishing for want of food and fire; those
who were stronger suffered more because their pains were pro-
longed.

The frost was so intense that the Countess de la Ronceville lay
in bed all day, and thereby much weakened herself. Only two
fires could the once prodigal household afford. The one was in
the chamber of the countess, and thither did Mabel bring the chil-
dren every day to give them their lessons—poor, shivering ‘ittle
things!

Paris’ was carpeted with snow; every night the frost seemed to
increase in severity; the sky hung black as lead over France and
England, and, indeed, over the greater part of Europe, during
those days just before Christmas, 1870. Meanwhile nearl every-
body was hungry in unhappy Paris, everybody was cold, many
were iH, numbers were dying, and still the government held out.
“Death before surrender!” was still the cry of hundreds.

Strange it was to see Madame Maisonette during those days;
thin she grew, and haggard. She knew that she was ruined in
pocket, that war had swept away all her earnings, that she was a
poor woman. It seemed that her grim hatred of foreigners in-
creased. Her bitterness against Mabel Carrington knew no abate-
ment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

all this,’ thought Madame Maison.
irl has got another lover, or madame la
comtesse has promised to give her some more of her jewels. I
will watch.”

The crafty housekeeper set: herself to watch Mabel.

“There is somet

hing under
ette toherself. *“

 

Mabel, howeyer, was on guard. Gustave had returned un-
harmed from the sortie, although he had been in the thickest of
the fight, and had received a medal for his bravery. Hecon-
tinued to write to Mabel at the postal station in the next street,
and as often as once a week the lovers met at the Hotel des Fo-
rets. All, however, had been managed so cleverly that, so far,
Madame Maisonette suspected nothing. However, the house-
keeper was resolved to watch Mabel.

They were now in the early part of January, Every day
brought its sad record of hunger, suffering, and dosth, kod still
the devoted city held grimly on, hoping against hope.

On the morning of one of those dark and bitter days Mabel
sought and obtained a holiday, She was not as calm as usual. She
had heard from Gustave the day previous. A sortie had been
fixed for the night before, and Gustave had marched out with the
troops, At that moment he might be living; he might be wound-
ed; he might be a prisoner; he might be dead! At any rate, at
the Hotel des Forets she would hear news ot him or his soldiers,

She hurried toward the hotel, and was admitted into the salon,
where Madame St. Pierre stood atthe table engaged in taking
— salted meat out of a jar and layingit in a dish ready to
Cook.

“Have they come back, madame ?”’ asked Mabel, breathlessly.
“Have the troops returned from the sortie???

Madame St. Pierre shook her head.

“They have not returned,” she said.

Mabel turned pale, and sank into a chair.

Presently Madame St. Pierre said, slowly:

“This afternoon they will be carrying in the wounded and the
prisoners”—she paused, then said, solemnly—“and the dead. The
friends of those who have gone out will be watching on the road
leading from Pere la Chaise. I must give you. something to eat
and drink, then I will go with you; we will hire a carriage. If
anything has happened to Gustave de ’Orme—if he is wounded
we will have him brought here. Anything is better than sus-
pense,”?

Two hours later, Mabel and Madame St. Pierre learned that
those wounded in the late sortie were on tl:e way to the hospital,
and that among them were the Marquis de Fourmentelle and
Gustave de l’Orme. ” .
bel hastened to the hospital, anxious to be the first to render
ance to her lover. i
lowly the wounded were carried past her,one by one.

Fifteen maimed soldiers were caretully conveyed on stretchers
through the wide hall;and on each Mabel ¢ast’a hurried glance,
but without seeing the face she sought.

Ah!. She starts now, for her eyes alight on a form that sends a
thrill through every muscle of her slight frame. She beholds a
face white, rigid, and seemingly frozen in the permanence of
death. The tront of the coat was torn away, and through the
white shirt blood was welling slowly. Gustave de l‘Orme was
either dead or dying!

Mabel was ready to faint, but she mastered herself by a strenu-
ous effort.

they carried in De Fourmentelle. Mabel had difticuity in re-
straining a ery of horror and pity when she saw the wreck which
war had made of the stalwart form of the marquis—one leg was
shot away from aboye the knee. He must have had wonderful
self-command to have enabled him to repress a howl of anguish.
His eyes gleamed fiercely as they rested upon Mabel, and he said
to her, in a hissing whisper:

‘You have come here to nurse your lover, but you are too late
—he will be carrmed away from you before long. The bullet has
eorned his side, it has to sink a little lower to touch his heart,
then A

The marquis did not finish his sentence, but a gleam of diaboli-
cal malignity lighted up his whole countenange, ;

Mabel covered up her face with her hands, and shuddered and
prayed. She felt ahand laid upon, her shoulder; starting and
looking up, she found herself confronted by the countenance, at
once kindly and powerful, of Doctor Mansfield, an English physi-
cian, who had noticed her agitation when she beheld Gustave.
He spoke to her in English. 4

“You are my countrywoman,” said he, “and I perceive that no
ordinary emotion sways you. You need not be afraid,for your
friend; I do not believe the bullet will have time to reach his
heart before we extract it. You shall attend to him yourself.
Only, I have one suggestion to make. There are a great many
young doctorsin this hospital—perhaps you know what French-
men are?—they do not understand a young and pretty woman
going about unprotected either by mother or husband. There is
one garb, however, which they all respect; Ispeak of the black
robe and white head-dress of the Sister of Charity, If you were to
don such a robe—and I have one ready at hand—you can <o at
once into the sick ward, not only unmolested, but protected on all
sides from insult.’ . :

Mabel warmly grasped the hand of the doctor—she could not re-
strain the emotions of. her gratitude. Looking up to him, her
pure eyes filled with an ecstasy of thankfulness, she exclaimed:

“Sir, you are good, and Heaven will bless you for your good-
ness.”? -

The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder, and turned: her away
from the entrance. He wrote something on a card, and put the
eard in her hand.

“Go down that passage,” said he, ‘‘and knock at the first door
on the left; it will be opened by an old nun. Show her the card,
and she will give you the dress,”

The doctor spoke rapidly, and Mabel quickly obeyed orilers. She
hurried down the passage, knocked at the door, was admitted by
the nun into an apartment barely furnished, but warmed by hot-
air pipes.

The nun had a somewhat sinister face—so Mabel thought—but
she went immediately to.a cupboard, and brought forth a black
serge robe fastened round the waist with a girdle, a rosary, and
wooden cross, anda white flat cap. ;

Mabel hastily took off her hat, furred coat, and warm dr
velveteen, and equipped herself in the conyentual ga
thanked the nun, and asked to be conducted to the sick wat

The nun rang a bell, then opened the door, pointing fo rd
with her finger. Mabel went on. At the end of) the: passage she
was met by another nun, who conducted, her through numerous
passages up a stair-case, along sundry corridors, and at length,
pushing open a door, ushered her into a Jarge room.

Mabel almost sank to the ground; she caught at a doorway for
support. The fetid odor of the sick ward was terrible and sicken-
ing through the scent of vinegar and hot rags.. Nuns and doctors
and some ladies in fashionable attire were busied about the beds
where lay about fifty patients. These beds were arranged in two
rows of twenty-five on each side.. Many of .the patients were
groaning fearfully. Mastering her weakness by a supreme effort
of her will, Mabel tottered forward. Doctor Mansfield adtanced
to meet her, and grasped her hand in both his own, «|.

“We have extracted the ball,” he said, ‘I belieye, with Heay-
en’s help, your friend will live,” ~ :

He drew her arm within his, and brought her to a stand before
& small white bed, whereon lay Gustave de POrme, still un-
conscious. The ball had been extracted, the wound bound up,
Gustave lay like a statue of death.

* “fs there any hope?” faltered Mabel, turning toward the doctor,

“With care, and the blessing of Heaven, every hope,” answered
Doctor Mansfield. ‘‘When he opens his eyes and recovers con-
sciousnéss, which he will do presently, give him that cordial. If
there be any chance that he will become excited when he sees you
near him, conceal your identity.” :

With this triendly hint the doctor left Mabel. Oh! the dreary
days and nights of watching that followed, while Gustave de
V’Orme seemed to be restlessly tossing between the eddies of the
river of life and the ocean of eternity.

Mabel concealed her identity from him carefully. What made
it painful was that she W&s compelled to attend to other patients.
Some she saw die before her eyes; others she had the satisfaction
ot nursing back to life. But then she had the fear while thus em-
ployed that hamds less tender than her own were busied about the
yedside of Gustave. This, however, only made her redouble her
own efforts to give comfort and solace to those whom she was as-
sisting to nurse, in the full hope and faith that the measure she
gave to others would be meted out to Gustave. She had her own
little bed in a long room, where.there were a number of others
occupied by the nurses. She seldom lay down to sleep, however;
when she did it was in the day-time, until at length she began to
Jook worn and ill.

Madame St. Pierre brought her some clothing and whatevet else
she wanted. She told her the countess received the news of her
engagement to the Count de ’Orme and of her self-imposed duties
with a placid good nature.

“What did Madame Maisonette say??? Mabel demanded, to
er Madame St. Pierre replied that she had not seen the house-

ceeper.

Days ran into weeks, and Gustave came back partially to con-
sciousness as the fever left him, but still he had not veeognized
Mabel. One day she sat by his side; she had been placing cool
bandages to his burning brow. He made some sign, and she said,
soitly: ‘Are you thirsty?”

Something in the English accent must have struck him, for he
started up, he peered into her eyes.

“Lie down,” she said to him softly, in French.

Then he answered her.

“Mabel, Mabel!” he exclaimed. ‘It must be Mabel!”

“Calin yourself,” she said. ‘Your life depends on being calm.”

From that day the recovery of Gustave was rapid. He was soon
pronounced convalescent; out of danger; fit to ieave the hospital.

Passionate vows he uttered and reiterated to Mabel. “It was
time for herto leave now,” he said, He told her he had received
a wertaes sanction from his father, authorizing his marriage with
Mabel.

But Mabel refused to leave the hospital just then. She had be-
come so useful as a nurse, she said, that she would, at any rate,
complete the month-give a fortnight more of her time to the
good Doctor Mansfield and his patients; so Gustave, weak and
white, consented to leave the hospital and to return to his apurt-
menis in the Hotel des Forets, only he was to be permitted to call
upon Mabel once a day.

Great changes had come to pass during those weeks that Mabel
had spent in the hospital. Paris had capitulated; provisions were
pouring into the devoted city. Communication with the outer
world was again possible, and she began to expect news of her -
parents, and also of the parents of Gustave. Her spirit was light
and hopeful, although her flesh was weak, She sat once in the
gray dawning by the bedside of a lees atient, who had un-
dergone a painful operation while under chloroform.

The ward was mostly silent, save for the occasional moaning of
a sufferer; many of the nurses slept at their posts; then Mabel
heard a voice which she knew—the yoice of De Fourmentelle—
speaking in a rapid whisper.

The marguis, maimed for life, was yet on the high road to re-
covery. He had recognized Mabel at once in her nun’s dress, and
each time that she had performed any service for him he had
uttered words of bitterness and threatening. She listened nowy,
for she heard him mention her name,

“And,” he said, “she would triumph now if it were not for you,
Madame Maisonette.”

“It it were not for me!” replied the yoice of Madame Maison-
ette. ‘Her father has come into the title of baronet and all the
tortune of his brother. Heand his wife have been waiting out-
side Paris at Versailles during all the timewf the siege,, eager for
news of their child. As soon as the gates were opened they flew
to the house and asked for Madame la Roneeyille. At the public
office they received her address; they hastenéd to her house in the
Champs Elysees, and I received them.) When I heard that the
girl whom I hate more than Ido any one in the world was the
daughter of a baronet, and heiress to a large fortune, I could haye
bitten out my tongue for spite. So I told them she was dead and
buried. They nearly went mad with grief. The father has been
yery ill ever since; the mother attends to him. They have one or
two servants with them, and are staying at the Hotel Oxford.
Now what we have to do is to get rid of this girl before she knows
the news. I happened to hear that you were a patient in this
hospital, monsicur le marquis. I managed to get hired here asa
nurse, thinking that we might lay our heads together to some pur-
pose. Ihave set my whole heart and soul on the ruin of that
girl. I believe I shall become mad if I cannot earry it out,”

“Hush! do not speak so loudly,” cried the marquis; “you may
be overheard.” :

Then their voices dropped into a lower key, and Mabel lost the
details of their diabolical plot, whatever they were.

With the earliest beams of the sun, however, Mabel sought and
obtained permission to change her nun’s dress for her. ordinary
attire, and to quit the hospital. She hired a carriage, and was
driven at once to the Hotel Oxford.

The ecstatic rapture with which her appearance was greeted by
her parents can be more easily imagined than described.

An introduction followed to Gustave and to his parents; the lat-
ter were the most delightful people, the very noblest type of the
old French aristocracy.

It was arranged that the marriage of Gustave and Mabel should
take place in the spring, and when we last heard of Mabel and her
parents they were visiting in the South at the chateau of the count
and countess. Life is opening brightly for Mabel and Gustaye,

The Count de Ja Ronceyille returned unhurt from the war. The
bulk of his fortune was in reality untouched. .He is traveling
with his wife and children in Italy, and when peaceful times come
again for France the Chateau de la Roncéyille is to be furnished

resh,.

Monsieur and Madame St. Pierre have frankly accepted from
Sir Robert Carrington, Mabel’s father, the sum of a thousand
pounds as some mark of his gratitude for their kindness to his
daughter. This will in some degree indemnify them for their
losses by the war.

The exciting events of the last twelve months completely turned
the brain of the malicious Madame Maisonette, and she is now the
inmate of a lunatic asylum.

De Fourmentelle, completely ruined in fortune and shattered
in body, is ekeing out 2 miserable existence at the German
gaming-tables. His jealous wife is now completely set against
him, and refuses him al! pecuniary assistance.

THE END,

 
  
  

 

 

 

  
  

 

 

 

 

 
 
  

 

 

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5 mt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. a>

 

AN OLD MAN'S DREAM.

BY J. W. GUIDER.

 

 

An old man sat before the fire,
On a windy winter’s night,

And dreamed of the time in the “long ago,”
When his life was young and bright.

He dreams that he stands at the altar now,
With the loved one by his side,

And whispers the words of the marriage vow
In the ear of his fair young bride.

And now they are wandering happily,
As they did in the “long ago;”

He does not think she has slept for years
Where in summer the violets grow.

And so it was as he dreamed that night—
Cold-handed messenger, Death,

Came in at the chime of the midnight hour,
And silenced his struggling breath.

And his sou! passed in at Heaven’s gate,
Where his loved ones passed before,

And, lo! they have met on the Plains of Peace,
Where sorrow is known no more!

They found him dead when the morning dawned,
And they said, “‘It is well he sleeps!

For we know that his name is written down
In the book that the angel keeps.”

They bore him forth, and the drfted snow
Was cleared from the frozen plain,

Where, years ago, in her grave robes clad,
His beautiful bride was lain.

And, lo! as they hollowed the narrow bed,
The sunlight around it shone;

And they said “ ’Tis a sign that in peace they rest,
Till the trump for the just is blown.”

-e<

LOVE vs. PRACTICAL JOKES.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

 

“Didn't I tell you to beware of him!’’ said Ralph Ayres,
with a nod and a twinkle of the eyes, and a solemn shake
of the head.

Mary Brooks looked first at Ralph, and then at the tab-
leau at the other end of the depot; the crowded depot, full
of hurrying men and behind-hand women, and children
scrambling round under foot, and old ladies with baskets
that were chronigally in every body’s way.

“But Ralph,’’ said Miss Brooks, ‘‘do you mean——”?

*¥ mean,’’ interrupted Mr. Ayres, impressively, ‘‘that
seeing is believing. Now are you convinced ?”’

Mary Brooks could not but be convinced—for from her
safe nook she had a full and complete view of Charley
Thayer, sitting by the side of a pretty young matron, and
himself dancing a white-headed baby up and down in his
arms.

‘Don’t he make a nice family man ?”’ said Ayres, gravely.
“‘And to think he could leave that pretty wife to flirt with
young girls like you, Mary. I really think you’ve been
very much to blame.”’

“But I did not know,’ cried Mary, flushing up to the
roots of her shining brown hair. ‘I never suspected that

“Didn't [ tell you he was a gay deceiver ?”

‘You are always joking,’’ burst out Mary, passionately.
“TY nevyerknow whether you are in jest or in earnest.
Take me on board the cars, please.’’

‘You wont stop and speak to him?’

“No, certainly not.’’

Mary Brooks drew down her blue tissue vail, and nest-
led resolutely into a corner of the seat, while Ayres went
to get her ticket, She was a slender, pretty girl with deep
brown eyes, a complexion like a bunch ofclove-pinks, and
a sweet, fresh mouth with dimples at its corner—and now,
with the angry tears shining in her eyes, and the crimson
spots on her cheeks, there was something of the tragic
elements in her beauty.

Meanwhile Mr. Thayer put the baby back into its moth-
er’s arms. ;

“It’s time Geoffrey was here,’ he said, referring to his
watch; and almost in the same instant a stalwart, fine-
looking young fellow strode up to the little group.

“Much obliged to you, Charley!’ hesaid: ‘‘Come, Bes-
sy, give me the chick!’

“You'll go with us, Charley ?”’ said the blooming young
matron.

“No, I believe not,’’ said Charley, with some confusion.
‘“J—I expected to see a young lady here.”

“Ah!” said Bessy, knowingly. “IS"it that pretty Miss
Brooks? Come, Charley, you might take your sister into
your confidence!’

“Unfortunately, I have nothing to confide,’? said Mr.
Thayer, with a grimace. ‘“Good-by, Bessy! Good-by,
Geoffrey! Good-by, chickie! It’s a fine baby, Geoff.; but
all the same, I’m glad I’m not you, traveling with an in-
cumbrance like that.”

“It’s all envy, old fellow,’ said Mr. Geoffrey Glenn, con-
tentedly balancing the crowing baby on his shoulder; as if
it had been a paper parcel.

After they were gone, Charley Thayer walked up and
down the depot, taking a keen survey of everything in the
shape feminine that entered, and keeping a sharp watch
on the various doors; but allin vain.

“She must have changed her mind,” he thought to him-
self. ‘Well, at allevents, I shall have one more evening
with her if she has not left town, after all.’’

The train had swept out of the depot, car after car
rounding the curve with its living freight of hopes and
fears, grief and happiness, when Mr. Thayer nearly
stumbled over Ralph Ayres.

‘“Hallo!’? he cried, cheerily.
seen Miss Brooks ?”’

“Yes; she has just gone.”’

“Gone! Why did I not see her?’

“Well, I can’t exactly say,’’ said Ayres, coolly, ‘‘as ’m
not accountable for the way in which you manage your
eyes.’

“Very strange,’’ said Thayer, jerking abstractedly at
his mustache. .

“Very, soberly returned Ayres.
of world that we livein.” =

“She said she would meet me here,’’ went on Thayer.
“JT don’t understand it.’ ;

‘“‘My dear fellow,’ ejaculated Ayres, ‘‘who among us
can pretend to understand a woman. They are fearfully
and wonderfully made, and that’s just the long and the
short of it. Will you have a cigar?”

Thayer thanked him, and declined—he preferred that
solitude which is said sometimes to be the best society.

“What a joke,’? thought Ayres, mentally hugging him-
self, ashe went home. ‘I didn’t for an instant think she
would believe me. It’s almost too good to keep to my-
self, butif Isaid a word the fun would all be up. To
think that she believes Charles Thayer has got a wife and
child all the time that he’s been making such red-hot love
to her—it’s too good.”’

And Ayres stopped in the middle of the street to laugh
so heartily that a policeman eyed him distrustfully, and
two little boarding school misses ran breathlessly past
him under the full impression that he was that bugbear
of their youthful fears, ‘‘a drunken man.”

Meanwhile the unconscious victim of this very facetious
‘practical joke’’ was in his own room, tasking his imagi-
nation to the utmost to think what he should write to
pretty Mary Brooks.

‘For, of course,” he told himself, ‘I must write to her and
apologize for my stupidity in not seeing her. It’s all my
fault—I should have left Bessy to look after herself, but
what is a fellow to do when his brother-in-law asks him
to hold the baby halfa minute while he goes out to get
the tickets and the evening papers? Moral—don’t be too
good-natured, or people will be sure to take advantage of
you.

And Charles Thayer took a monogram sheet of paper,
opened his standish of violet ink, and dipped his gold pen
solemnly into its purple depths.

If Mary Brooks had only known what trouble it cost
him to compose that simple little epistle! A job of wood-
sawing would have been easier, and he could have played
half-a-dozen games of croquet, or billiards, in the time it
took him to express his ideas on that one sheet of paper
with the monogram ‘‘C. T.’’ on the top.

Miss Brooks was sitting at her needle-work on the cool
front piazza, where various erratic robins were darting in
and out of the crimson-dotted cherry trees, and the scent
of new-mown hay was borne in on every breeze, when
her little sister Nelly brought her the letter from the post
office—the letter on which Mr. Thayer had superscribed
‘‘Miss Mary Brooks’' with so many heart-palpitations.

Mary read it all through—the carefully turned sentences,
the studied phrases, the chosen words in which Charles
Thayer had told her of his love, and asked her to become
his wife. And then she tore the epistle deliberately in
two and began to cry. ;

“Mary 1 Why, sister Mary !’’ cried the astonished child,
‘owhat’s the matter???

' And Mary answered, ‘‘Nothing !’’ and then cried more
passionately than ever.

_“To think of his daring to insult me so!” she sobbed;
“put J will answer the letter! Yes, he shall know my
opinion of him !””

_ Her reply was short, but not sweet.
it ran: -

“MR. THAYER:—Perhaps my best method of resenting
your gratuitous insult would be to send the letter you
dared to write, to your wive. Isaw you with her at the
depot the day I left New York, and comprehended at once
the full villainy of your character. Pray, do not trouble
yourself to respond to this note.

“Yours, in anger and contempt,
“MARY BROOKS.”?

The paper dropped from Charles Thayer’s nerveless fin-
gers as he read the curt, cruel words. :

“What on earth does she mean?’ he asked himself,.
sorely bewildered. ‘My wife—the villainy of my charac-
ter! What can have put it into her head that Bessy was
my wife? By all the fates, I’ll go to her, and at least de-
rage hs as aman should who has been unjustly at-

Red.’

Mr. Thayer was not a man to let the grass grow under
his feet, when he had once made up his mind, as to a cer-
tain plan of action—and Mary Brooks was sewing on the
piazza, the third day after she haa dispatched her wither-
ing missive, when the garden gate swung on its hinges
sth a little ‘‘click,’? and Mr. Charles Thayer confronted

‘You here? Have you

“This is a strange sort

This was the way

 

Mary rose up, coloring, stately, and withal, most provok-
ingly pretty. 5

“fam ata loss, Mr. Thayer, to conjecture how you dare
present yourself before me!’’ :

‘Because,’ Charley answered doggedly, “I have aright
to defend myself!” [ ;

“You had better defend yourself to your wife, sir,’’ our
heroine retorted.

“But [haven't any wife!” j

“I know better!’ cried Mary, with a choked voice.
‘Have Inot seen her with my own eyes?”’

“You can’t see what does not exist!’ persisted Charley,
taking his stand upon indisputable facts.

“Who was the lady with you at the depot?” interrogated
Miss Brooks.

‘My sister, Mrs. Glenn, whom I shall be happy to intro-
duce to you, if——”’

“Stop a minute,’’ pleaded Mary, putting her hand to
her forehead. ‘Your sister! Mr. Ayres——”’

“Mr. Ayres!” repeated Thayer. ‘‘Did he dare to tell
you that—that—”’

‘He told me nothing,’? Mary answered, ‘‘but he let me
infer that you were a married man, and that your wife
and child were with youat that moment. I ought to have
known better than to believe him. I—I beg your pardon,
Mr. Thayer!”’ ; ‘

She looked up with flushed cheeks and humid eyes into
the face of the man whom she knew she had wronged so
cruelly.

“Will you pardon me?’ she asked again.
so rash—so wrong!’

“On one condition I will pardon you,’’ he said, boldly.
‘If I give you my forgiveness, you must give me—your
heart!’

And Miss Mary Brooks surrendered on those terms.

Mr. Ayres was genuinely sorry, when he heard how
much mischief his little ‘‘practical joke’’ had done.

“Upon my word I didn’t mean it!’’ he said, earnestly.
“I only wanted a little fun. I meant to have told her the
truth, after a little. But it was such a good joke!”’ :

So it was; but it had come uncomfortably near being
something else.

“T have been

LIFE
SKETCHES OF DAVID CUMMIDGE:
Pioneer, Hunter, and Indian Slayer.

BY M. SILINGSBY.

Sketch X.—The Night Visitors Defeated.

The next moment the Penacook was dragged, strug-
gling desperately, over into the inclosure; but so firm a
grip had Powtan taken upon his throat that he found it
impossible to utter any sound sufficiently loud or distinct
to give warning to his companions. Wyatan laid his mus-
ket against the snow embankment, and drawing his long
hunting-knife, he leaped forward to the struggling Pena-
cook, and plunged it into his throat and breast. There
was a faint, gurgling sound, a spasm, a shiver, and a
straightening out of the limbs, and the spirit of the savage
passed away into the happy hunting-ground.

Wyatan returned to his post as coolly as if nothing trag-
ical had happened, and resuming his musket, he calmly
awaited the onset of the rest. It was evident they were
not yet apprised of the fate of their companion; but hay-
ing seen him disappear over the snow barrier at the time
that Powtan caught him by the throat and dragged him
into the inclosure, they were now anxiously awaiting his
reappearance.

Not seeing any sign of his returning, the circumstance
seemed to excite curiosity rather than fear, for another
one started stealthily in the direction of the snow en-
trenchment, leaving the rest of the party huddled together
as before.

Powtan, fromhis point of observation, watched him
narrowly as he approached, every thew, and sinew, and
muscle in his lank, wolfish body strained to its utmost ten-
sion, and ready to make the fatal spring the moment the
hideously painted Penacook protruded his ugly face over
the snow barrier. Onward he crept with that caution
which is an unerring instinct or trait in the aboriginal
character, thrusting his long neck forward, and trying to
peer through the dim portholes in the upper wall of snow,
but without seeming as yet to have made any satisfacto-
ry discovery, hestill continued on in his stealthy advance,
coming nearer and nearer, and growing more and more
watchful at every step, as though determined not to be
surprised by any cunning foe who might be lurking in the
rear of this novel breastwork, till he came to the barrier,
and placed his hand on the thick wall ofsnow. Then he
began to stretch up on tip-toe, and reach over; but before
he could obtain a clear view of the interior, Powtan had
made his second flying leap through the air, fastening like ’
a vise upon his dusky throat.

The next moment he was dragged over, struggling, but
unable to give the alarm to his fellows, in consequence of
the firm, unyieiding grip fastened upon him. Wyatan
sprang forward as before, and the next moment the fatal
knife performed its deadly mission. So silently was the
death-blow dealt to this second prying intruder, that noth-
ing was heard save the spasmodic death-rattle, and that
was so faint and uncertain as not to be audible outside
theinclosure. The war party, now reduced to eight, with
the cowardly Sagawam skulking in the rear, were still
huddled together in the same spot, anxiously awaiting the
return of their second emissary, whom they had seen dis-
appearing over the snow barrier in the same sudden and
mysterious manner as the first.

They waited full five minutes without making any sign
or movement, but at length it was to be seen from their
actions that they were growing impatient and uneasy at
the delay.

A low, muttered conference ensued, accompanied by
eager looks and rapid gesticulations, which showed that

 

 

 

 

and leaping up wildly in the air, fell forward on his face,
where he lay motionless, and to all appearances, as dead
as those lying within the inclosure.

The next moment, the musket of Wyatan belched forth
its volume of flame and smoke, and the leaden messenger
sped on its fearful errand of death, singling out one of the
remaining five. Seeing how things were liable to turn,
Sagawam, who had been skulking in the rear of the
party, now beat a precipitate retreat, leaving only three
standing out of the ten who had advanced so confidently
from the lake not a half an hour before—advanced with
their fiendish hearts ripe for the cold-blooded murder of
an innocent family; but the good Father who watches
over the weak and helpless, had seen fit to visit upon
them His direst vengeance, using the noble-hearted chief
as a humble but fitting instrument for their chastisement.

“Guy? it to ’em, dad!’ shouted Davie, who found it im-
possible longer to restrain his boyish exultation. ‘I hope
you'll bore daylight through the hull on ’em—lI do, by
Jerusalem grundy! Guy’ it to ’em! guv’ it to ’em!”

Ezekiel, being the last one to regain possession of his
musket, had necessarily reserved his fire till the last.

“Guy? it to ’em, dad! Don’t miss your aim! Punch
daylight through the warmints!’’

In the meantime, while giving utterance to these tri-
umphant exclamations, Davie had been loading with the
greatest celerity, while Wyatan, with still more rapid
movements was following his example.

The three Penacooks, perceiving the abrupt flight of
Sagawam, and attributing it to his superior knowledge of
the strength of their opponents, were suddenly panic-
stricken, and turned to fly just as Ezekiel was sighting
through the port-hole, and Davie was cheering him on
with his encouraging shouts. Ezekiel was an excellent
shot, and whenthe old queen’s arm spoke, the savage
he had singled out, dropped.

‘Well done, dad! I thought you’d foutch him—I did,
by grundy! Here goes fur another of the warmints!’’

And as he concluded, his musket rang out a second
time on the still night air.

His last attempt, however, was not as successful as the
first, for the two Penacooks and Sagawam still continued
their flight, without exhibiting any signs of being hit.
Wyatan discharged his piece also, but the distance was
so great, that he met with no better success than Davie.
The consequence was the last two of the Penacooks, with
Sagawam—the base coward and traitor—effected their
escape.

   

gal for about six months, and one day I found myself in
that section, and I thought that I would go round and
give her a call. Sol turned my steps that way, and arter
a time came in sight of the cabin.

“J didn’t like the looks of things the moment I set my
eyes on it. Thar warnt no smoke curling from its chim-
ney, and I couldn’t get a glimpse of Old Ben ‘or his darter
anywhere. I don’t know hardly what made me feel so,
but my heart sank clear down almost into my boots, for
something seemed to tell me that thar was trouble there.

“T hurried on to the cabin. The door was standing
open, and the first look I giv inside almost knocked me
down.

“There lay old Ben stone dead upon the floor, witha
great puddle of blood around his head. The red-skins had
killed him in his own cabin, tore off his scalp, and had
gone.

“But old Ben had died game. Two of the red-skins lay
on the floor, keeping him company, with daylight let
through ’em.

“J was almost afraid to look round for fear that I should
see his gal Bessie lying thar too, but she warn’t; and when
I had looked at the trail awhile I discovered that they had
carried her off.

“The minute I was sure of this, I knowed who it was
that had done the deed.

“It was a young chief who I knew had a hankering
arter her, and who she had more than once sent about his
business.

“T seemed to know the whole then jest as well as I did
arterwards, and then I made a vow that Sam Willis would
go under for good and all if he didn’t bring Bessie back,
and avenge her old father, who had died fighting like a
hero.

“T was alone, andI knowed thatI couldnt’t do much
unless I fooled them in same way.

“T puzzled my head for a minute, and then I made up
my mind what I would do.

“T went back into the cabin, and the first thing I did
thar was to peel off my clothes to the skin. Then I done
the same to the dead savage who was nearest my size,
and then.rigged myself out in his toggery ’till I looked like
a pretty good Ingin.

“Then I searched his pockets and found his war-paint,
and stood up to the little glass whar I had seen Bessie
stand so many times tying her ribbons, and fixing her
hair, and here I daubed on the pigment till thar warn’t
one ina hundred who would have known me.

 

“They no come back any More to-night. Got all they

— , \
ug

want me guess, for spell,** said Wyatan, with his old im-
perturbable gravity. : ’

“We won’t bother to bury the dead skunks before
morning; angé then we can’t only cover them with snow,
which is a purer covering than sich blood-thirsty rascals
deserve!’ declared Ezekiel. ;

Powtan, who seemed aware as soon as any of them,
that silence was noe longer essential to their safety, was
growling, and‘mounching and tearing viciously at the
throat of his last victim, who still seemed to have a spark
of life remaining, to judge from his feeble struggles.

This sudden demonstration of his canine nature instant-

 

 

the war party were discussing the feasibility of some
question of great importance, in which they were not fully
agreed. Wyatan listened attentively, but the distance
was so great that he could glean no positive intelligence
from what they were saying. They were evidently striving
to draw some conclusion as to the strange and mysterious
detention of their two companions, and carefully consid-
ering how they should make their next offensive move—
whether it should be of a strategic character, or a grand
coup-de-main upon the frail breastwork of snow.

The palaver wasof short duration, lastmg no more
than three or five minutes, when it became evident from
their less excited gestures and movements that they had
at length settled upon some plan of attack which had hap-
pily met with their general approval.

Three of the party now stepped forward from the main
body, and cautiously advanced upon three different points
of the defense at once.

Comprehending the object of the movement at a glance,
Wyatan laid down his musket near the port-hole where he
had taken up his station after dispatching Penacook No.
2, and toward which Penacook No. 3 was now stealthily
advancing, and with the long, deadly knife firmly clutched
in his hand, he cautiously glided up to the side of Ezekiel.

“Lay down musket, take up ax,’ said Wyatan, in a
subdued whisper. ‘‘No waste powder yet—need him
great deal moresoon. When you see Penacook stretch
out his neck and look over, strike him quick. He no talk
much after that. Powtan he catch one; me kill t’other.
Then we grab up musket and shoot more. Davie shoot
one, you shoot one, me shoot one—then only two left.
They run quick ’fore we shoot them, too !”’

And Wyatan glided back again to his defense.

In the meantime the three painted devils were making
Stealthily as carrion jackals to their given points, and had
now arrived within twenty feet of the surrounding em-
bankment. A dead silence now reigned within the in-
closure. Powtan was glaring like a demon through his
port-hole, while near him lay the two ghastly, upturned
faces of his victims. He was spoiling, now, for a death-
grapple with the third. Davie stood, musket in hand, im-
patient of the delay, butfully determined to restrain his
plucky impetuosity, and obey the chief's orders, though
4 felt he was not yet getting his desired share of the
glories.

Ezekiel had dropped his musket and grasped the ax, ac-
cording to the hurried instructions of Wyatan; and there
he stood with every fiberand muscle in his powerful
frame strained and swelling; eyes protruding and gleam-
ing through the darkness like some startled beast of prey,
maddened by unwelcome intrusion, and ready to strike
home the death-dealing blow. Wyatan crouched under
the shadow of the snowy embankment like some deadly
assassin, his long, murderous knife gleaming in the cold
dim starlight, and ready to spring upon the unconscious
victim he had singled out, the moment that his plumed
head should protrude over the frail barrier that now
scarcely more than separated them. It was a moment of
intense anxiety to the three heroic defenders within the
inclosure.

When the three savages reached the wallof the em-

bankment, which was about five feetand a half above
the surface level, they all stopped for a moment, asif by
a preconcerted plan, and listened attentively.
_ Hearing not the faintest breath or movement within the
inclosure, which might goto establish the existence or
presence of a lurking foe, the one nearest to Wyatan ad-
vanced a step and laid his hand on the wall of snow.

Cautiously he raised himself up and peered over—or es-

sayed to do so; but simultaneous with the movement,
Wyatan sprang forward from the shelter of his cover, and
grasping his enemy by the throat, dragged him over and
plunged his knife thrice into his bosom. His attack had
been as rapid almost as the lightning’s flash, but his hold
had not been so firm as to prevent him from uttering a
faint cry of alarm, which was silenced by death the suc-
ceeding moment.
_ Startled by the cry, the other two sprang forward—one
in season to spring back and avoid the terrific blow aimed
at his skull by Ezekiel, and which clove its way com-
pletely through three feet of the solid snow barrier, hard-
ened already almost to the consistency of ice under the
frigid manipulations of the frost. But the third was less
fortunate than the second, for Powtan, more rapid and
unerring in his movements than Ezekiel, pinned his vic-
timashe had the two former ones, and dragged him
floundering and strangling into the fatal inclosure.

No sooner had the second recovered his equilibrium
after dodging the terrific blow levelled at him by the set-
tler, than he set up a wild, unearthly howl of terror, and
retreated back with flying bounds in the direction of his
astonished companions.

“Now, all ready—fire!’? cried Wyatan, levelling his
musket as he spoke. Ezekiel, at the word of command,
dropped his ax and caught up his gun just as Davie,
eagerly on the lookout for permission, blazed away at the
retreating fugitive.

The aim of our youthful hero was as sure as when he
dropped the Norridgewock at the time of his retreat on
the occasion of the moose hunt.

 

The Penacook uttered one piercing, agonized screech,

and nothin’ short.”
‘the dog.

ly attracted the attention of the party to the prostrate and
wounded savage. His threat was horribly mangled by
the sharp teeth of the remorseiess animal, and for several
feet surrounding the spot where he lay, the snow was
reddened with his blood.

He was still alive, though his resistance was very feeble.
A few moments more would have been sufficient to render
life extinct, under such rough usage’as he was now ex-
periencing.

Wyatan seized the ax, and would have terminated his
existence on the spot, had not Ezekiel interfered.

 

 

“No, my friend,’’ he said, laying his hand firmly on the
uplifted arm of the chief, ‘‘we must spare the onmerciful
wretch, though he don't deserve it—nor nobody else that
will connive to murder an innocent family that never did
’em any harm; but to kill him now, when he ain’t in no
way able to defend himself, would be downright murder,

Wyatan reluctantly lowered the ax, and called away

“Come, Powtan, we no kill him.
squaw of a Penacook live!”’

But in spite of his magnanimity, Wyatan could not re-
sist the temptation which prompted him to bestow upon
the hideously painted wretch two or three sound kicks. |

“Serve you right, me scalp you ina minute. Come to
kill little Snow-drop, eh??? And the chief gave him a
parting punch in the ribs as he concluded.

Leaving him for the present in his mutilated and help-
less condition, they cut a passage through the temporary
breastwork, and dragged the remains of the other three
savages within the inclosure. They then filled up the gap
to keep out the wolves, and carried the wounded Pena-
cook down into the cabin, where, with the assistance of
Margery, after lighting a candle, they set about dressing
his wounds. With the stoppage of blood he rapidly re-
vived, and they stowed him away. for the night in one
corner of the cabin. The family soon after retired, leay-
ing Wyatan, at his own request, to watch by the fire.

—_——_>-20-+___—

THE most adroit rascal of the age is boldly sketched in
the story of “THE ARCH-PLOTTER.”’ Read it, and you
will be deeply interested in the ingenious plots and coun-
terplots of the strange characters who figure in this life-

like romance.

THE PAINTED SCOUT;

OR,
SAM WILLIS’ STRATAGEM.
BY DUKE CUYLER.

Let the cowardly

 

 

 

“Give us a story, Sam.’’

The one addressed slowly took his pipe from his mouth
and knocked the ashes from the bow! against the log on
which he was sitting.

“Well, boys, I don’t keer if I do. What shall it be
about?’ t
- “Let it be one of your adventures, Sam. You must
have had lots of them in the twenty years you have spent
on the plains, following the life of hunter and scout.”

“You are right, youngster. Ihave had lots of ’em, and
the time has been when it seemed as though Sam Willis
had got nigh through with things in these parts, and was
about to be sent scouting down the Dark River. The
redskins and I can’t agreed well together, for more’n
twenty years, and I don’t ’spect we shall make up so long
as there is breathin my body. I’ve fixed the flint ofa
good many of ’em, and they’ve tried times enough to pay
me back. OnceI thought they had ’bout settled off the
score—the time they got my wife into thar clutches.”

“How was that, Sam?’

“That is the very story I was going to tellye. Heapa
little more brush on the fire, so that we shall be comforta-
ble, and you shall hear about it.’

Sam slipped from his seat to the earth, and with his
feet stretched out to the fire and his back against the log,
he began:

“J sed the redskins carried off my wife once, but it
wan’t hardly so. She and I hadn’t gone into partnership
then, though we had been talking about it off an’ on for
something like six months. She was old Ben Hamlin’s
darter, and a prettier gal that wan’t this side of the Big
River than she, evenifIdo sayit. Ben’s cabin stood
alone by the river, and his galkeptitforhim. They wan’t
troubled much with company, for there wan’t another
cabin within a dozen miles; so all they seed was a chap
like me now and then, besides the red-skins, who were as
thick as fleas in them parts. I used to be afraid that old
Ben would have trouble with ’em sometime, but he man-
aged ’em pretty well, and many’s the time I’ve heard
him say that he wan’t afraid of all thar was atwixt him
and the Rockies. I don’t think he was, but it don’t stand
because a man is brave that he’s going to keep out of trou-
ble always.

jump.

‘Had any one happened along just then, I should have

\

 

 

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

(The answers to all questions of the nature of recipes and rem-
edies, will be found in the department headed “Our Knowled
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 ppprecert will be answered in the department headed ‘‘Per-
sonal.

 

4a GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Bro. John.—The distance at which an object can be seen on or
above the surface of the water depends on its hight or the eleva-
tion of the point of view. From an elevation of ten feet an object
can be seen on the surface of the water at a distance of 4 18-100
miles; from a point sixty feet high the same object may be seen
at a distance of 10 25-100 miles, To ascertain the distance from
which an object sixty feet high may be seen from an elevation of
ten feet, add the two distances together, and the result will be
14 43-100 miles. The problem will be found worked out for vari-
ous hights and distances in Table 10 of “Bowditch’s Navigator.”
-.. . 4 Reader.—If the deed stipulates that no store or saloon
shall be built on the premises, and the purchaser buys it with this
understanding, notwithstanding it is his own property, he may
be held to the agreement. Property is frequently sold in this
way, With a desire to secure uniformity. Restrictions of this na-
ture are for the benefit of all concerned, and the law will compel
persons to conform to them...... Melancholy S. K.—You_ should
not have ceased your visits until you were assured by the lady
that she considered the engagement terminated. Her keeping
company with another gentleman is probably the result of your
conduct, and is intended merely to show you that she can exist
without your society. If you have reason to suppose you were
mistaken in your judgment of her feelings, request an interview,
and if an apology is necessary, make one...... Jownes.—No......
W. Henderson.—See “Knowledge MO 70. bhi 5 Horace Greeley.—
ist. Pennsylvania is called the Keystone State from its having
been the central State of the Union at the time of the formation
of the Constitution. If the names of the thirteen original States
are arranged in the form of an arch, Pennsylvania will occupy
the place of the keystone. 2d. Sir Walter Raleigh fitted out seye-
ral expeditions to America, and accompanied the first, which
failed to make a landing, and returned to England in 1579. Tn 1583
another was formed, but he was prevented from going by an acci-
dent. It reached Newfoundland, which was taken possession of in
Queen Elizabeth’s name. He shortly after fitted out a third expedi-
tion, under the command of Captains Amidas and Barlow, who
landed at North Carolina in 1584, and after exploring a considera-
ble section of country, returned to England, taking with them the
potato and tobacco, The region explored was called Virginia, in
honor of the queen, Several others were afterward sent to this
country, none of which Raleigh accompanied. In 159 he com-
manded an expedition which landed in Guiana, and explored a
considerable extent of country in the region of the Orinoco river.
This is the only record we have of Raleigh visiting America. 3d.
It depends altogether on the amount of exercise you haye taken.
You should commence with a small pair of dumb-bells, and grad-
ually increase the size as your muscle is developed..........
Cale Durg.—Iee was used by the ancient Greeks and Romans, who
boiled the water they wished to freeze, on the supposition that the
freedom from air caused it to congeal more readily..-... ........
Everybody's Fool.—\st. We are not responsible for the short-com-
ings of our advertisers, but are very careful to exclude anything
which has the appearance of an imposition. Occasionally, how-
ever, they are so worded as to deceive, and in the event of their
being detected, we order the advertisement out. For instance, a
valuable recipe is offered to persons sending a ten-cent stamp.

 

 

SY
\ WN
ISS

V,
iow

 

David Cummidge.—The attack of the Penacooks on the settlers.

pace aright smart chance of being shot down where I
stood.

“When I had got everything fixed to my mind, I took
old Ben carefully up and laid him on his bed and covered
up his face with the very quilt Bessie had made. Then I
went out and shut to the cabin door, that no wild beast
might go in, and I took the trail and started.

“It was about the middle of the afternoon then, and I
thought that the deed had been done abouf three hours
before. So they had that the start, but that didn’t dis-
courage me. I knowed that I could get over the ground
faster than they could, with Bessie with ’em, and then
there would be a moon that night, which would make it
almost as light as day.

“T tell you, boys, Idone some tall walkin’ that arter-
noon and night. I didn’t let the grass grow under my
feet, you can bet on that. I could think of nothin’ or no
one except Bessie. I never knowed till then how much I
sot by her.

“By-and-by the sun went down; then the moon rose,
and by its light I kept on the trail without a bit of trouble.

“Tf was aS much as an hour past midnight, I should
think, according to the moon, when I seed alight glim-
mering through a belt of trees that grew by the river.
Then I knowed that I was close by Bessie, and my heart
gin a great thump in my bosom.

“] walked straight up toward the light. I warn’t a bit
afraid of being found out, for it would have puzzled any-
body to have told me from a redskin.

“In a few minutes I was so close that I could see that
the light came from a camp-fire, and that there was a half
dozen savages lying about it. Then I caught a glimpse of
Bessie lying among ’em, and my heart gave another great

“7 stood still fora minute getting the lay of the land,
and then I went on agin.

The stamp is sent, and the return mail brings a letter to the effect
that the recipe will be forwarded on the receipt of $5, less the ten
cents previously sent. 2d. For a recipe to make vinegar, see
“Knowledge Box” in No. 40.......... J. R. Rowan.—We cannot
advertise dealers gratuitously.......... Fair Play.—Iif your letters
reached us, the questions were noticed in this or one of the other
departments. The signatures are merely used as distinguishing
titles, and no significance is attached thereto. Repeat the ques-
tions and we will answer them if in our power.........--. Knight.
—ist.. Quixote is pronounced ke-ho-ta, the accent on the second
syllable. 2d. Yes, but rather large..........Ned.—There are sey-
eral publications devoted to miscellaneous reading for children.
It is a matter of opinion which is the best..... :....Thomas.—The
Knights of Pythias are a separate and distinct organization, and
in no way connected with Freemasonry or any other secret society.
The order is of comparative recent formation, and we think orig-
inated in Washington, D. C. It is merely aseecret organization
in which the members are banded together for mutualaid. The
name signifies the strength of the bond............ Elah.—lst. We
do not know the date. Seethe head of the paper. 2d. The cham-
pionship was not allowed as it was understood one of the games
was merely an exhibition............ R. H. G.—We cannot say....
Ladies of Mt. Pleasant.—We will make the suggestion, but we
hardly think she will sit for the picture.......... John Knox.—\st.
“The Old Lady of Threadneedle street”’ is a cant name in London
for the Bank of England, which is situated in the street named.
2d. The Hague street explosion oceurred on the morning of Feb.
, 1860...............DMike.—See “Knowledge Box.”’........:........
Tom Wayne.—Apply to a dealer in lamps, etc............ D. Marsh.
—We do not know where you can purchase puppets...............
E. H. McMullin.—1st. Please inform us why the address was sent,
as your former communication has escaped our memory. 2d.
Goethe is pronounced geteh, the o haying the sound of ein her.
M. Casey.—History says that the Princess of Eboli

died in ‘prison. Straw bail was not somuch in yoguein those

days as at present....-....... Mrs. E. B. F.—The poem will appear
in the course of time, but it is impossible to say when............
Hazel-Eye.—It is a different individual.......... Ferug.—lst. A

common school arithmetic is all you require. 2d. The offer isa
good one, and you should accept it, if the business will warrant a
support for two............ Auburn Hair.—We cannot advise you,
as we know nothing of your abilities.......... Troy.—\st. You
would find it very difficult to master French pronunciation with-
out aeacher. 2d. Yes............ c.& A. H.—Itis not intended
for publication.......... E. R. M. & Co.—We have not the space
to-publish the titles of stories which have been printed in the NEw
WORK WEEKLY............ Mioma.—ist. For the first effort it is
fair. 2d. See “Knowledge Box.”? 3d. Good............ H. Badger.
—New York, has a population of 942,292. The next largest cities
follow in respective order: Philadelphia, 674,022; Brooklyn, 396,-
300; St. Louis, 312,962; Chicago, 298,983; Baltimore, 267,354; Bos-
ton, 250,526; Cincinnati, 216,239: New Orleans, 191,322; San Fran-
cisco, 149,482, etc.....-...... Cohn.—We have no record of the oc-
Curence...55.08564 Constant Subscriver.—lst. The article was omit-
ted from a press of other matter. 2d. We are not at liberty to
give the name.......... Clermont Milis.—lst. Neither phrase is
correct, as the verb am signifies the present tense. In writing to
your family the proper way to announce the date of your inténd-
ed arrival, would be, “I will be home on the 10th,” or, “I shall
come home on the 10th.” The use of the word “‘come”’ is allowed
in cases of this kind, although in speaking to a ee at the place
where you are staying you would -say, “I shall go home on the
10th.” W. S. W.—Headley’s work on heraldry and tamily
crests does not contain the name.......... Kek Vorse.—ist. Squir-
rels feed on nuts and acorns, pine cones, green corn, buds and
roots. 2d. We cannot say....Mike.—See reply to ‘‘Buridan.’’....
Bell E. De Liile.—The portrait of: Ned Buntline in No. 37 is an ac-
curate likeness, drawn and engraved by the best artists in the
country from a photograph taken expressly for the purpose......
H. S. M.—As the lady’s mother has known of the engagement ever
since it existed, and gave a tacit consent to it, you have a right to
demand from her the grounds of her sudden opposition to her
ay keeping company with you. If she can _ assign no rea-
son for it, it would be best to have an understanding with your
affianced that as soon as she is of legal age she shall choose be-
tween you—whether the marriage ceremony shall be performed,
or she shall abide by the wishes of her mother... .Zizzie Merrill.—
We sympathize with you sincerely in the death of your brother, °
and all the more because the event was so sudden. Though it is
very hard to lose your little playmate, it should be a comfort to
you to know that he is spared the trials, and pains, and tempta-
tions of this life, and that he is nowan angel in Heaven, where
you may meet him in the hereafter if you are a good little girl.
The Lord knows what is best for us, and His taking Frankie is an
indication of his affection for you, for ‘the Lord loveth whom he
chasteneth.”” By this means He also turns our thoughts heayen-
ward, for where all is pleasantness, and we experience no crosses
and no trials, we are apt to forget where all our good things come
from, and consequently do not appreciate His blessings and mer-
cies as we Should. Remember that God cannot err—He doeth all
things well—and the brief parting will not seem so bitter......
S. H. P.—We do not know of any company of the kind. Write to
the Scientific American......1 Mehitable Cartwright.—\st. Probably
there were too many apprentices in the office. You shouldtry
another establishment. 2d. You cannot join the Union until you
are twenty-one years-of age. 3d. Charles Mackay, the English
author and poet, is a resident of England, we think. He has pub-
lished several volumes of poems, which may be procured through
the American News Co. He was bornin Perth, England, in 1812,
and has been engaged in literary labors most of his life, either as

 

“Thar was one redskin leanin’ agin a tree, keepin’
rh and I made up my mind to pay my tention to him

rst.

“Thar was no way but to go up boldly, so I marched on,
doing my best to walk like an Ingin.

“He didn’t see me till I was close to him, and then he
sed something in his lingo that I didn’t understand.

“TJ made no answer, but pinted out to where Bessie was
lying, and then back over my shoulder.

‘He looked first at her and then back the way I had
come; and then I seed was my chance.

“Quick as thought I hit him a blow with the butt of my
rifle, and he went down likealog. I whipped out my
knife to finish him, but I seed that thar wan’t no need of
using it, so [turned to where Bessie was.

‘“7] knew that she must be awake, though she did not
stir; but the rest of ’em I thought was asleep.

“The chief was lying close beside her, andI crept up
with my knife in my hand.

“He couldn’t have been sound asleep, for he started up
jest as I got to the spot, and made a motion as though he
was going to get upon his feet. But he did not do it, for
tie next minute [had sent my knife home to his heart
and he fell back without a sound. :

“Bessie saw me then, and thinking that I was an Ingin,
as I looked, and was about to kill her, opened her lips to
cry out. Ifshe had, it would have been all day with us;
but quick as thought, I laid my hand over her mouth and
whispered loud enough for her to hear me:

“ ‘Keep still, Bessie! It isme—Sam Willis !’

“She told me afterward that she hardly believed me
then, [looked so much like a savage; but she lay quiet
while I cut the thongs that bound her hands and feet.

“J helped her to get up, and whispered to her agin, and
then we crept away from the spot.

“T wanted to finish up the rest of the savages lying thar
who had had a hand in slaying old Ben; but I knowed it
wouldn't do to run any more risk if I wanted to get Bessie
clear of ’em.

‘We kept kinder quiet like until we was out of hearing,
and then we went on as fast as our feet would carry us,
while Bessie, sobbing as though her heart was broken,
told how her father had fought the red-skins, and how at
ae they had slain him and scalped him right afore her

ace.

“T tried to cheer her up, telling her that I had a home
for her, and would be both husband and father to her.

“We didn’t go back to the cabin, as I knew it wouldn’t
do for Bessie to, but we pinted for my cabin, where I
knew we should find friends, and the next day at noon
we got thar safe and sound.

“The next morning we went to old Ben’s cabin and put
him tenderly under ground. That done, we took what
things there was thar and brought them back with us.

“Since then I’ve done my best to take care of Bessie,
and I guess she ain’t had much cause fo find fault. Ihope
so, anyway.”’

Sam’s story was done, and after another smoke all
round, we turned in for the night.

The Boy Gladiator

THE GIPSEY'S CHARGE.

A Tale of Land and Sea Adventures.
BY G. PICKENS ALCOTT, U. S. A.

A remarkably exciting story, with the above title, has
been revised for early publication. It narrates the ex-
ploits of aheroic boy, almost a childin years, yet possessed
of all the physical strength and daring of manhood. Our
young readers wiil certainly be delighted as they peruse

 

 

 

 

“As I sed afore, I had been kinder hankering arter Ben’s

the thrilling romance of ‘The Boy Gladiator.”

editor or author. Many of his songs, the music for which was
composed by himself, have attained great popularity. In 1858 he
visited the United States, and delivered a series of lectures on
song writers and poets. 4th. The NEW YORK WEEKLY was start-
ed by A. J. Williamson. 5th. We have no copies of the first issue.
ey fis Poor Scholar.—Write to the President of the Cornell Uni-
versity at Ithaca, N. Y...... George.—Write to the American News
SOs, 22. Crave Towanda.—We know nothing of the order...........
Franklin De Pierce.—I|st. If accepted, we do; but at present we
are overburdened with matter of this description. 2d. By mail or
express; if the package is a valuable one, the latter is preferable.
Seek bees Will.—You are entirely too young to assume the responsi-
bility.. Five years from now, at least, will be soon enough for you
to think of marrying......... Terry R.—You are correct..........
J. H. Smith.—ist. Send name of State, and we will inform you
when the subscription expires. 2d. See ‘““Knowledge Box.” 3d.
Passe J M., Jr.—There are many causes—the formation of the
beach, contrary currents, and the action of the wind....... Lyon-
flela Fool.—We would be glad to oblige you, but we have not the
time to make the translation. Any schoolmaster or Latin scholar
will assist you...... Corina Arlington.—Direct to Naval Depart-
ment, Whitehall, London, England..J. J. Sitterby.—lst. In the
State of Iowa there are some’500,000 acres of Government lands lo-
cated in different parts of the State, which may be entered under
the Homestead Law. Good farming lands, within a short distance
of school and church privileges, may be purchased at from $5 per
acre upward. Wedo not know what railroad lands are worth.
2d. Public lands to the amount of several millions of acres, are
open to entry under the Homestead Law in Nebraska....H. L. Ht.
—The marriage is legal, if the ceremony was performed by an
authorized official, no matter what name you assumed...... Jas.
: ins.—There is no record, that we can find, of the name of
David’s mother...... S. B. S.—You will find the recipe to make
turnovers in the “Knowledge Box,” in No. 33 Cha .
See reply to “Phonography,”’ In No. 42...... E. E. Jackett.—You do
not restate your question....... _. Michigander.—The microscopic
charm can be purchased of any jeweler. We do not know of any
wholesale dealer...... Justitia.—If a property holder you are liable
to taxation, regardless of citizenship, as you are benefited by im-
promi e quite as much asif you were a yoter...... Francois.—
earn the trade for which you have the most aptitude or inelina-
tion. The average of mechanics earn about per day in this
city... ... H. Coyle & Co.—The rocky pass in the East river known
as Hell Gate or Hurl Gate (the first name is generally used) was
called by the old Dutch residents Horll Gatt, meaning whirl pas-
sage or whirlpool strait. Hell Gate is a corruption of the old Dutch
name...... Peaches.—The law in this State against carrying con-
cealed weapons does not include pistols...... J. J. Corbett.—The
descendants of Germans largely outnumber those of the Irish in
the United States..... John Shine.—ist. Your mother is the best
judge asto whether you should belong tothe clubor not. 24.
New Orleans has a population of 191,322...... S. R.—A man who
will open a letter, sealed or unsealed, confided to him to deliver,
especially from one lady to another, is a contemptible sneak, and
should be despised by any one who has the least spark of honor.
Attempting to excuse himself on the ground of etiquette makes
the matter even worse..... .Joe.—Consult a good physician......
L. Lawson.—ist. The self-binders are for merely temporary use.
The better plan would be to preserve your papers, and have them
regularly bound. 2d. You do not say what sort of a Concordance
you wish, whether of the Bible, New Testament, Shakespeare's
works, or some other. 3d. We are not at liberty to give the real
names of authors where a nom de plume is adopted...... Mother
and Daughter.—ist. It was very impolite for the couple to leave
their invited guests and go out riding. 2d. The gentleman is not
in the city. 3d. Very good...... John Featherly.—No more than
the legal rate of interest can be collected...... Illos Sequor.—Ap-
ly to a manufacturer of stills.:.... Big Clown.—You are very
Foolish to notice the remarks about your size, and will one day be
proud of being considered a large, well-made man. We haye often
seen a man admired and envied because of his hight and breadth,
but never heard one wish to be smaller......James Watson.—We
do not know who claims to be the champion bowler.... P. V. A.
—We know nothing of the firm, but have always cautioned our
readers to transact no business with anybody through the post
office whose standing they are unacquainted with, as the irregu-
larities of the mails are used asashield to their own shortcom-

ings, and no redress can be obtained........4 Moses.—Ye8......-:
The following MSS. have been accepted: “Scott’s Bluff,” “Prayer,’
“A Cook of the Period,’ “Hymn.’’....... The following will

appear in anew mammoth monthly soon to be issued from this
office: “A Night Among Robbers.”.....-The following are re-
spectfully declined: ‘“Didst Thou Love Me Then,” “Lines,” “A
Summer Shower,” “‘Two Scenes,” “How I Lost My Heart,” “Aunt
Jane’s Story,” “The Organ-Grinder’s Love,” “Violets,” “Over the
River,” “It is Dark,” “Letters from the Country,’ ‘‘The Orphan
at Sea,” ‘Lay Down the Casket, Mother,’? “The Indian’s Warn-
ing,” ‘‘A Sister Outwitted,” “A Party of Hunters,” ‘The Passing
Crowd,” “The Witty Celt,” “A Visit with the Toothache,” “The

 

 

 

Timely Rescue,” “An Adventure with Indians,”’ ‘‘Rattlesnakes,”’
“Music.”

wis