_—

 

 

4

}
7
; 3

-—_

-

em

" Pg ee — gpenlidigt SE ae gh a. Saw = ee ee od a

_.

 

<<

,
i

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

hes

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1875, by Stree d& Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Washington, D. C.__

 

 

 

 

VoL. XXX,

Proprietors.

 

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
P.O. Box 4896, New York.

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JULY 12, 1975.

 

 

 

 

TRUE LOVE.

BY MICHAEL SCANLAN.

 

Oh, Heaven hath made thee wondrous fair
And lovers, as a duty,

_ Will pour their incense to the air
Before thy shrine of beauty.

T hear their honeyed speeches fly,

* ” Tsee them smile above you,
While my poor heart can only sigh,
“T love you.”

Ah, lightly rolls the lover’s tongue,
Without the heart appealing,

Like some old anthem, sweetly sung,
Without the poet’s feeling.

With all the subtle ways of art
They seek to win and move you,

 

 

While I can only say, “Sweetheart,

I love you!” |

Too deep for flippant speech, love's plea

Is made by revelation, \ i

For all my being turns to thee
In silent adoration;

And yet how wisely dost thou give,
*Gainst folly’s best endeavor,

Thy love to me, whose love will live

Forever!

The heart that wanders finds no rest
In all its wild creations, ;

For peace lives in one faithful breast
That beats with love’s pulsations;

Thus, with my arms about you thrown, \

Our very heart-beats blending,
You live within a summer zone
Unending.

Were all thy beauty but a dream,

Forsaken, old, with not a gleam
Of hope to gild thy sorrow,
T still would $y unto thy side
And fondly bend above you,
Then say in grief, as now in pride,
i “T love you!”

And thou shouldst wake to-morrow, , |
‘
1
|
|
}
|

 

A
Woman’s Temptation. |

By MRS. FLORICE NORTON.
(ee CONTE TOE

 

~~ tiled,

_ looked more royal in them.

 

  

 

 

oe ike
CHAPTER I, '

eR ee ET

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“he

me, my poor little Nina?”

Madame de St. Lance sat alone in her own room, ' once so starry bright, are shadowed and mounful;| ‘*Madame!” she cried, a gentleman—an English

an apartment that long years ago had been the!
boudoir of the most beautiful and most noble the |
Duchess. of Vallentinois. Even in its wreck the
room was wonderful. It was of an ectagon shape, |

|

containing eight flower-wreathed windows, and |

each window had once been draped in the richest! that in repose is almost terrible—the look of a rest-

rose brecade—it hung there still, tattered and wern. |
The painted ceiling had lost its vivid coloring; the
gorgeously decorated panels were chipped and |
broken. There was an English grate, with a mag-
nificent marble mantelpiece, a mass of elaborate and
beautiful sculpture, almost destroyed by wreck and |
decay; a small fire burned there now, and a lighted
lamp stood on the tabie; yet neither drove away the
look of desolation and grandeur in decay.

Madame de St. Lance had been reading, but the
book, Lamartine’s Genevieve, had lost all charm.
She laid it down and walked to one of the windows;
she unfastened it, and the rose-scented evening
breeze came in. It refreshed her; it broke up the
dead calm of monotony and despair that seemed to
have settled upon her. *

How fair it was, that beautiful, fruitful land of
France! How fair this flowery land of Provence,
where the very air seemed freighted with perfume
and music!—that calm, sweet Provencal night, with
its myriads of golden stars, its bright-shining moon,
its flower-laden breeze, its roses, lilies, and vines!
—surely one of the fairest spots on the face of the
beautiful earth. ,

The tired eyes gazed oversthe fair, sweeping land,
while something ofthe calm of the moonlight came
over the wearied heart.

“Tf I could only die and end it all!” said Madame
de St. Lance. ‘Die and be buried in some quiet
corner where the rose leaves might fall on my grave.
Die and end the struggle that is worse than death.”

To die!
tality of the soul; and yet, in deepest grief, in sor-
row, in anguish, and despair, our thoughts turn to
death, that key to another and brighter life.

“So few,” murmured the lady, “live but for one
hope. I have but one—my little Reine. Wealth,
position, honor, land, title, husband, and friends are
all lost, even the royal cause for which we suffered
so severely is lost, and nothing remains to me but
my daughter. Ihave heard wonderful stories where
a frail, delicate girl has restored the fallen honors of |
a good race; is it for that Reine has been spared to
me ?”

The idea, even while it aroused, cheered and |
soothed her. She closed the window and returned |
to her seat by the fireside.

Now that the lamplight falls full upon her, one
may see that there is some faint similarity between |
the lady and the room. She also looks like the |

 

 

 

‘wreck of some great and beautiful queen. She is a!

thorough aristocrat. She has the unmistakable |
air of the grande noblesse, that manner which no |
money can purchase, no art imitate; it only comes!
from the refinement of long generations. Looking
at Madame de St. Lance one could tell that she was!
born of a noble race, that she had lived in the at-
mosphere of a court, that she had associated with
the noble, the gallant and the gay.

Her figure, tall, dignified, and well-developed,
full of regal grace and dignity, is clothed in a dress
of deepest mourning, a fitting dress for one who
mourns a dead husband and a lost cause. No queen
ever carried her state robes with more dignity, or

The lamplight falls upon a grand face, one that in
its youth must have been sparkling and lovely; a
pure Norman face, oval in shape, delicate in con-
tour, and exquisite in coloring. But the dark eyes,

 

There are people who doubt the immor- |v

the lips on whose smile the noblest of the land once
hung enraptured are pale, and have round them
lines that teil of deep care and woe. The dark hair
is brushed back from the white brow, and carelessly
fastened; but the face, despite its beauty, has a look

less soul, of a soul wearing itself away with bitter
repining, with disconsolate weariness, and unen-
durable ennui; the soul of a brilliant, beautiful wo-
man, born to shine, to exact homage, to rule and to
sway, yet doomed to death in life.

The white hands that held the book are perfect in
shape andin color. They sparkled once with gems
fit for a queen. Now one plain golden ring shines
on them, and that seems in danger of dropping off.

Madame de St. Lance resumes her book, and the
little clock chimes eight. She looked up and the
weariness on her face deepened.

“Only eight; and each hour of this day has
seemed to me like an age. What amI to do till
eleven or twelve?”

It seemed almost like an answer to her question
when a rap came to the door. :

“Come in,” said madame, in her clear, rich voice;
and there entered the old servant, Janette, carrying
a tray in her hands.

“I trust madame will not be angry,” said the wo-
man, as she placed the tray upon the table; then
one quick, keen glance round showed her the deso-
late state of the room. She gave the fire a touch
that provoked a merry blaze; she trimmed the lamp,
and so nearly doubled the light.

‘“*T noticed that madame hardly touched her din-
ner, andI have taken a liberty. I made a cup of
coffee, and have brought a bit of white roll, with a
bunch of our finest grapes; and I pray madame to
eat.”

It had come to this! she who had smiled while
princes and nobles waited upon her with the dain-
tiest luxuries was thankful for the care and attention
of this old servant.

Madame thanked the old woman in her grateful,
dignified manner, and the servant withdrew.

Once more Madame de St. Lance was alone; but
the cheerless gloom and desolation had vanished;
the fire burned brightly; the lamp cast a full, bril-
liant light on the painted ceiling and the old-fash-
ioned tapestry; the coffee yielded a fragrant aroma,
and there was a fine purple bloom on the grapes.

It was but an humble meal, yet madame seemed
to enjoy it. She ate the white roll and the grapes,
reading the while; then she drank the coffee. Its
warmth and strength seemed to revive her.

“If Tam to live and work for Reine,” she said, “I
must not starve myself as I have been doing. How
little I knew of the weakness produced by mere
physical want!”

Then madame sat with the firelight playing on
her black dress and her white hands. The sweet
southern wind seemed to have died away, and there
came the sound of a stronger breeze from the pine-
woods—a wind that ‘had something mournful in its
sound,

She shivered as she heard it.

“It is a lonely place, this old chateau,” she said,
then suddenly paused, for the sound of carriage
wheels fell on her ear, and she started up in wonder,
not unmixed with alarm.

CHAPTER II.

Madame de St. Lance heard the sound as of some
important arrival. Inclination prompted her to run
down and see what it was; dignity told her to stand
quite still. Suddenly the door opened, and Janette,
with less ceremony than usual, entered the room.

| : :
| milor, I am sure, asks the honor of seeing you.”

Madame took the card and read the name.
‘Lord Clancey.” The name was quite unknown to
her; but something of the old courtly grace that had
| once made her so famous came over her as she read.

she said. “I willreceive him here.”

She saw Janette’s eyes wander from the faded ceii-
ing to the worn tapestry. Shesmiled.

“It is of no consequence,” she said; ‘this room is
not se cold as the others.”

“The gentleman has a little child with him—a
little girl. One would take her to be about four
years of age.”

“Good!” said madame. ‘'Do not keep the gentle-
man waiting” é

She was too proud to go, as some women would
have gone, to the glass. She did not appear to be-,
stow one thought upon herself—how she looked, or
anything of the kind; but she stood still, with a puz-
zled look upon her face.

““Clancey!”? she said to herself; “it seems to me
that I have heard the name.”

She was looking back intothe annals of that bril-
liant past, when she had received princes and peers
in her gorgeous saloons,

‘“Clancey! Have I heard the name, or have I only
dreamed it ?” ;

As she stood there inthe grandeur of her faded
beauty, the wind wailing round the chateau, there
came to her no warning of the great and terrible
tragedy that was to be worked out in her life.

She looked up when her visitor entered—a young,
handsome man, dressed in deep mourning, and lead-
ing a little child by the hand. He bowed low before
the stately, dignified lady.

‘*‘Madame de St. Lance,” he said, in a low, well-
modulated voice, ‘‘I can hardly hope that you re-
member my name.”

She smiled.

“IT seem to have some vague recollection of it,”
she said, quietly,

“I never had the pleasure of meeting you myself;
but my uncle, the late Lord Clancey, of Neversleigh,
was well known to the Comte de St. Lance, in Paris,
ten years ago.”

A sudden light came over her face.

“J remember,” she said; “a tall, elderly gentle-
man, with white hair. He used to talk to us very
often of his nephew andhis heir, Mr. Ruthven.”

“I was Mr. Ruthven, and Iam now Lord Clancey,”
said the gentleman; ‘‘and, madame, I am come to
solicit from you a great favor.”

She bowed, and begged her visitor to be seated.
He took a chair, still helding the child by the hand;
then he placed it on his knee.

“TI must first offer you, madame, my most earnest
sympathy. I heard, years ago, of your terrible re-
verses.”

“Yes,” she replied; “we were true and loyal toa
fallen cause. No reverse could have been greater
than ours.” :

‘You saved nothing, then, from the wreck ?”

“Nothing,” she replied. ‘Our estates were con-
fiscated. They are divided now, and have passed
into other hands. Our title is extinct, our name
perhaps forgotten.”

“It lives in the annals of France, madame,” he
said, sadly.

“Yes; but not in the minds of men. We saved
from the vast possessions of the Lances but two
things—our honor and my jewel-case.” She smiled
bitterly. ‘I had just time, while the mob surround-
' ed the gates of the chateau, to get my jewel-case; it
| contained diamonds of great value, Some were sent

 

= SW $ as. RTE

‘‘Ask the gentleman to walk up-stairs, Janette,” |-

 

 

   
 
 

  
 

  
  

ausnibdadea oat Gpiadk

 

 

 

to one of our ancestors by Catherine the Great, Em-
press of Russia. There was a necklace of some
value, given by an Empress of Austria. I saved
those, but nothing else. We escaped to England,
and sold them there. But for those jewels, Lord
Clancey, we must have perished of hunger.”

“It is terrible to think of,” he said, with a shud-
der; ‘‘but why did you not appeal to your friends?”

“The St. Lances could never accept alms,” she
said quietly. ‘‘Your gray English skies and leaden
air helped to kill my husband. Hecould not bear
the fogs, the cold, the rain; he was pining for our
bright, sunny France; so when all danger was over,
we came here to Provence in disguise. We had
money left, and this old chateau was to let. The rent
was very little, for it is a lonely, isolated place. We
took it, and here my husband died—wore his noble
heart away in exile, sorrow, poverty, and: desola-
tion. The St. Lances have served France well, yet
the last of them died here, in exile and alone.”

She paused for one minute, unable to say more;
but no tears dimmed those proud eyes—she had shed

too many,
‘‘My husband died just two years since; my little

Reine is now nearly five years old. The money that
I had for my diamonds lasted until last year; when it
was all gone, I advertised for pupils.”

‘*And you have plenty, I hope?” he said.

“No; I have but few. I make sufficient to meet
my wants and expenses, but no more.”’

*“T was in Paris last week,” said Lord Clancey,
‘and there I heard that you were living at the Cha-
teau Rosiere, in Provence, where you took charge of

‘a few pupils; and hearing that, madame, has brought

me here to you.”

Then there was silence for some minutes, during
which the mournful wail of the wind was plainly
heard. Lord Clancey looked at the little child, then
at the lady; but her white hands were folded on her
black dress, and her thoughts were far away.

‘*T must plaee a confidence in you, madame,”’ said
Lord Clancey, “that I have. placed in no one else,
and it relates to my little daughter here.”

‘Your daughter!” she said. ‘*Ah, then you are
married, Lord Clancey.”

“It is of that I wanted tospeak to you, madame.
I must tell you my story, and then you will under-

stand,
“IT was always brought up,” he continued, ‘in

habits of luxury, and as my uncle’s heir. No expense
was spared over me; I was allowed to do just as I
liked; some day or other I was to be Lord Clancey,
and what I did mattered little. I was entirely de-
pendent on my uncle, and he was very kind, very
generous to me, with one exception. He would in-
sist that I was to marry to please him, and not to
please myself.

’ “T fell in love, madame; but the girl I loved was
poor and obscure. Her name was Alice Luttrell, and
she was the daughter of a schoolmaster living in a
small town near Neversleigh. I told my uncle that
T loved her, and his fury knew no bounds; it was
something terrible.”

I can imagine it,” said madame, with a sad smile.

‘*He told me very plainly that if I married her he
would disinherit me. Brought up to consider my-
self his heir, knowing nothing of any profession,
not having one shilling in the world independent of
him, there was but one resource for me.

‘*A coward’s resource, you will say, madame. It
may be so; better to be a coward than break a wo-
man’s heart. I married Alice privately, and brought
her over to France. Shebecame my wife; my uncle
thought she had met with a worse fate. I lived very
happily with her for one year, then this little one
was born, and, to avert my uncle’s suspicions, I was
obliged to return to England,

 
 

See A —
Three Dollars Per Year. Peta wena S. STREE®,,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

= Sree Ds

     
  
  
   
 
  
 
   
 
  
   
 

     
   
 
  
  

 

 

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

—————— ————————

 

“Madame, Ido not seek to excuse myself from
blame;.I have been wrong all through. I was wrong
to marry in a secret, underhand manner; and I did
wrong afterward by not perhaps neglecting, but
from my long absences from my wife. She pined
away, andI could not leave my uncle.

“Six months since my uncle died, and I was en-
gaged incessantly for some weeks in arranging af-
fairs,

. “IT had-resolved then upon bringing my wife and

‘ child home, acknowledging my marriage, and mak-

ing all amends to Alice. That was my intention;
but when I reached the pretty little village where I
had left my wife, I found her dying.

“No eftorts could save her, She had pined and
sorrowed until there was not the least hope of her
; recovery, and* the third day after my arrival she
| died,

“I was left with my little Nina. Ineed not te -:

| you of my grief, of the bitterness of the blow that

 

i | overwhelmed me. ‘I buried my wife in the pretty
Ri | cemetery of the village and there my love story

ended. I thought it useless toavow my matriage.

it could do no good; it would only raise a storm and

tempest of gossip and scandal, detestable tome. If
| Alice had lived, I would have braved it all; but Alice
| was dead, and there was nothing to be gained, so
| that I determined to keep that which had been se-
| cret so long secret still. No one knows anything of
| it. Tleft my little Nina under the care of a very
faithful and affectionate nurse. I heard last week
that the nurse was ill. I hastened over; the nurse
is dead, and, madame, I bring my little daughter to
you.” .

 

ni CHAPTER III.

LordClancey raised the little one in his arms:

‘She is a pretty, loving, gentle child, quite French.
She does not seem to remember one word of Eng-
lish, if ever she has spoken any. Sheis a graceful
and refined child with whom you may safely allow
your own daughter to associate; and, madame, the
great wish of my heart is to place her under your
charge.” ‘

.. Madame de St. Lance bowed; there was no emo-
tion either of pleasure or displeasure in her face.
“Tam deeply grateful to you, madame. Now, will
you allow me to enter into explanations and to dis-
cuss terms? The Neversleigh Estates are entailed,
they can only pass toa male heir, consequently lit-
tle Nina here is not, and never would be, my heir-
ess. The daughters of the House of Clancey are
always provided for by money saved from the in-
come; in that same way I intend to provide for my
daughter Nina. She shall be amply dowered; but,
madame, this is where I require help. I have never
acknowledged my marriage, and it’s too late now;
besides which, I have frankly told you, madame, I
am averse to it. Iam proud and sensitive. I should
not care to hear all the remarks and sneers, the
scandal and comment. I wish, indeed it is now my
firm determination, to keep my marriage a profound
secret—but that#secret snall not be to the detriment
of my child. Madame, will you adopt her? Will
you bring her up as your own child? Will you let
her bear your name? And will you promise that
she shall never hear from you this, the true story of»
her parentage ?”

Madame was silent for some minutes, and thenshe
said, quietly:

“I do not quite like it, Lord Clancey; it does not
seem to me quite fair.”

“Tam sure, madame,” he interrupted eagerly,
“that you will allow me to be the best judge of that.
My marriage, as I have told you frankly, was a great
mistake. My poor Alice was all unfit to be Lady
Clancey. I did her no wrong. I married her, and
suffered for my folly. I am a just man, madame;
and it seems to me that if I give to her daughter a
good education and a liberal portion I shall be doing
full justice.” ¢

Madame looked thoughtful.

“You are, perhaps, the best judge,” she said, slow-
ly. ‘*Pray proceed, Lord Clancey.”

“I shall secure the sum of five hundred pounds
per annum to my daughter, three hundred to be paid
to you for her board and education, two hundred for
her expenses; and this arrangement I.should wish
to continue in force till she is eighteen, then I shall
arrange for her dowry.”

Madame murmured something; Lord Clancey
could not tell what. Three hundred pounds a year!
It was untold riches to her. It meant freedom from
cares, from privations, from poverty; it meant
ease and freedom, all that Reine required, ang
all that she wanted herself; it meant good food
and generous wine. Why not take it? If she re-
fused, the offer would simply be made to some one
else.

“I shall require from you, madame, a faithful pro-
mise that you will never, under any circumstances
—except, of course, with my free permission—di-
vulge one word of this story tomy daughter. She
is too young now to retain any recollection, even the
faintest, of even her mother or myself. The memory
of the past will all die away from her, she need
never know but that she is indeed and in truth your
own child.” Your daughter is too young to remem-
ber, and they will grow up sisters. Do you agree,
madame ?”

There was a few minutes’ sore struggle between
the pride of the aristocrat and the need of the wo-
man. More than once she was tempted to say ‘‘No
—that such a charge was unworthy of a St. Lance.”
But. three hundred a year! no trouble over the rent-
day; plenty of peace; pride must submit. Afterall,
she remembered a king had once turned schoolmas-
ter. Lord Clancey watched her keenly as she held
the silent debate in her mind.

‘“Taccept the charge,” she said, slowly; ‘and I
will be quite true to my trust, Your daugliter shall
be brought up as my child.”

  

 

 

 

 

 
 

' ticular interest in any one.

 

 

‘
2

|

 

 

2

“z thank you,” he said; “I could not ask better
fortune for her. And now, madame, let me speak
quite freely to you. Ishall have all needful docu-
ments drawn out at ence, so that there may never
be any delay over the money; and pray remember
that Ido not wish at any time to influence you in
any of your plans; go where you like, and form any
plans you like. Thereis only one condition I should
like to make. For the sake of drawing up the need-
ful documents and placing this money in my daugh-
ter’s name, I shall be compelled to tell my story to
my lawyers, Messrs. Carstone & Leach, of Lincoln’s
Inn, If you will be good enough, madame, to write
once or tivice in the year, saying how and where my
daughter is, I shall be well satisfied; there need not
be any allusion to me in your letters, only state
formally the condition of your charge.”

“T will undertake to do that,” said madame; then
she looked curiously at him.

“And you, my lord,” she said, do you feel no
sorrow at parting with the child.”

‘Most certainly; but it is better for me—better for
her. I mayspeak frankly to you, Madame St. Lance.
It is highly probable that I may shortly marry again.
T have admitted to you that my first marriage was a
foolish, boyish mistake. I have seen a lady, beauti-
ful and noble, who has won from me all the strength
of my manhood; who has won my heart, and the
deepest love of my soul. Ido not care that she
should know the story of my boyish, goolieh infatua-
tion.” vel %

*T understand,” said the ¢lear, rich voice of ma-

——

 

ame. ;
“Next week I will have forwa ) you all need-

   

ful documents. You can sign them, keep some, and
return oh oo
Then Lord Olancey took out his pocket-book.

*‘T did not careto encumber myself with luggage,”
he said, ‘‘so that Thave not brought any clothes for
the child. Here isa note for fifty pounds, madame;
will you provide for her what she requires? Here
also is the first half-year’s payment, making two
hundred pounds altogether.”

Madame’s white finger’s trembled over the mo-
ney; it seemed so little to him, it meant so much to
her.

“T will give you a receipt, Lord Clancey,” she
said.

But he smiled.

“There is no need to give yourself the trouble,
madame—that will do for the lawyers. I thank you
very much for your kindness and patience; I thank
you still more for granting my request.”

“May I offer you some refreshment?” asked Ma-
dame de St. Lance.

He thanked her, but declined.

“T must be in England in thirty-six hours, if pos-
sible,” he said; “every moment is precious to me.
Ihave kept my carriage waiting at the chateau
gates.”

Then Lord Clancey raised the child in his arms,
and gave her tomadame. The little one looked up
into the proud, stately face with something of fear
in her own. The young father bent down and kissed
her; something dimmed his eyes, and a sob died
away on his lips.

‘You will be very kind to her, madame, my poor
little Nina ?” he said, gently.

‘She shall be to me as my own child,” said the
lady; and the little one seemed to understand some-
thing of the words, for she nestled her little head in
the lady’s neck.

“Good-by,” said the father, as he kissed the child.
“Farewell, madame; you have made me your debtor
for life.”

The next moment he was gone, and, but for the
child on her knee and the money on the table, she
might have thought it all a dream.

CHAPTER IV.

Time had been when Hubert Ruthven had, found
himself more sought after than any man in London.
He was known to be the heir of Lord Arncourt, of
Neversleigh, than whom England knew no wealthier
or more potent peer.

Hubert Ruthven was a prize. There was nota
fair face in London that had not brightened for
him. Mothers concluded Jong, eloquent lectures by
saying:

“Tf my dear Ethelrida, I could live to see you Lady
Arncourt, I should die contented.” =,

Brunette and blonde, hoyden and blue-stocking had
all been placed before him in their best aspect, beau-
tiful belles had smiled, sung, and danced for him;
but, though Mr. Ruthven had the most profound
veneration for all the fair sex, not one had touched
his heart,

Perhaps he had been too early dazzled by ali the
genius and charms, the beauty and grace, that had
been brought to bear upon him. He evinced no par-.
And Lord Arncourt be-
gan to grow anxious about the future of his nephew.

‘“T have remained single,” he would say, ‘because
Tam—lI freely confess it—a selfish Sybarite. You
must not do the same, Hubert. J decided long ago,
in my own mind, that women were very charming
for a short space of time, but that a house was de-
cidedly more comfortable without them. Icould not
endure the thought of all the patience, the fuss, the
nonsence required to keep a wife in good temper;
but, emphatically, Hubert, mind, your ideas must be
different to mine.”

“They are different, uncle,” replied Mr. Ruthven,
with a smile.

*“‘T knew,” continued Lord Arncourt, ‘that you
would be my heir. There was no need for me to
wear what I consider the very heavy chains of
Hymen. Your case is different. You succeed me;
but remember, if you should die childless, every
thing goes to Eric Chilvers, and that would prevent
me from resting quietly even in my grave.”

“TI assure you, uncle,” said fae Ruthven, grave-
ly, ‘“‘that I have not the least objection to marriage;
the only difficulty that [can see is, among so many
beautiful and graceful women, which to choose.”

““Whiat do you find in Blanche Carrington to
which any reasonable man could object?” asked Lor
Arncourt. f

**Too much dazzle and glitter. A man’s life would
be worn away in no time.”

‘“‘There is Evelyn Rainten; no one could say the
same thing of her.”

“Too sweet,” was the brief reply; ‘‘she has the
same agreeable smile for every one, and agrees with
everything said. I should die of inanition.”

“Lady Ethel Langham,” suggested Lord Arn-
court. ©

““A woman of one idea, and that idea how many

miles of waltzing she can get through in one night.”

“Hubert,” said his, uncle, solemnly, looking anx-
iously at him, ‘tare you seeking for an ideal woman?
Because, if you are, let me assure you you will not
find one. What makes woman so charming?—the
fact that she is a mass of contradictions, a mixture

»f virtues and faults; without the faults, she would
be simply unendurable.”

*T never thought of an ideal woman,” replied Hu-
bert; ‘‘but I have an old-fashioned idea that I should
like to be loved, for my sake; and as my life would
have to be spent with the womanI married, I
should most certainly like to make a wise and pru-
dent choice.”

Lord Arncourt sighed pityingly.

“You must bear one thing in mind, Hubert, if you
were my own son I could not love you more dearly;
but if you should marry so as to disappoint me—
through any quixotic nonsense—I should consider
it my solemn duty to disinherit you and adopt Eric
Chilvers, much as I dislike him, in your place.”

*‘Have no fear, uncle; I will not disappoint you.
You have been very kind to me.”

“You must increase your importance by marriage.
England boasts no prouder title than Lord Arn-
court, of Neversleigh; but if you could add to the
importance of the. name by a good marriage, it
would be a most excellent thing. Lady Ethel Lang-
ham, the Duke of Langmuirstied’s daughter—who
could be better than she?”

We therefore see that it was with a perfect un-
derstanding of his fate in all its branches that Hu-
bert Ruthven made that terrible mistake in his life.

{To BE CONTINUED, }
>-o~<
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

AURORA FLoyp. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Publishers, T. B.
Peterson & Brothers, Philadeiphia. This is one of the best of Miss
Braddon’s productions. It is a sensation novel, and full of that
kind of incident which fascinates the reader in its narration. It
is published in a Jarge octavo yolume, paper cover. Price 75
cents,

 

 

THE BETROTHED; ANNIE OF GEIERSTEIN; THE PIRATE. By
Sir Walter Scott. Publishers, T..B. Peterson & Brothers, Pihila-
delphia. As before stated, the enterprising Petersons are pub-
lishing an entire new edition of The Waverly Novels. Price of
each volume (paper cover) 25 cents, or $5 for the full set. The
novels named above are among the best of the great author’s
productions.

A LiFe’s SECRET. THE HacntTEeD Tower. By Mrs. Henry
Wood. Publishers, T. B, Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. Both
of. these novels will be {found very interesting. It is enough to
say that they are by the author of “East Lynne.” Price per
volume (paper cover), 50 cents.

 

amt THE

 

“pHE RAIN AND TEARS.”

BY JENNIE STOVIN.

 

\ See the rain is slowly falling
O’er tlie little cottage eaves,
Dripping with a sound like weeping,
On the tinted autnmn leaves,

And there is a wail of sadness
In the sound of ceaseless rain,
Seeming like the tears ot mortals
Shed in mourning and in pain.

Endless grieving, ceaseless raining,
Both in ome appear the twain,

When the.cyes, with sorrow burden’d,
Watch the falling autumn rain.

Lo! the tears are quickly falling
Down a pale, sweet woman’s cheek,

Like a shower of heavy rain-drops,
Telling more than volumes speak.

And there is a wail of sadness
Caused by parting’s bitter pain,

Thro’ the drooping, darkened eyelids
Pass the tears like autumn rain.

Bilter weeping! ceaseless raining!
Both their end must have at last;

Through the clouds will shine the sun’s light,
Gilding all the sadden’d past!

—— > 9-<+—____——__
The Right to Dramatize this Story is Reserved by the Publishers.

THROWN.
ON THE WORLD.

[“Thrown onthe World’? was commenced in No. 15. Back Nos.

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

For once the world was unfeignedly sorry. Lady Clo-
tilde had not only been loved but highly esteemed. No
one had any fault to find with her, aud her early death
was most sincerely lamented,

They did not know—they who mourned so sincerely for
her—that life had become a trouble and a burden greater
than she could bear; they did not know that the swiff,
sudden, terrible death was to her a blessiug iu disguise.
There was no one to remonstrate, when on the white
marble monument her name was engraved— :

“LapY CLOTILDE DYNECOURT.”’

There were only three persons living who knew the
name had never been hers—Lord Dynecourt, wio lay be-
tween life and death; Mr. Tresham, wo would not be-
tray his knowledge; Silvia, who wouid freely have given
her life for that one tat lad been tuken,

So Lady Dynecourt was laid to rest, and the world ney-
er knew her story.

Lord Dynecourt was dangerously ill for along time, It
was often thought that recovery for him was impossible,
and it was almost to be feared that he did not care for his
life at tne price. He was to be crippled, he was to be un-
able to walk, to move [reely, with the use of one arm gone;
and for a gay, handsome, accomplished man of the world
such a fate was worse than death.

He had leisure, as he lay there, to repent of his sins, to
form better resolutions for the future, to bewail his folly,
and to learn the lesson s0 many learn too late—that hon-
esty and straightforward dealing, high principle and
honor are safer guides for a man than the indulgence in
pleasure, and the gratification of every idle whim.

He learned that lesson. He became a wiser, better
man; but the price that he paid for that learning was a
terrible one.

When he recovered himself, and was able to understand
something of what was going on, they told him of Lady
Clotilde’s funeral, and of the superb monument erected to
her. No one understood the intense anxiety with whieh
he asked what had been put on it; no one knew why his
dim eyes filled wines, and his lips quivered, as he
heard the name—*Lady Clotilde Dynecourt.”

It does not come within the province of these pages to
tell how deeply Lady Voyse felt her daughter’s death; she
never quite recovered it, or was the same afterward.

Two mouths passed before Lord Dynecourt was able to
take any part in even the least affairs of life, and then his
first action was to send for Silvia. He was still remaining
atthe hotel at Amphill, for it had been considered dan-
gerous to remove him. No wonder or curiosity was ex-
cited by the arrival of the beautiful lady, whose sweet face
was so sad, and who was mourning so deeply.

When she saw how ill, how haggard and changed he
looked, she had no words for him but those of kindness.
He held out one hand Imploringly to her,

“My wife,” he said; “my true wife.
ever forgive me?”

And soa a few wordsshe read a full acknowledgment
of his guilt.

“Silvia,’? he said, when all the vehemence of her first
emotion had passed, ‘will you forget this miserable past,
and take your place as my wife. Itis a late atonement
that I offer you.”’ es

“She shrank with trembling hands. * 5

“Lam unworthy,’ she said, ‘*to take fe place. She
was the noblest of women; I was buta poor, obscure girl.’’

He smiled faintly, with something of bitterness in his

smile, %
“Ah, Silvia! it is no enviable position that I can offer
you. Lam but the wreck of a man; my strength has
failed me; my health has leftme. The days in which we
wandered side by side over the heather and the purple
moors are passed; the world is almost over for me. If is
almost cruel to ask you to give your sweet life to mel you
are young and beautiful still. My life—while I——

And the once proud man buried his face in his hands as
he wept aloud, Hecould not have made any appeal to
her feelings which would have touched her more deeply.
She knelt down by his side, and kissed the poor, nerveless
hands,

“Do not weep, my love,” she said; “you had my youth
and my love; you shall have all the restof my life. But
we must never forget her—never.’?

He shrank as though she had touched an aching nerve.

“When I do forget her,’ he said, “I shall forget the
very angels in Heaven, and even Heaven itself.”

Then, after some minutes, he bent down and whispered:

“Silvia, [should so much like to see my son.”

Her face flushed hotly. The little babe, who had been
deserted, who had been neglected, whose little life had
been considered a burden, was now of so much conse-
quence. He would, some day or other, be the great and
inighty Lord Dynecourt; that little, half-forgotten Cyril,
who had never been loved or cherished by any one save
herself.

“Will you bring himto me? My only gleam of comfort
in all this trouble is that I shall have a son to be, I hope,
a comfort and a blessing to me.”?

“T will bring him,’’ said Silvia, and she kept her word.

In a few days she returned, taking with her the beauti-
ful, blooming boy, who bore so greata resemblance to
Lord Dynecourt. He had never been so touched in all his
life as when he saw Cyril. Tears rose to his eyes, warm,
blinding tears.

“And this is my boy,” he said, in a broken voice.

Silvia was too generous to reproach him. She did not
say, “Yes; the boy you left to the mercy of the world.’
But Cyril raised his beautiful, fearless eyes to his father’s
face. R ‘

‘‘Are you my papa?’ he asked. “I did not know that
[had one. I thought he was dead.’

“Will you try to love me, Cyril?’? he asked, after a short
pause. .

“Yes; but I never can love you one half so much as my
dear mamma; you will not expect that.

Whien Lord Dynecourt was able to be removed he asked
to be taken abroad. But before leaving England he sent
for Lady Voyse, and made her a full confession of all that
had happened, She did not add to his misery by any re-
proaches; she saw that he felt keenly enough all that had
happened, and she forebore.

He also feit for the gentlemnan who had beljeved himself
to be ‘Lord Dynecourt’s_heir;’? every néedful proof of
Cyril’s legitimacy was laid before him, and, greatly disap-
pointed though he was, he was obliged to own that Silvia’s
son must succeed his father. Then Lord Dynecourt sent
for his lawyers, and made every arrangement for the fu-
ture.

After that he went to Italy fora time, and there Silvia
joined him; and all that people knew was that Lord Dyne-
court had married again, and that his second wife was, if
possible, more beautiful and more gentle than his first, It
was not for long years afterward, whenit was known
that Cyril was to succeed him, that an inkling of the true
state of the case was mage known; tnen Lord Dynecourt
was dead, and of his widow no questions were asked.

One thing that Lord Dynecourt did made Silvia very
happy. He made hier tell him all that had passed when
she received his letter; he learned then how dearly she
had loved him, when the loss of him had driven her al-
most to death.

“I must go and see that Mr. Douglas,” he said, “he de-
serves ny thanks, and he shall haye them. He saved for
me my wife and son.’? .

He went, and was so profuse in his gratitude, so
munificent in his presents, that the good minister never
knew want again while he lived. Lord Dynecourt forgot
no one who had ever been kind to his wife—they were all
rewarded.

Was Silvia, Lady Dynecourt, happy? No one ever knew.
She devoted her whole time and thoughts to her invalid
husband; but to those who Knew aud loved her best,
there was something of sadness in the fair face, a shadow
in the sweet eyes, that did not tell of unalloyed content.
lt was not a gay life, there was not even much amuse-
ment in it, but it was filled with active duties, and to some
that is the happiest life of all.

Mrs. Greville did not marry again; and when Silvia re-

 

 

Silvia, can you

a

court, they became greater friends than ever.
made many friends and no enemies.
considered a very fortunate man by a!l who knew him.

England. daceatba de
CHAPTER LXXVII.

 

turned, to take her place in the great world as Lady Dyne-

Her elevation gave pleasure to every one, for she had
Lord Dynecourt was

He lived ten years after his marriage, and died leaving
his wife one of the most beautiful and wealthy women in

Open.the papers and read whose name comes almost
‘first in all the lists of charities; see who is patroness of
every institution that has benevolence for its object; see
who has founded those magnificent homes for the young

 

and the friendless; she whoespouses so warmly the cause
of the lonely and sorrowhl; she whose vast fortune is
more than half spent on otlers, and those others the poor
and needy—Lady Silvia Dyrecourt’s,

During her husband’s ifetime she concentrated her
thoughts and attention on lim. She studied the duties of
her high position, and filledthem so as to excite the es-
teem and admiration of all yho knew her. She was one
of the queens of society; ye no home duty was ever ne-
giected. She held one of the most brilliant positions in
England, yet the simplicity, the purity, the modest grace
that had always distinguisled her, clung to her still, and
won for her the most adminng and affectionate love.

That noble and exalted lady, whose life the poet tells us
is all pure and serene, had the highest opinion of Lady
Silvia Dynecourt; no one vas more frequently invited to
Court, or more highly welcomed there.

The time came for her, asit comes for all others, when
the sorrows of her life becane to her more a sad memory
than a bitter reality; whenthey faded before the active
duties that left her no time for regret.

One of Lady Silvia’s favorite haunts was the picture gal-
lery at Dynewold House. She never entered without
thinking of Lady Clotilde’sprophecy, aud wondering if
the gray shade really hovered there. It was by her spe-
cial wish that the magnifcent portrait of Lady Clotilde
was placed there by Lord Lynecourt’s side.

Those who have once seei that-picture never forget it.
It is of Lady Clotilde, in allthe pride of her calm, patrici-
an beauty; but there is something about it that rivets
one’s attention as no otherpicture ever does. Thereisa
light on the brow—in the twilighi it looks almost like a
halo—a light such as one sees in the faces of martyrs, a
something of heroism in ihe clear eyes. One feels in-
stinctively that it isa pic.ure of a truly noble woman, a
woman With a grand soul, oue capable of highest heroism
and greatest deeds,

It was norare thing far Lady Silvia, when she went
there in the gioaming, to find her husband there; to see
him standing looking at the picture, with gaze intent.

She never spoke to him cn those occasions, but would
go up to him and place one arm round his neck; together
they would look’ upon tha: noble faoe, and ther turn in
silence away.

They never forgot her; her memory seemed almost like
a living presence among them. Every day brought some
fresh meution of her, It was rather as though she lived
again in Lady Silvia than had died from earth.

During those ten years that Lord Dynecourt lived with
his beautiful and devoted wife by his side, he in some
measure redeemed the faults of his youth. Disabled and
crippled, he could not take ny very active part in life;
bul under the guidane¢e of Lady Silvia, he did what he
could. He became famous for his charities, for his sup-
port of all liberal and generous measures, He found in
the son he had once abandcned the greatest comfort and
consolation. Cyril grew up, beautiful alike in person,
mind, and soul. The honors of the Dynecourts could not
have fallen into more.noble hands.

Then, when Basil Lord Djnecourt died, Cyril succeeded
him, and he bids fair to become, in a few years, one of the
leading men in England. For long he refused to marry;
his love for his beautiful mether was something wonder-
ful tosee. He declared that until he could find some one
like her he would never marry. This season there is a
rumor that the Duke of Hartieigh’s youngest daughter,
the lovely, genule Lady Blanche, will soon be Lady Dyne-
court. ’

Lady Silvia lives at Dynewold House—it is seldom that
she goes into the country; she is busiiy engaged now in
founding homes for the hone!ess young girls who are
thrown on the world; she spares no expense, no trouble,
no labor, and she has by her charities saved more young
girls from destruction than could be counted.

If there be one class to whom’ she is more merciful,
more cousiderate, more gentile than another, it is to those
who have been duped and deceived by the selfishness of
men.

Beautiful, honored, and beloved, we leave her. Her
story might have been different, but Heaven was good to
her; and through many perils aud tribulations she was
led into the more pieasant paths of life—paths where no
one fulfills duties more noby, more patiently than she
who was “THROWN ON THE WORLD.’?

[THE END.]

>o~<

WORKING
HOR WAGHS.

By Julie P. Smith,
Author of “TEN OLD MAIDS,”’’ etc., etc.

[‘‘Working for Wages” was commenced in No. 31. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]
? CHAPTER X.
JESSIE AND JACK JUMP THE ROPE.

The next day a steady rain was dropping, but, that did
not hinder Percival Pendragon from going down to the

 

 

dience, no whit of shame, and she made nota movement
their springing
double step, going on till Eustace thrust out the point of a

ment to desist from the steady tap of

mischievous umbreila. '

‘How stupid of you, Marplot,” said Jessie, angrily;
I don't

“we would have gone on ever So much leuger.
feel a bit tired—do you, Mr. Jack?”

“If you were my child 1I’d shut you up on bread and
water, as a lunatic,’? exclaimed Aunt Mabel. ‘I never
heard of such doings,”

“ButTam not your child, auntie; I don’t love bread
and water, and I wouldn’t stay shut up, because my good
uncle Win would let ine free.”’

“So bold!’ said Mrs, Gumrill. “Look at her ankles.”

“So romping,’’ chimed in Miss Winchester, ‘and in
sucli company, too. Pity she husu’t a futher and mother

“Yes, it is, Penelope Ann, dear,’’ answered Jessie. ‘‘You
ouglit to be thankful that you are fixed out with all sorts
of relations,”

“You quiet, nagging Jess,” said litle Tom, seizing his

“She's a
She mends our

sister’s dress and giving it a pull and a@ shake,
trump to help a fellow out of scrapes.
tears, and that’s what you never do,
sister, you ain’t,’?

“We'll get Bob and Kit over,’ and do so ourselves,”
planued Blanche, instantly inspired with emulation, which
she worked off in a few preparatory hops, while her swing-
ing arms propelled au imaginary rope. ‘Jess will show
us how; won’t you, Jess???

Lampert Calidore walked away as soon as he saw what

was the siiow he had been dragged down to witness. He
came unwillingly as escort to Honoria; and as that spright
ly lady had still her hand within his arm, he carried her
back to the house in his company by sheer force of will.

“Is this letter for you, Jack ?”? squeaked Pendragon
when the jokes and disagreeables had a little subsided.
“The post-office fellow said you took out all the letters
With this address, though I don’t see through it. W. D.C.
Dempster isn’t inch ike Jack, is it ?”?

“It is for me, thank you, sir,” answered the farm-hand,
quickly taking the missive, and darting a keen look at his
Jate partner, who had not heard the colloquy, as he put it
in the pocket of his blouse.

“You sport two names, I see,
dare say, to folks of your stripe.”

Percival, though emboldened;by the farm-handa’s respect-
ful manner, and the cloud he conceived him covered with,
skipped nimbly behind Aunt Mabel, as he caught his
threatening eyes.

“Most as nice as yourtwo voices—sometimes up and
sometimes down, like the frogs that sung ‘Colonel Dyer
and Elderkin, too,’”’ piped up Tom, stepping to the front
and reproducing a fac simile of the sportive Batraciiians,
who so frightened the good old gentleman above-named.

“I shall feel obliged, ladies, if you will permit me Lo shut
you out of my domain,” said Mr, Jack. “Having taken
my exercise, ] must proceed to a little fancy carpentry |
have in hand, which requires undivided attention. Miss
Jessie, When you feel inclined for another rope-skip, I am
at your service, Wilh many thanks for a delightful half-
hour.

Mr. Jack rather put them forth than otherwise, taking
leave with his duke’s bow, and adding:

“Shall I hunt the eggs and fetch tllem up for you, Miss
Wilmerding?”

“Thank you, no,’? she answered; “I am going to the
other barn to look after my dorkings.”?

She took the basket he had picked up, and turning
proudly away, she disappeared among the hay racks,
while the others returned to the house, still further to dis-
cuss the affair.

¢

Quite convenient, too, I

CHAPTER XI.
JESSIE GETS ABSOLUTION.

When Mr. Winchester came home, Jessie seized on hi
and detailed the whole occurrence. ;

“Now, Uncle Win, what wasthe harm? I might play
billiards all day with either of those young gentlemen if I
could stand their neighborhood so long, and nobody would
think of remarking upon it; and if thereis any fanit you
shan’t visit it upon our scholar, because it was my own
doing. Lam too ready to amuse myself, I know, and I
had a mighty merry morning, till that spiteful little wretch
contrived to upset it all. He never can leave Mr. Jack
alone—venomous toad! Mr. Jack behaved beautifully. I
kuow he was very sorrow for my annoyance, but lie never
threw back a word of abuse to all their nagging, and
Aunt Mabel as good as told him he was a low-born crea-
ture. He stood just as straight as a poplar, and his face
was quite grand and beautiful to see. You ought to hiave
been there, Uncle Win. All the while Pereiope was spil-
ting at him, he only looked smilingly at her, and when she
stopped because she couldn’t think of any more mean
things to say, he made her such asplendid bow. ‘If you
have quite fluishead your charming remarks,’ said he, ‘]
shall feel obliged if you will let me go on with my work.’
He is a beautiful jumper, Uncle Win—so graceful! You
shallcome down Lo the barn and see us, and tell me true
if you think 1 was indecorous, I shall goto town soon,
for 1 won’t stand being sent to coventry by these people
hep I haven't done anything wrong. Jtis too exasper-
ating.

Mr. Winchester assured his favorite that he had no fears
for her discretion; no doubt of her propriety; and pro-

 

village, and old Deacon had to be made ready for his use
atan early hour, He wasnot in a pleasant frame of
mind, and as Satan is always at hand to help poor hu-
manity from bad to worse, he probably sat beside the lit-
tle beau in the gig, wit } tucked ont of ht and
his tail curled away ‘him. At any rate no tes, |

 
 

   

thoughts rode down” a company. rage, malice,
spite, revenge, and their Confreres having full possession
of his being, and Mr. Jack was the center round which
they devilishly disported.

Jessie, alter finishing all her employments, put on her
gymnastic dress and waterproof; and, with a basket on
lier arm, started for the barn to hunt hen’s-eggs for a
meringue she meant to have for dinner. The truth is, she
felt uncomfortable under a lecture, or to speak plainly, a
scold she had gotten from Aunt Mabel on ler conduct of
the preceding day. The enforced stay on the lonely island
was magnified into marked impropriety, and the just lady
treated her niece as if Pendragon’s petty trick had beena
contrived plan of her own for procuring a lonely stroll in
the farm-hand’s company, aud the lunch on the rock,
though in full sight of the party, was the theme of a rasp-
ing overhaul. ;

Jessie straighly maintained her right to think for her-
self in such matters, and produced divers examples,
where Penelope had been not only permitted, but en-
couraged to spend whole daysin Percival’s society. She
left the matron’s presence very hot anda good deal dis-
turbed, and she had unfortunately missed her ‘‘confab,”
Mr. Winchester having gone to town on business in the
early train. ;

Jessie paused before the barn-door to listen to an odd
thwack! thwack! and to wonder what it coutd be. Curi-
osity getting the better of reserve,she pulled open the heavy
gate, and peeped in, and she clasped her hands in aston-
ishment at the sight shesaw. Mr. Jack was jumping the
rope! in the center of theclean-swept, smooth floor. The
sweet hay, piled roof-high in the great bays either side of
him, perfumed the place, and the farming implements
neatly arranged in the dim background, as the armor and
war-garniture of the old knights, were stacked and laid
by between their contents,

The laughter and vigorous applause of his audience did
not cause the acrobat to desist from his occupation,
though he asked quite soberly:

“Can you do this, Miss Wilmerding? Would you like
to take a try??? the thwack, thwack of the circling rope
going on With ceaseless pecision.

‘Indeed, | can,’’ cried Jessie, with enthusiasm, making
speed to advance, and let the door slam behind her. ‘I
can show youa much more difficult and amusing way
than that,’? she added, tossing off her waterproof. ‘But
don’t stop, pray, till you trip. There! L saw that jerk
coming; Now you are out of time!’

“T paused of my own volition, I assure you,’ replied
Jack, laughing. ‘l wish to Jearn your new method.”

“Very well; I’llsoon show yon. Now, take one end of
the rope while I take the other. thus—luckily it is a brave
long one—and we stand side-by-side, and turn and step
together. Put your left handupon yourhip as Il-do my
right as if we would dance a hornpipe.. Now, then, be-
gin. Count your time at first, til you gét the rhythm of
the movement.”?

It was an odd,sight, certainly, but a very agreeable one
—the uplifted heads, joyous faces, and gracefully spring-
ing motions of the young pair. Mr. Jack proved an apt
scholar, and it needed but a couple of trials before he was
perfect in ‘‘double trip, single skip and sideways shufile.’’
The consonant foot-taps advancing, retreating, one, two,
three, ‘‘keeping time—time—time in a sort of Runic
rhyme.’ It was evident that Miss Jessie thoroughiy
understood the exercise, and heartily enjoyed it.

Meanwhile Percival Pendragon had accomplished his er-
rand, Whatever it was, and returned to Esperanza, bring-
ing the family mail, and as he drew in Deacon before the
stable, he too heard the twhack, thwack, mingled with
the murmur of merry voices, and he also stopped to
listen.

“What the duse is going on in there? That Rawbones
can’t be threshing. Whateveritis, there is fan mixed,
and lil be sworn Jessie Wilmerding is in it.”

He peeped carefully through a crack, retaining a whole-
some unwillinguess tothrust himself uninvited into the
company of the mighty shaker.

“By the jumping John Rogers!"? whispered he, between
a squeak and a muiter, “this is t00 good to enjoy alone.
1 must call out the rest—it deserves a full house.’?

He pranced swiftiy off—sought out the family, and
gathered them for ‘ta raree show in the big barn, wiih
Miss Jessie’s compliments."?

He had some trouble to move Aunt Mabel from her
rocking-chair; but a mixing of motions effected the end.
A new reason for scolding the girl, and a fresh cause of
complaint to her linsband set her off, and she suffered
herself to be inducted into her mantle and escorted under
her desired son-in-law’s umbrella.

Much wonder and many guesses preceded the opening
of the door, all of which were received by Percival with
squeals of enjoyment, those inside being oblivious of the
whole proceedings.

Aunt Mabel actually shivered, when, after a pull or two,
the little pioneer conquered the portal which swung slow-
ly and unwillingly aside. Widow Gumrill rolled up her
eyes at the sight revealed. Miss Jessie’s glossy hair was
streaming over her shoulders—her cheeks were blazing
and her black eyes were lighted with mirth. Yes! the
misguided girl was actually jumping the rope with. the
farm-hand! The pair were iaughing. They had both
handsome white teeth, vivid color, agile, lithe limbs, and
he looked quite as well in his blue embroided blouse and
tucked-in trousers, as she did ih her bright-lued, fanciful,
gipsyish dress. The shapeliness of his foot in. his well-
made boots was quite as patrician, as hers in her trim
buttoned balmorals. There was a degree of vexation in

 

mised to have a talk with his wife on the subject—but as
she left him he experienced a certain amount of uneasi-
ness. he had never felt before; and the ding-dong Aunt
Mabel often poured into his ears seemed to have an un-

You’re no kind of a

EW YORK WEEKLY. #2—

 

nest by some untoward accident. She picked it up and
held it in one warm hand, covering it with the other, and
turned overin her mind the feasibility of caging and
keeping it, with Mr. Jack’s assistance. It ultered a plain-
live peep occasionally, half-comfort, half-discontent, and
tried her fresh lips with’its bill when she lifted it to her
mouth for a caress. She got so. much pleasure out of
cuddling the Tithe wail thatslie did not notice the ap-
proach of footsteps Over the soft, springy road ull Wat
Waylaird was close to her. ;

He was leading a black horse, which had one ankle
swathed in bandages aud limped painfulty, carrying its
head close to the ground, Wat stopped as soon as he
| saw her, looking her over with @ habitual glance of gen-
eral inquiry. :

"Is Donny up yonder, miss?” asked he,

_ *You mean Mr. Jack, lsuppose? No, he has gone to
the village.”

“YeseJack the giant killer. I gave him the name, but
L had no idea it would stick to hin this long. I wonder I
did not meet him,’ he added, looking backward over the
way he had come. ‘I want to seé Donny; I want to sell
hin) this mare, She’sa beauty. 1 bought her for half asong
of a New York sport who was up ‘here last week. You
see, miss, slie got her foot caught im her stable floor, and
andin pulling it out she dug aspike into her ankieso deep
that the joint-water run out. He cursed his Juck, and as
she was no good to him I got her for twenty doilars; she
was worth a cool thousand before her accident. I think
Donny can cure her; he’s a great fellow among horses,
She’s half Arabian, bred from one of the mares the
Grand Pacha sent over to Washington for some of the
soreeamens fellows. She’s as fleet as a deer, and as kind
as a girl.

The beautiful beast, which was exaclly what Wat de-
scribed her, limped up to Jessie, and after smelling her
hands and face and dress, taking a nibble off the pome-
granates in her hat, thrust her nose into her pocket.

“She is hunting for sugar,’ explained Wat. ‘Well,
you are not afraid, I see. 1 do respect a woman who
doesn’t fear a good horse.”

‘‘1like horses,” replied Jessie, concisely, while a descrip-
tion of Abdallal’s Barbary horse, which she had read
to Mr. Jack, flitted through her mind as she looked over
the pretty beast—her limbs as clean as a grayhouna’s, her
head like a war-horse, rather long and thin, well-lined
with cords underneath, slim neck, pointed ears, and nos-
trils red as blood. She showed the young lady the whites
all around her full eyes once or twice when she suddenly
moved, and threw up her head with swift motion. She
rested her lame ankle on the other foot, and filled her vast
ne with a deep draught, which came forth ina loug
sigh.

“Wind allright,’ said Wat. ‘If I had a good place to
keep Tilpah, I wouldn’t part with heranyhow. She’s
worth money fora breeder, even if she never trots any
more.’

“T want a horse to ride,” said Jessie, ‘‘and if I thought
| she would get well l’d buy het myself. Is she broken to

the saddie ?”?

“That's just what she is broken to. You couldn’t find
her like by looking a week. I believe she can be cured.
If she can’t, you won’t lose much. Til sell her for just
what I gave—twenty dollars.”

“Very well. Take her up to the honse and I'll pay you .
the money. I only hope Mr. Jack won’t laugh at me.??

Before she had risen to her feet Mr, Jack appeared,
walking his horses slowly into sight; and the instant he
espied the young lady he drew rein, in some surprise.

“Dye bought me a horse, Mr. Jack,’’ said Jessie, hur-
riedly—“‘a lame one, which you are to cure for me—hal
Arabian, fleet, sound and kind. Look! isn’t she pretty 2”?

The farm-hand listened to her, and looked at the ani-
mal without interrupting, while she.ran on volubly laud-
ing her purchase, till Wat Wayiand turned about and
showed his face, when his brows contracted,

“Is that your Gealer ?’ asked he.

“Yes; he was coming to find you, hoping to make a
sale; but I took a fancy to Tilpah, and she is mine. I
know you can heal her—can’t you? You know 1 want
to learn to ride.”

“Wat,?? said Mr. Jack, severely, “if you are up to any
trick, you had better drop it; L wen’t suffer this young
lady to be imposed upon.” f

“She made the trade, Donny; I didn’t think of such a
thing; aud I must say 1 respect her for the sense she
showed. I told lier truth, as you can see for yourself—I
haven't made a dime.”

Mr. Jack jumped down, took off the bandages, and close-
ly inspected the leg, while Jessie watched him anxiously,
waiting for his flat, as ifhe held in lis palm the life of
the pretty creature,

“A shocking cut,’ was his verdict, “and mueh inflamed;
“but I will undertake a cure, Miss Jessie. I believe you
are right, Wat. She isa beaaty; but you will need pa-
tience, Miss Wilmerding, before your mare is fit for use.’?

“T’ve got plenty of patience,’ replied Jessie, composed-
ly. “Ishallepjoy seeing her get well just as much as
any part of the ownership, and shall have time to make
good friends with her. I shall have her sliake hands, and
dance the polka, and carry my whip, and kneel down—’?
“In short, she takes for the present the place ef the
beautiful orphans.”’

“Precisely, Mr. Jack—except this one,?? showing him
the bird in her hand. ‘You must build a house for him
directly.”?

“What will you do with all your pets when the summer
is gone, and autumn comes to break up the Esperanza
party ??

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wikio pale : ¢ iP "

at if Jessie should fall in love with this fellow, of
whose antecedents he knew nothing, and whose poverty
was patent. He resolved to use his senses, and observe
closely the bearing of the pair toward each other.

Miss Wilmerding kept her room and cried a good deal
that afternoon, and was only tempted forth by a gorgeous
sunset showering its splendor upon her, flooding her dor-
mer-windowed nook to its remotest corner, and causing
the solitary meditator’s face to glow and soften in spite of
her keen disgust with the whole of humanity, and her in-
cipient resolutions never to hear of anything worth living
for in the wide world any more.

She found Mr. Jack harnessing*the horses to the depot
wagon, preparatory to going after a lot of luggage be-
longing to expected guests.

‘“Won’t you drive down, Miss Wilmerding?’ asked he,
cheerily, scanning her closely while speaking and work-
ing, Without seeming todoso. “lt is a beautiful even-
ing.”? ;

eNo, thank you, I cannot; and I must also lose my Ger-
man lesson, I perceive.’ :

“Not lose, ouly postpone, Miss Jessie. I will be back in
plenty of time for the irreguiar verbs. I hope you are
perfect in them.”*

“No, Mr. Jack,’’ replied Jessie, shaking her head sadly,
“J’m not perfect in anything. I’m afraid 1 was very hoy-
denish this morning. Aunt Mabel.is in a dreadful state
of mind, and Penelope smirks and sneers, that chirping,
chippering, restless widow makes side-remarks about
rope-dancers, aud Honoria teazes. I feel as if I coulad——
But, Mr. Jack, didn’t we do a long trip on that double
shuffie?”?

The farm-hand saw with wonder the quiet transition
from gloom to brighiest sunshine, as she lifted her eyes
full of smiles to his.

“J suppose on Aunt Mabel’s theory,” she continued,
“jt must have been wrong, because I enjoyed it so much;
and nearly everything 1 do like mostis wrong in her
creed. Oh, well, Mr. Jack, I’m sure lam. very sorry.”’

“Miss Jessie, if my opinion is worth anything, pray let
me assure you there was nothing unseemly or iniproper
in the bit of exercise you did so very admirably this morn-
ing. You certainly are as safe, and as much in the right
place, skipping the rope on a clean barn floor, with an
honest, right-minded fellow who wouldn’t harm you for a
thousand worlds just like this, for your partner, as swim-
ming about your aunt’s parlor encircled by Percival Pen-
dragon’s arm; and that you know would procure you no
reproof nor beget any remarks. Right is right, Miss
Jessie.”

“You are mistaken,”’ answered Jessie, blushing slightly,
and liking the fullfstrong voice, and the straightforward,
plain speaking. ‘‘I shouid come in for plenty of words in
such a case. Penelope would be horribly jealous, and
Aunt Mabel would decidedly pull me over the coals; and,
Mr. Jack, you don’t understand just how it is looked upon
by my circle, and—and I can’t explain either.”

“Spare yourself the trouble, limpiore; I comprehend
the minutest bearings of the case. But don’t think me
presuming if I set before you the patent fact that while I
labor with my hands every day in the employ of a master
who has the right to order me, there is a wide difference
betwixt me and Hans or Garry. “It would be impossible
for you to give them one instant of your pleasant society,
because you have nothing in common with them except
the five senses; but J can be of service to you in several
ways. J know more about some things thau you do. Al-
though you study your lessons in the parlor, you come to
me in the kitchen, figuratively speaking. That is, you de-
scend to my estate—you come down to my pleasant bal-

and able to afford.
so Well, upon the themes which most deeply interest and
vitally concern you, with those young gentlemen up yon-
der as you do with me. Now, Miss Jessie, let me ask you
aplain question. You iiave seen me, daily, for a good
many weeks. Have you ever seen me do anything ill-
bred or unbecoming a man?’

“Nothing, indeed,’? spoke up Jessie, quickly; ‘no one
can lay anything to your charge except——”

“Well, speak it out, Miss Jessie; you can’t offend me.
Except what ??

“Your poverty,’ replied she, looking down; ‘‘your sub-
ordipate position.’

‘AViien I return we will come to an understanding as to
what poverty is,’ answered the farm-hand with kindling
face. “Zvegard Percival Pendragon as a poor wretch,
lacking all things, even with his thousands. Meanwhile,
good pupil, please study faithfully. I hope to get to Italian
before the harvest moon wanes. Let me be thankful that
poverty of culture is not laid to my charge. Lil pardon
the rest.’

 

CHAPTER XII.
JESSIE BUYS A LAME HORSE.

teacher’s bidding, while he guided his horses down the
mountain on his employer’s errand, his mind fuil of the
spirited, handsome woman he had left, and who was hola-
ing. so large ashare of his attention, his hopes, and his
plans for the future.

After conning the lesson till quite perfect in it, Jessie
tied on her hat and set out fora stroll down Puney lane,
and walking around the hill she climbed again toward
home till she reaciied the Lombardy poplars, where she
sat down to rest. They were tail trees, shooting straight
up toward the sky, From the top of Esperanza plane you
could just see their spires, and yet Jessie looked into a

cony to get help and teaching, which Tam _ both willing
I doubt if you ever speak so freely, or

Most willingly and obediently Miss Jessie did her

 

day is the evil thereof. Come, let’s go home.’? ‘
“Couldn’t you pay me here, and then I could go right

down ?”? asked Wul, who seemed glad to get rid of going
on. “She'll lead like a child. You can just fasten her to
the wagon.”

“Yes, do,’’ said Jessie, ‘and Mil ride home; I’m tired.’”

“We shall have to walk our horses very siowly, Miss
Jessie,’ said Mr. Jack, counting out the money, more
pleased than he wished to show with the arrangement.
“Don't forget our little talk, Douny,’? remarked Wat,
as he stepped off: ‘‘I can suit you to a dol.”
Jessie had a good finish to her day after all, for the
farm-hand told her some long stories about Kentucky
horses and Kentucky life, so that the way seemed very
short indeed, and she was not a bitdisappoinied, though
she had to omit her German in order to follow her teach-
er, in his new role of doctor, to ie stable, aud see Tilpal
groomed and bedded down.

{TO BE CONTINUED.]}
>O@—~<

Items of Interest.

gras A practical joke ended fatally near Penn Yan,
ashort time -since. The joker,named Edward Cole, called at
night at the house of his_ brother-in-law and intimate friend,
George Pierce, and on being asked what he wanted, replied:
“Your money or your life.” No attention being paid to him,
Cole effected an entrance through a window, and was seized by
Pierce, who, not recognizing Cole, drew a knife and cut Goie’s
throat, the knife severing the jugular vein. He exclaimed: “My
peor wite and children!’ and died.

gaz There is a Canadian family employed at the
mills in Brunswick, Me., that consists of father and mother and
twenty-four children, all the children large enough being at
wor The woman is the fourth wife. A brother of the hus-
band, living with his fifth wife, in Montreal, has twenty-five
children. Three families arrived at Brunswick, recently, to go
to work in the mills, and they numbered, all told, thirty-seven
persons. Ten, and twelve, and fifteen children are by no means
uncommon in the French Canadian families.

aa A veteran of the war of 1812, Moses George,
of Dansville, N. Y., extracted from his groin on the 28th of May
ast, a bullet, buried there by the rifle of an Indian, at the bat-
tle of Chippewa, on the 5th day of July, 1815. The old soldier,
who has passed his 80th year, was rejoiced to get his eyes on the
bullet that had worried him so long. It did not return by its
original entrance, but came to the surface about four inches
above, and was taken out by the veteran himself without the
aid of instruments.

xa William Ross* who died a short time since in
Bloomington, Ind., was in his 117th year. Gov. Dunning’states
that he knew Mr. Ross more than fifry years ago in North Caro-
lina, and that he was a venerabdle-looking old gentleman at that
time. His recollection is distinet that his father was a year or so
- the junior of Mr. Ross, and as his father would have been about
116 years old, had he lived till now, it follows that Ross’s state-
ment of his age was correct.

xa A remarkable freak of nature occurred at the
moutii of the Mississippi river on the night of the 28ti of April.
During the night, at Pass-a-l’Outre, and near the channel, there
suddenly arose an island, with an area of about eight acres, to
the hight of eight feet and more. This occurred in aspot where,
the day before, there was an unbroken surface of water, without

nomenon.

Bar A dreadful tragedy occurred lately in France,
an insane man killing no lessthan six persons. He first attacked
the cure of the ‘parish, who was returning from visiting some
sick, and clove hisskuli withan ax. He then obtained possession
of a reaping-hook, and, flying at all he met, struck down five per-
sons. A seventh, who attempted to assist them, had his wrist cut
off. .He has been sent to the insane asylum at Orleans.

saz For purposes of identification (of criminals,
for example) it is suggested that it is only necessary to get a dis-
tinct photograph of the palm of one’ hand, taken in a strong
oblique light, so as to bring out the markings strongly. This, it
is claimed, will be found inamap never alike in two persons;
ee isguise short of actual disfigurement can do away with the
difference.

xax- Alfred Spear, while in a state of intoxication,
returned to his house, in Rockland, Me., and shot his wife with a
pistol, the ball taking effect in her face. As she rushed from the
room, with her infant in her arms, he fired asecond time, the
ball this time entering her shoulder. Thinking he had accom-
plished his purpose he shot himself through the head, but the
woman will recover. :

ka The western boundary line between_Connec-
ticut and the State of New York, is still in dispute. In 1860, the
Assembly of New York adopted as the boundary a line reported
to them by the Commissioners of New York, but without the
coneurrenée of Connecticut. The question will have to be set-
tled by the U. S. Supreme Court.

xa Coaching is becoming popular in London
again. Some halt-dozen four-in-hands leave Piccadilly every
morning for various places from twenty-five to forty miles dis-
tant from the metropolis, and the scene witnessed in front of the
hotel from which they start recalls the memery of the old coach-
ing days. ;

yar Rochester, N. Y., claims to produce more
flour to day than she ever did before, and_more of the higher
grades than any other city in the United States. Six hundred
coopers find employment in making barrels for the flour manu-
factured there.

naz A Berlin paper mentions a trick now very
successfully practiced by the sellers of blooming plants. The
camellias and tulips make a fine show in the pots ard fetch hand-
some prices, but when the purchase is taken home the flowers
are found to be attached to the stalks with fine wire. -
sa The circumstances attending the loss of the
steamship Schiller were such, it is now said, that if the captain
had escaped death he would haye been put upon his trial for
manslaughter.

 

deep valley, and over wooded hills and shining brooks. A

 

her face and some confusion when she discovered her au»

halfefledged robin fluttered to her feet, pushed out of its

discovered near Palerme, Sicily, The sulphur runs from the
fissures in a rock at the rate of forty or fifty tons a day.

the slightest indication of the occurrence of such a strifnge phe- ~~

ka A mine of liquid sulphur has been recently .

 

Sap OMNCO RRC

Steg TENNER: PRATT wet FEY OF cecemaiiiadeadianas ee goat

 

 

—\

 

 

 

 

j
4
,
;

= manliinati menSnn —n

Tat aa

ne

een

 

¢
:
t +
\
4 de %
u

~~

lt

ox x\*

®

 
oNve

 

 

Se

4

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

=} ——

THE LONE WATCHER.

BY MARY J. WINES.

Oh! sad I sit by a lone hearth-stene,
Where the fire burns low and dim,

While the howling storm in a solemn tone,

With notes of grief like a human moan,
Shrieks out a fearful hymn.

°Tis a wild—wild night, and I cannot sleep.
For my soul is filled with dread;

i must lonely sit and pray and weep

For the fragile barks on the troubled deep,
Till the appaling storm has fled.

A black mist vail hides the beacon light, *
And the breakers thunder loud;

Death sweeps his scythe o’er the sea to-night,

And the raging waves with their foam hands white
Weave many an ocean shroud.

There’s a mournful whisper haunts my brain,
Like the parting knell of joy;
Dear God! are my wild prayers allin vain ?
Shall I never fold to my breast again
My brave young sailor boy.

A weird light shines on the cottage floor
Like the ocean’s ghastly glare,

And a host ef shapes come trooping o’er

That break like waves on a rock-bound shore,
And a ship seems pictured there.

Now my heart leaps up with a frantic fear,
As the mystic shadows rise ;

And 1 hear a sound, or I seem to hear,

Like the voice of one to my soul most dear,
Blending with anguish cries.

What furious thrills through my heartstrings creep.
Ah! the storm has wrecked the bark.
As the moyntain billows o’er it leap,
And in fragments small its timbers sweep,
Naught is left the spot to mark. ;
Do I sleep and dream, or does faney rave,
That my mind should roam so wild ?
I can think of naught but an ocean grave,
Of a sinking bark which no power can save,
God help my wandering child.

THE CASH BOY.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

 

{“The Cash Boy” was commenced in No. 27. Back numbers
tan be obtained of any News Agent in the United States. |

CHAPTER XXXY.

¢ FRANK AND HIS JAILER.

When Frank came to compare what he had just heard
with the death-bed revelation of his mother, he was led to
regard such a supposition probable. It was probably
Johu Wade himself wio committed him to the care of
Mr. and Mrs. Fowier, and then represented to Mr. Whar-
ton that he was dead. The description which Mrs. Fowler
had given of this man accorded with Jolin Wade’s ap-
pearance. The motive for the crime was apparent. It
removed the only obstacle to Wade’s succession to his
uncle's vast estate, aud from what Frank Knew of him,
he was quite capable of such a piece of treachery.

If this supposition were the correct one the treatment
which he had received from Johim Wade was expiained.
He had recognized our hero by his resemblance to his de-
ceased cousin, aud dreaded that the discovery of his real
claims to the fayor whichhe had accidentally obtained
might yet be made,

What was to be done?

This was the important question which our hero was
called upon to solve, and he fuund it hemmed in with dif-
ficulties. He was a mere boy, without money, and with-
out friends or worldly experience. He-had powerful en-
emies, as his present situation sufficiently proved—ene-
mies who would resist him desperately at every step. The
prospect did not look encouraging, but our hero was not
easily daunted. His courage rose with the occasion, He
resolved to get speecii of Mr. Wharton, and tell lim the
whole story, relyiug upon his former kindness and his
sense of justice to give him fair play.

But before he could do this, it was necessary that he
should escape from confinement. This he had satisfied
himself he could do by breaking the windows, and letting
himself down to the ground. This, however, would be
attended wit considerable noise, and could not be effect-
ed in the night when a number of persons were in the
house. He must wait till the nextday.

The thought occurred to him whether he could not ob-

tain the co-operation of the housekeeper, wlio evidently
a x

decided Lo make the attempt, first telling her his Story,
and the plot which had been coutrived against him.

From time to time he heard sounds in the next room,
and, peeping through the crevice, saw three other men,
all of suspicious appearance. The scraps of conversation
to which he lisiened clearly showed that they belohged to
the law-breaking class of the community. :

While sttll in the closet, he heard a noise at the doot of
his room. He hurried out and closed the closet door just
in time to avoid the suspicion of Nathan Graves, who un-
locked tlre door, and entering sat down, and regarded our
hero with a malicious smile,

“Well, my lad,’? he said, “I hope you are enjoying your-
self’?

“You don’t expect I shall enjoy myself shut up here, do
you?” questioned Frank. ; :

“Why not? You've got board and lodging here, with
nothing On earth to do.”

“That's what I complain of.

“You want to go to work do you?”

«| would rather do the lhumblest kind of work than stay
here in confinement,”

“Tam afraid you don’t appreciate my paternal care,’’
said Graves, maliciously.

“J dont,” answered our hero, bluntly.

“fg there any thing more I can do for you, youngster ?”’

“There’s one thiug you can do for me.”

“What's that ??

“‘Let me out.’? :

“Sorry to refuse you,” said Graves, crossing his legs,
and leaning back complacently, ‘‘but you must ask some-
thing else.”

“Why amIkept here? What is your object??? asked
Frank, directly.

“Children are aptto ask too many questions. .I can’t
tell you.”

s«*You mean you won't.”

“0, well, it comes to the same thing,
sist upon it.””

“What advantage can you derive from my being here ?”?

“That’s another question J can’t answer. Now suppose
we turn the tables. I'll ask you a few questions.”?

“| may refuse to answer.”’

“Of course, but you had better think twice, and answer.
Perhaps, after hearing what you hhave to say, 1 may con-
clude to let you go.”

“He wants to find out whether I am the boy he sup-

oses,”? thought Frank, “Shall l answer his questions?
Shall I lethim know that heisright? No, it won’t do.
It will only give him fresh reason to keep me here. If he
thinks lam only a poor boy, the son of a country carpen-
ter, he may conclude that there is no use confining me
here.”?

This passed through his mind in a moment.
swered, after a brief pause:

«If you choose to ask questions, I will probably answer
them.”?

«That's right,’? said Nathan, with satisfaction.
is your name ?”’

“Frank Fowler.”

“Where were you born ?’’

“‘My parents lived in the town of Crawford, not very far
from the city ?”

“‘What was your father’s business?

‘He was a carpenter,"?

“Is he still liviug?”

“‘No; he died some years ago.”

“Js your mother living ??

“She too is dead. She died a few months since.”

<Humph! Have you any brothers or sisters ?’?

<‘] have one sister—Grace.”

«‘Where is she ?”’

«She is living in Crawford.”?

«What made you come to New York 2"?

<7 wanted to earn my living.’

“Was that your only object ?”?

yes; what other object could I have?’

“J didn’t Know but you might have some relations in
the city,’’

“Not that [know of. I wish Ihad,’?

«What did you find to do in the city ??

“] was a cash boy in a Broadway store,
before.”

«Was that all???

“For a little while T was employed to read to a wealthy
gentleman up town.’?

“What was his name???

“Mr. Wharton.”?

Thusfar Frank answered freely, as he was aware that
Graves knew of his being with Mr. Wharton,

*‘How did you like Mr, Wharten ?””

“Very much. He was very Kind to me.’

“How did you get acquainted with him ??

Frank recited the clrcumstances.
jouer did you leave him as long as he was kind to

un?!

“His hephew and the housekeeper accused me of steal-
ing, and discharged me while Mr. Wharton was in Wash-
ington?’

“Was the charge a true one ?”?
my tifa," exclaimed Frank, indignantly. “I never stole in

“Of course not,’’ sneered Graves.
own that he is a thief,”

“Tf you mean to insult me, Ish m
tions,”’ said Frank, angrily.” Pe ne

“Well, | don’t Know that I have any more to ask. Yon
needn’t be angry, I will regard you as a paragon of virtue
if you want me to.”

x oe a erat S Mea but I don’t steal.”?

: right, and all the better for you,
young, you kuuw.” soa? bay die

Won't! if you in-

He an-

“What

I told you that

Nobody is willing to

 

cow names nate nema

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>

 

recess renee mena ec cucetn eat na

“] don’t think you were ever in much danger,’ said
Frank, significantly. ;

The minute he said it he was sorry, fearing that Graves
would be offended. But he only laughed.

“You've got a sharp'tongue, bov,” he said. ‘Never
mind, I'll forgive you The factis, you have hit the nail
onthe head. [ never was good enough to alarm my
friends about my health. What was the name of Mr,
Wharton’s nephew who sent you away ?”?

“Jolin Wade.”? 7

“I suppose you didn’t like him much ??

“T have no reason to,”?

“(J suppose he was jealous of his uncle’s taking so much
interest iu you.”

“Perhaps so, but it was mean to get up a false charge
against me.’’

“So it was. But I must bid you good night.
you'll have pleasant creams,”’

“Will you let me go to-morrow 27

“Let you go???

“Yes; from what I have told you, you can jndge that
there is no advantage in keeping me here. I am only a
poor boy. who wants nothing more than a chance to earn
his living.”

“You don’t need to earn your living while you are
here.” u

“J told yon before that I would rather earn my living in
the humbiest manner, than be kept 4 prisoner,

“I}] take your request into consideration, my young
friend,” said Graves, again smiling maliciously, ‘‘But the
fact is, l’ve taken a fancy to you. 1 feel toward you like
a father. I can’t bear to part with you.’’

“It's a strange way to slow your faucy for me—to keep
me locked up.’?

Nathan Graves laughed.

“Well,” he said, ‘Ill think of il, and let you know ina
few days. Good-night.”

“7 don’t intend to stay here afew days!" said Frank to
himself, as the door was closed and carefully locked by
his jailer. “I shan’t be here to-morrow nigiit, if there is
such a thing as getting away.”

I hope

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE ESCAPE.

It was eight o’clock the next morning before Frank's
breakfast was brought him. He had heard sounds, as of
people walking about, for an hour previous, and rightly
judged that the housekeeper had been under the necessity
of waiting upon them first.

“J am sorry you have had to wait,’? she said, as she ap-
peared at the door with a cup of coffee, and a plate of beef-
sieak, and toast. 1 couldn’t come up before.”’

*‘T shall have the better appetite,” said Frauk,
the men gone away ?””

“iYies.?

‘All of them ?”?

‘Yes.??

“Then IT have something to tell you.
minutes ?*

“If you wish it.’? ;

“7 learned something about myself last night. I wasin
the closet, and heard the man wiio brought me here talk-
ing to another person. May I tell you tie story?”

“If you think it will do any good,” said the housekeeper;
“but I cannot help youif that is what you want.”

“T will ask your advice at any rate,’ said our hero.

He told the whole story—first that which his supposed
mother had revealed to him, next liis connection with Mr.
Wharton, and finally the purport of Nathan’s conversa-
tion. As he proceeded, the housekeeper betrayed in-
creased, almost eager interest, and from time to time
asked him questions, in particular as to the personal ap-
pearance of John Wade. When Frank had described him
as well as he could, she said in an excited manuer:

“Yes, it is—it must be—the same man.”

‘The same man!’ repeated our hero, in surprise. ‘Do
you kuow him ?”’

‘} met him once,’ said the housekeeper, slowly.

“Do you know anything about him???

“I know that he is a wicked man.”

‘Do you think I am right in suspecting that he has
formed a conspiracy to defraud me???

“Think so? Lam sare of it?”

“How can you be sure? Do you know anything about
it?’ demanded Frank, in surprise. :

‘Tam afraid that I have helped him carry out his wick-
ed plan, but I dia not Kuow it at the time, or I never
would have given my cousent.’?

“J don’t understand you,” said our hero, puzzled.
**Will you tell me what you mean ??

‘How old are you?” asked the housekeeper, abruptly.

“Fifteen.?

“Fourteen years ago I was very poor—poor and sick
besides. My husband had died, leaving me nothing but
the care of a young infant, whom it was necessary for me
lo support besides mnyself. Enfeebled by sickness, I was
able to earn but little, and we lived in a wretched room
in a crowded tenemeut-house. My infant boy was taken
sick and died. AsIsat sorrowlfuily beside the bed on
which he lay dead, I heard a knock at my door. I opened
it, and admitted & man whom Il afterward learned to be

“Have

Cau you wait five

 

John Wade. Hevery soon explained his errand. He
agreed to take my poor boy, aud pay ali the expenses of

sane res

“Thank you. Iwill get awiy as quick as possible, and
when we are in the city we wil talk over our future plans,”?

With the help of the hatchit, Frank soon demolished
the lower part of the window. Fastening the rope to the
bedstead, he got out of the wudow and safely descended
to the ground.

Then with rapid step and hit one backward glance, he
struck across the fields. Wien he reached the highway
he ingnired for the nearest nilway station. A long and
fatiguing walk lay before iim. But at last he reached
the cars, and half-au-hour Jatr the ferry at Jersey City.

CHAPTE? XXVIT.
NATHAN GRAVESIS OUTWITTED.

Frank thought himself out pf danger for the time being,
but he was mistaken.

Standing on the deck of tie ferry-boat, and looking
back to the pier from whichit had just. started, he met
the glance of a man who hac intended to take the same
boat, but had reached the per just too late. His heart
beat quicker when he recogtzed in the belated passen-
ger his late jailer, Nathan Gaves. The recognijion was
mutual. As Nathan caught sight of the boy, whom he
had left in close imprisonmeit twenty miles away, he
was tempted at first to doubithe evideuce of his seuses.
But it was evident from Fraik’s surprised Jook that it
was indeed he,

Carried away. by his raje and disappoiniment, he
clenched his fist and shook itit his receding viciim. As,
however, there were Many mssengers besides our heiv
on deck, no one knew that hewas meant.

“fhe man is mad because he boat weno without
iim,’? said a man beside Frans, laughing.

Frank laughed, also, perceiwng Which Graves shook his
fist more furiously.

“Whatafoolhe is making of himself,” said the first
speaker.

Our hero, without undeceving him, walked into the
cabin. He wanted a chance W deliberate. He Knew that
Nathan Graves would foRow lim by the next boat, and it
was important that he shouldnot find him. Where was
he to go?

He at once understood .thit he must not walk freely
about the streets, as he woulc be. in constant danger of
recoguition, aud though Graves had no right to’ molest
him he did not know Lo what lengths such an unscrupu-
lous man might go. He might cause his arrest on a false
charge of theft, and this woud interfere with his plans.

On the whole, he decided to go at once to ihe address
given him by the housekeepa,, and there await her arri-
val, since he was not prepare] to carry out his plans until
she could co-operate wiih hin.

Meanwhile Nathan Graves vas in a state of equal rage,
surprise, and dismay. :

“How could. the boy have got away ?”? he said to him-
seli. “I can’t understand, Ileft tiie door fast locked, and
Ihave the key in my pocke. Even if the housekeeper
proved treacherous she could not open the door.”

He thought of the windows

‘But the windows are securely nailed,’? at once occur-
red to him.

Speculate as he might, hcavever, one thing was clear,
the prisoner had escaped andhe must face that fact.

“John Wade will be furibus,” thought Nathan. ‘I
wish 1 could keep the matter concealed from him, but I
don’t dare to. He might mee the boy in thestreet. Itis
better for me to let him know at once, and take the couse-
quences. But first, 1 will wak about the streets and see
if I can meet the young rascal. If 1 do,J will get him into
my hands again by fair meani or foul.’

Nathan Graves walked the pier with impatient steps
Waiting for the arrival of thenext boat. lt never seemed
so long in coming. The otherboat he could see was nearly
across. It was too far for him to distinguish the face or
form of his late captive, evenif the latter had not, as we
have recorded, gone into thecabin.

But at last the boat arrived A crowd entered, and with
them Nathan Graves. But there was @ still farther trial
of his patience. Six minutes elapsed before the boat had
discharged its passengers ind taken on board a fresh
freight, aud during this tim? Nathan paced the forward
deck excitedly, looking Over to the New York shore as if
his unaided sight would enadle hiin to track the move-
ments of the boy of whom he was in pursuit.

“Wiiat the devil keeps then here!l’’ exclaimed Nathan
to himself. ‘“Jast when lam in the greatest iiurry they
wait longer than usual. Hoy can I find that young rascal
in the crowded streets of New York? While I am «-
tained here he will have ampletime to escape. Oh, if I
had only been two minutes earlier, and taken passage on
the last boat, I'd have given tie young beggar a surprise.
I'd have taught him to run away.”

But the longest delays dq not last forever. Fifteen
minutes after Frank set foot on the peer, his enemy also
landed. But now the dificult part of the pursuit began.

had taken.

“Il go up to Printing Hiuse Square,” he decided.
““He’s as likely to go there as anywhere.”

For an hour and a half he walked the streets in the im-
mediate neighborhood of the square, but his labor was
without reward. Not a glimpse could he catch of his late
prisoner.

 

his burial in Greenwood Cemetery, provided IL would
not object toany of his arrangements. He was willing
besides to pay ine two hundred dollars for the relief of
mae cnaenieemeneic EEE De. ant
grief for my child's loss, and Unough Us was a very tee
orabie proposal L hesitated. 1 Gould not understand aa
a stranger should make Me such an offer.
the reason.

“You are in need,’ he-said, ‘andJ have the means of
relieving you. Is that not sufficient?)

“J shook my head,

“Jam sure,’ I said, “that you have some secret motive
in doing me this Kindness.’?

“+sPerhaps L have,’ he answered. ‘Even if this is the
ease, it is Bone the iess your interest to accept it.’

“] should like to Kuow why it is that you befriend me,”?
I said.

““*You ask too much,’ he answered, appearing annoyed.
‘| have made you a fair offer, Will you accept it, or will
you leave your child to have a pauper’s funeral ??

“That consideration decided ne. For my child’s sake
lagreed-to his proposal, and forebore to question him
further. My consent obtained, he fulfilled his part of the
agreement. ‘The child was buried at Greenwood, the
siranger and myself followit~ as mourners. He provided
a handsome rosewood casket .or my dear child, but upon
the silver plate was inscribed a name that was strange to
me—the naine of Francis Wharton.”

“Francis Wharton!” exclaimed Frank,

“Yes. lasked the meaning of this. He answered that
I had no right Lo object, having cousented to leave all the
arrangemeults in his hands.

“sWilit make any difference to your child,’ he said,
‘thatit is buried under another name?’

“7 was too weak and sorrowful to make opposition,
and my baby was buried as Francis Wharton. Not only
this, but a monument is erected over him at Greenwood,
which bears this name.”

She proceeded after a pause:

“IT did notthen understand his. object. Your story
makes it clear. He wished to have it undersiood that
Francis Wharton, whose life stood between him and a
great inheritance, was dead. 1 think. that you are that
Francis Wharton, under whose name my boy was
buried.”

“How strange!’ said Frank, thoughtfully, “I cannot
realize it. But how did you Know the name of the nan
who called upon you ’”’ .

“A card slipped from his pocket, which [secured with-
out his knowledge.”?

“How fortunate that I met you,’’ said Frank. “I mean
10 let Mr. Wharton know al) that L have learned, and
then he shall decide whether he will recognize me or not
as his grandson. It will bea hard fight, for Jolim Wade
is unscrupulous, and he will defeat me if le can.”

“T will help you,”’ said the housekeeper.

“You will??? exclaimed Frank, joyfully.

*] will,’ she answered firmly. ‘I have been the means
of helping to deprive you of your just rights, though un-
consciously. Now that I know the wicked conspiracy in
which I assisted, | will help undo the work.”

“Thauk you,’ said Frank, extending his hand, which
the housekeeper took. “The first thing is to get out of
this place. Cau you help me?”

“] cannot open the door of your room. They donot
trust me with the key.”

“Then 1 must get out some other way.
are not very high from the ground,
the outside.”

I asked him

The windows
Ican get down from

 

 

“You will falland break your neck, or your limbs,”’
Said the housekeeper, shuddering.

She was a woman, and to her it seemed a formidable
and dangerous undertaking.

“Lam notafraid; Ican swing off,’ said Frank, ‘but
tne windows are nailed down. That is the chief dimfi-
culty.”

“Then you cannot get out.’?

“Yes Iocan. Ican break the sash.”

“Can 1 help you?

“Can you give me a hatchet 2”?

“Yes; there is one below.
good?”

“Yes; Icantieit to something in the room and let
myselfdown. Then I shall avoid the danger of falling.’

“Will a clothes-line do?’?

*Capitally.’?

“J will bring you a clothes-line and a hatche”’

She went below, and quickly reappeared with the ar-
ticles she had named.

Frank received them with exultation.

‘Before | attempt to escape,” he said, “tell me where
I can meet youin New York. I want youto go with me
to Mr. Wharton’s. I shall meed you to confirm my
story.”

“| will meet you to-morrow at No. 15 B—— Street.”

“Shall i get you into trouble with the men here? I
shounid not like to do that.”

“Do not fear. When I leave this house Ishall not
come back again, It has grown hateful tome. 1came
here because I had no other resource. Now I have
seventy-five dollars which I have saved up from my
wages. It. will provide for me tilll.can get other em-
ployment,’?

“Then we shall meet to-morrow 2?

“Perhaps to-night. Ishall wait an hour after you are
gone, and theu 1] will go myself. Have you any money ?”’

“No,’? answered Frank. ‘That is, I have only a few
pennies.’

“I will give you five dollars. You will need money.”

*¥ do not jike to take it. You have but little yourself.”

“You shall repay me when you are able,”’

“TJ will take it on that condition.” .

‘You will not forget the number and street

“I have a paper and pencil, 1 will put it down,
shal I call your name???

“Mrs, Parker,”

Will arope do you any.

What

 

 

 

 

“I suppose I must go to see Mr. Wade,’’ he at last re-
luctantly decided. ‘He may be angry, but he can’t blame
me. I did my best. 1 couldn't siaud guard over the
young rascal all day.’?

es ae ren
LOVE
WORKS WONDERS!

[Love Works Wonders” was commenced in No, 30. Back num-
bers can be obtained trom any News Agent in the United States. }
CHAPTER XXY.

The wayin which the girl supported her disappoint-
ment was lofty in the extreme. She bore her defeat as
proudly as some wonld have borne a victory. No onecould
have told from her face or her manner that she had suf-
fered a grievous defeat. When she alluded to the change
in her position, it was with a certain proud humility that
had In it nothing approaching meanness or envy.

It did not seem that she felt the money-loss; it was not
the disappointment about mere wealth and luxury. It
was rather an unbounded distress that she had been set
aside as unworthy to represent the race of the Darrells—
that she, a “‘reaP? Darrell, had been forced to make way
for what,in her own mind, she called a **baby-faced
stranger,’’—that her training and education, on which her
dear father had prided himself, should be cast in her face
as unworthy and deserving of reproach. He and his
artist-friends had thought her perfection; that very ‘‘per-
fection’? on which they had prided themselves, and for
which they had so praised and flattered her, was the’ bar-
rier that had stood between her aud her inheritance.

It was a painful position, but her manner of bearing it
was exalted. She had not been a favorite—the pride, the
truth, the independence of her nature had forbidden that,
She had not sought the liking of strangers, nor courted
their esteem; she had not been sweet and woman}y, weep-
ing with those who wept, aud rejoicing with those who
rejoiced; she had looked aronud her with a scorn for con-
ventioualities that had nes sat well upon one so young—
and now she was to pay she penalties for all this. She
knew that people talked wbout her—that they said she was
lightly punished, justiy treated—that it was a blessing for
tive Whole county to have a proper Lady Darrell at Darrell
Court. She knew that amongall the crowds who came to
the Court there was not one who Synipathized with her,
or who cared in the least for her disuppointment. No
Darrell ever showed greater bravery than she did in her
manner of bearing up under disappointment. Whatever
she felt or thought was most adroitly coucealed. The
Spartan boy was not braver; she gave no sign. No hu-
uiiliation seemed to touch her, she carried herself loftily;
nor could any one humiliate her when she did not humil-
iate herself. Even Sir Oswald admired her.

“She is a true Darrell,’? he said to Miss Hastings; ‘what
a grand spirit the girl las, to be sure!"’

The Court was soon ove scene of gayety. Lady Darrell
seemed determined to enjoy her position. ‘There were
garden-parties at which she appeared radiant in the most
charming costuines, bails where her elegauce and delicate
beauty, her thoroughbred grace, made her the queen; and
of all this gayety She took the lead. Sir Oswald lavished
every luxury upon her—her wishes were gratified almost
before they were expressed.

Lady Hampton, calling rather earlier than usual one
day, found her in her luxurious dressing-room, surrounded
by such treasures of silk, velvet, lace, jewels, ornaments
of every description of the most costly and valuable kind,
that her ladyship looked round in astonishment.

“My dearest Elinor,’? she said, ‘what are you doing?
What beautiful confusion!”

Lady Darrell raised ler fair face, with a delicate flush
aud a haif-shy glance. :

‘Look, aunt,’? she said, “I am really ovetwheimed.!!

“What does it mean?? asked Lady Hampton.

“It means that Sir Oswald is too generous.. These large
boxés lave just atrived from Paris; he to!d me they were
a surprise fut te--a present from him. Look at the con-
tents—dresses of all kinds, lace, ornaments, fans, slippers,
gloves, and such articles of luxury as can be bought only
in Paris. 1am really ashamed.”

“Sir Oswald is indeed generous,’ said Lady Hampton;
then she looked round the room to see if they were quite
alone. The maid had disappeared,

“Ah, Elinor,’ remarked Lady Hampton, “you are in-
deed a fortunate woman; your iines have fallen in pleas-
ant places. -You might have looked all England over and
not have found such a husband, Lam quite sure of one
thing—you have everything a woman’s heart can desire.’

“J make no complaint,’ said Lady Darrell,

“My dear child, l should imagine not; there are few wo-
men iv Eugland whose position equals yours.”

“T know it,’? was the calim reply,

‘And you may really thank me for it; Icertainly workec
hard for you, Elinor, | believe that if I had not interferea
you would have thrown yourself away on that Captain
Langton.”

“Captain Langton never gave me the chance, aunt; so
We will not discuss the question.”

“It was avery good thing for you that he never did,”
remarked her ladyship. ‘‘Mrs. Bretherion was saying to
me the other day what a very fortunate girl you were—
how few of us lave our heart’s desire.”

“You forget ove thing, aunt. Even if have everything
I want, still my heart is euipty,’? said the girl, wearily.

Lady Hampton smiled.

“You must have your little bit of sentiment, Elinor;
but you are too sensible to let it interfere with your hap-
piness. How are you getting en with that terrible Pau-
ped if do dislike that girl from the very depths of my

eart.

 

 

she were weary of the discussion.

He had absolutely no elue as to Ue direction which Frank _

 

Lady Darrell shrugged her delicate shoulders.

“There isa kind of armed neutrality between us at
present,’ she said. “Of course, Ihave nothing to fear
from her, but I cannot help feeling a little in dread of her,
aunt.’

‘‘How is that??? asked Lady Hampton, contemptuously.
“She isa girlI should really delight to thwart and con-
tradict; but, as for being afraid of her, I consider Framp-
ton, the butler, a far more formidable person. Why do
you say that, Elinor?”

“She has a way with her—I cannot describe it—of
making every one else fee! small. I cannot tell how she
does it, but she makes me very uncomfortable.”

“You have more influence over Sir Oswald than any
one else in the world; if she troubles you, why not per-
suade him to send her away ?”?

“IT dare not,’ said Lady Darrell; ‘besides, I do not think
he would ever care to do that.”

“Then you siiould be mistress of her, EHnor—keep her
in her place.”’

Lady Darrell laughed aloud.

“I do not think even your skill could avail here, aunt,
She is not one of those girls you can extinguish witha
frown.”

“How does she treat you, Elinor? Tell me honestly,”
said Lady Hampton.”?

“Tecan hardly describe if. She is never rude or inso-
lent; if she were, appeal to Sir Oswald would de very
easy. She has a grand, lofty way with her—an imperious
carriage and bearing that F really think he admires, She
ignores me, overlooks me, and there is a scornful gleam
in her eyes at times, when she does look at me, which
says more plainly than words, ‘You married for money.’ ”’

“And yon did avery sensible thing, too, my dear. I
wish, Louly wish I had the management of Miss Darrell;
I would #reak her spirit, if it is to be broken.’?

‘“*] do not think it is,** said Lady Darrell, rising as though
“There is nothing in
her conduct that any one Could find fault with, yet I feel
she is my enemy.”?

“Wait a while,” returned Lady Hampton; “her turn
will come.”?

And from that day the worthy lady tried her best to
prejudice Sir Oswald against lis proud, beautiful, way-
ward niece.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Does Miss Darrell ever show any signs of disappoint-
ment?’ inquired Ludy Hampton one day of Miss Has-
tings.

Miss Hastings, although she noticed a hundred faults in
the girl which she would fain have corrected, had never-
theless a true, strong and warm affection for her pupil;
she Was not one therefore to play into the enemy’s hand;
and, when Lady Darrell fixed her eyes upon her, full of
eagerness and brightened by curiosity, Miss Hastings
quieily resolved not to gratify her.

“Disappoiutment about what??? she asked.
understand you, Lady Hampton.”

“About the property,’?? explained Lady Hampton, im-
patiently. ‘She made so very sure of it. I siali. never
forget her insolent confidence. Do tell me, isshe not
greatly annoyed and disappointed ??

“Notin the way you mean, Lady Hampton.
never spoken of such a thing.??

Her ladyship felt piqued; she would have preferred to
hear that Pauline did feel her loss, and was grieving over
it. In that case she would have been Kind to her, would
have relented; but the reflection that her pride was still
unbending annoyed her, and she mentally resolved to try
ifshe could not force the girl into some expression of her
feelings. It was not an amiable resolve, but Lady Llamp-
ton was not halurally an amiable Woman,

Fortune favored her. That very day, ag she was leav-
ing the court, she saw Pauline standing listlessly by the
lake side feeding the graceful white swans.. She weut.up
to her with @ malicious smile, only half-vailed by her pre-
tended friendly greeting.

*How do you do, Miss Darrell? You are looking very
melancholy. There is nothing the matter, I hope?”

For any one to attempt to humiliate’ Pauline was sim-
ply a wasie of time; the girl’s natural character was so
dignified that all.attempts of the kind fell through, or told
most upon her assailants. She answered Lady Hampton
with quiet politeness, her dark eyes hardly resting fora
moment upon her.

‘You do not seem to find much occupation for your
leisure hours,’? continued Lady Hampton. ‘You are
making the round of the grounds, }suppose? ‘They are
very beautiful. lam afraid that you must feel keenly how
much my niece has deprived you of,”

It was not a lady-like speech; but Lady Hampton felt
irresistibly impelled to make 1t—the proud, defiant, beau-
liful face provoked her. Pauline merely smiled; she had
self-control that would have done honor to one much older
and more experienced. ¢

“Your niece has deprived me of nothing, Lady Hamp-
ton,’”? she returned, with acurl of the lip, for which the
elder Jady could have shaken her. ‘I possess one great
advantage of which no one living can deprive me—that
is, the Darrell blood runs in my veips.””

And, with a bow, she walked-away, leaving her lady-
ship more angry than she would have cared to own. So
Paulive met all her enemies. Whatever she might suffer,
they shoujd not triumph over her. Even Sir Oswald feit
himself compelled to yield to her an admiration that he
had never given before.

He was walking one evening on the terrace. The wes-
tern sunbeams, lingering on the grand old building,
brightene@icinto beauty, Flowers, trees and shrubs
were ail in Welr fnviest Joveliness. Presently Sir Oswatd,
leaning over the balustrade of theterrace, saw Pauline
sketching in the grounds below. He went to her, and
looked over her shoulder. She was just completing a
sketch of the great western tower of the court; and he
was struck with the vivid beauty of the drawing.

“You love Darrell Court, Pauline?” he said, gently.

+ She raised her face to his for aminute; the feud be-
tween them was forgotten. She only remembered that
he was a Darrell, and she his nearest of kin.

**] do love it, uncle,’? she said, “as pilgrims love their
favorite shrine. Itis the home of beauty, of romance,
the cra@ie of heroes; every stone is consécrated by a le-
gend. Love is a weak word for what I feel.’’

Iie looked at the glowing face, and for a few moments
a doubt assailed him as to whether he had done right in
depriving this true Darrell of her inheritance.

“But, Pauline,’? he said, slowly, ‘‘tyou would never
have——”’

She sprang from her seat with a quickness that almost
startled him. Sne had forgotten all that had happened;
but now it all returned to her with a bitter pang that
could not be controlled.

“Hush, Sir Oswald !’? she cried, interrupting him; ‘‘it
is too late for us to talk about Darrell Court now. Pray do
not misunderstand me; 1 was only expressing my belief.”

She bent down to take up her drawing materials.

“1 do not misunderstand you, child,’? he said, sadly.
You love it because it is the home.of a race you love,

*T do not

She has

and not for its mere worth in money.”

Her dark eyes seemed to flash with fire; the glorious
face had never softened so before.

“You speak truly,’’ she said: “that is exactly what I
mean.’’

Then she went away, liking Sir Oswald better than she
had ever liked himin her life before. He looked alter her
half-sadly. 4

“A glorious girl !’? he said to himself; ‘‘a true Darrell !
I hope I have not made a mistake.’

Lady Darrell made no complaint to hér husband of
Pauline; the girl gave her no tangible cause of complaint.
She could not complain to Sir Oswald that Pauline’s eyes
always rested on her with a scornful glance, half-ltamor-
ous, lalf-mocking. She could not complain of that
strange power Miss Darrell exercised of making her al-
ways ‘feel so small”? She would gladly have made
friends with Miss Darrell; she had no idea of keeping up
any species of warfare; but Pauline resisted all her ad-
vances, Lady Darrell had a strange kind of hajlf-fear,
which made her ever anxious to Conciliate,

She remarked to herself how firm and steadfast Panline
was; there was no weakness, no cowardice in her char-
acter; she was strong, self-reliant; and, discerning that,
Lady Darrell asked herself often, ‘‘What will Pauline’s
vengeance be?”

Tne question puzzled her far more than she would have
eared to own. What shape would her vengeance assume?
What could she do to avoid it? When would it overtake
her ?

Then she would laugh at herself. What was there to
fear in the wildly-uttered, dramatic threats of a helpless
girl? Could she take her husband from her?» No; it was
not in any human power to do that, Could she take her
Wealth, title, position, from her? No; that was impossi-
ble. Could she make her unhappy? No, again; that did
not seem to be in her power. Lady Darrell would try to
laugh, but one look at the beautiful, proud face, with its
dark, proud eyes and firm lips, wouid bring the coward
fear back again.

She tried her best to conciliate her. She was always
pulting little pleasures, little amusements, in her way, of
which Pauline never availed herself. She was always
urging Sir Oswald to make her some present or to grant
lier some indulgence. She never interfered with her;
even Wlhieli suggestions from her* would have been useful,
sie never made them. She was mistress of the house,
but she allowed the utmost freedom and liberty to this
girl, who never thanked her, and who never asked ler
for a single favor.

Sir Oswald admired this grace and sweetness in his
wife more than he had ever admired anything else. Cer
tainly, contrasted wilh Pauline’s blunt, abrupt frankness,
these pretty, bland, suav2 ways shone to advantage. He
saw that his wife did her best to conciliate the girl, that
she was always kind and gracious to her. He saw, also,
that Pauline never responded; that nothing ever moved
her froin the proud, defiant attitude she had from the first
assumed, ‘

He said to himself that he could only hope; in time
things must alter; his wife’s caressing ways must win
Pauline over, and then they would be good friends.

So he comforted himself, and the edge of a dark precl-
pice wis for a time eovered with flowers,

The autumn ana winter passed away, springtide opened
fair and beautiful, and Miss Hastings watched her pupil
with daily increasing anxiety. Pauline never spoke of
her disappointment; she bore herself as though it had
never happened, her pride never once giving way; but,
for all that, te governess saw that her whole character
and disposition was becoming warped. She watched
Pauline in fear. It circumstances had been propitious to
her, ifSir Oswald would but have trusted her, would but
have had more patieuce with her, would but have await-
ed the sure result of a little more knowledge and experi-
ence, she would have developed into a noble and magni-
ficent woman, she would have been one of the grandest
Darrells that ever reigned atthe old Court. But Sir Os-
wald had not trusted her: he had not been willing to
await the result of patient training; he had been impetu-
ous and hasty, and, though Pauline was too proud toown

 

—

it, the disappointment preyed upon her untilit completely
changed her. It was all the deeper and mote concentra-
ted because she made no sign.

This girl, noble of soul, grand of nature, sensitive, proud

‘}and impulsive, gave her whole life to one idea—ner dis-

appointinent and the vengeance due to it; the very gran-
deur of her virtues helped to intensify her faults; the very
Strength of her character seemed to deepen and darken
the idea over which she brooded incessantly by night and
by day. She was bent on vengeance. 7

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

It was the close of aspring day. Lady Hampton had
been spending it at Darrell Court, and General Deering,
au old friend of Sir Oswald’s, who was visiting in the
neighborhood, had joined the party at dinner. When dinner
was over, and the golden sunbeains were still brightening
the beautiful rooms, he asked Sir Oswald to show him the
picture gallery.

“You have a fine collection,’’ he said—“every one tells
me that; but it is not only the pictures I want to see, but
the Darreil faces. I heard the other day that the Darrells
were generally acknowledged to be the handsomest race
in England.” y

The baronet’s clear-cut, stately face flushed a little. ~

‘| hope Eugland values us for something more useful
than merely handsome faces,’’ he rejoined, with a touch
of haulewr that made the general smile.

“Certainly,’’ he hastened to say; ‘but in this age, when
personal beauty is said to be on the decrease, it is some-
thing to own a handsome face.””

The picture gallery was a very extensive one; it was
wide and well lighted, the floor was covered with rich
crimson cloth, white statues gleamed from amid crimson
velvet hangings, the walls were covered with rare and
valuable pictures. But General Deering saw a picture that
day in the gallery which he was never to forget.

Lady Hampton was not enthusiastic about art unless
there was something to be gained byit. There was noth-
ing to excite her cupidity now, her jast niece being mar-
ried, so her ladyship could afford to take matters calmly3
she reclined at her ease on one of the crimson lounges,
and enjoyed the luxury of a quiet nap.

The general paused for a while before some of Horace
Vernet’s battle-pieces; they delighted him. Pauline had
walked on to the end of the gallery, and Lady Darrell, al-
ways anxious to conciliate her, had followed. ‘The pic-
ture that struck the general most were the two ladies as
they stood side by side—Lady Darrell with the sheen of
gold in her hair, the soft luster of gleaming pearls on her
white neck, the fairness of her face heightened by its dain-
ly roseleaf bloom, her evening dress of sweeping white
silk setting off the graceful, supple lines of her figure, all
thrown into such vivid light by the crimson carpet on
which she stood and the backgronnd of crimson velvet;
Pauline like some royal lady in her trailing black robes,
with the massive coils of her dark hair wound round the
graceful, haughty head, and her grand face with its dark,
glorious eyes and rich ruby lips. The one looked fair,
radiant, aud charming as a Parisian coquette; the other
like a Grecian goddess, superb, magnificent, queenly, sim-
ple in her exquisite beauty—art or ornament could do
nothing for her. :

“Look,” said the general to Sir Oswald, ‘‘that picture
surpasses anything you have on your walls,”?

Sir Oswald bowed.

“What a beautiful girl your niece is!’ the old soldier
continued, “See how her face resembles this of Lady
Edelgitha Darrell. Pray donot think me impertinent, but
1 cannot imagine, old friend, why you married, so devoted
to bachelor life as you were, when you had a niece so
beautiful, so true a Darrell, for your heiress. I am puz-
zied now that I see her,”

“She lacked training,” said Sir Oswald.

“Training ?? repeated the general, contemptuously.
“What do you eail training? Do you mean that she was
not experienced in all the little trifling details of a dinner-
table—that she could not smile as she told graceful little
untruths? Training! Why, that girl is a queen among
women; a noble soul shines in her grand face, there is @
royal grandeur of nature about her that training could
never give. 1 have lived iong, but I have never seen such
a& woman.’? .

“She had such strange, out-of-the-way, unreal notions,
I dared not—that is the truth—l dared not leave Darrell
Court to her.”’

“J hope you have acted wisely,’ said the general; ‘‘but,
as an old frieud and a true oue, I must say that 1 doubt
it.??

“My wife, Iam happy to say, has plenty of common
sense,’? observed Sir Oswald.

“Your wile,’ returned the general, looking at the sheen
ofthe golden hair aud the shining dress, ‘‘is pretty, grace-
ful, and amiable, but that girl has all the soul; there is as
much difference between them as between a yolden but-
tercup and a dark, stately, queenly rose. The rose should
have been ruler at Darrell Court, old friend.”

Then he asked, abruptly:

“What are you going to do for her, Sir Oswald ??

“T have provided for her,’ he replied.

“Darrell Court, theu, and ail its rich revenues go to your
wife, I presume ?”

“Yes, to my Wife,’? said Sir Oswald.

“Unconditionally ??’? asked the general,

“Most certainly,” was the impatient reply.

“Well, my friend,’? said the general, “in this world
every one does as he or she likes; but to disinherit that
girl, with the face and spirit of a true Darrell, and to put
afair, amiable bionde stranger in her piace, was, to say
the least, eccentric—the world will deem itso, at any rate.
If I were forty years younger, I would win Pauline Dar-
rell, and make her love me. But we must join the ladies
—they will think us very remiss.’?

“Sweet smiles, no mind, an amiable manner, no inte
lect, prettiness afler the fashion of a Parisian doil, to be
preferred to that noble, truthful, queenly girl! Verily
tastes differ,’? thought the general, as he watched the
two, contrasted Lhem, and lost himself in wonder over his
friend’s folly.

He took his leave soon afterward, gravely musing om
what he could not understand—why his old friend hak
done what seemed to him a rash, ill-judged deed.

He left Sir Oswald in a state of great discomfort. O€
course he loved his wife—loved her with a blind infatua-
tion that did more honor to his heart than his head—bu&
he had always relied so implicitly on the general’s judg-
ment. He found himself lalf wishing that in this, the
crowning action of his life, he had consulted his old
friend.

Hie never knew how that clever woman of the world,
Lady Hampton, had secretly influenced him. He believea
that he had acted entirely on his own ciear judgment; and
now, for the first time. he doubted that.

“You look auxious, Oswald,’’ said Lady Darrell, as she
bent down and will lier fresh sweet young lips touched
his brow. ‘‘Has anything troubled you?”

“No, my darling,’’ me replied; ‘‘I do not feel quite wel
though.
all day—a strange seusation of pain too.
to-morrow.”?

“If not,? she said, sweetly, “I shall insist on your see
ing Doctor Helmsitoue. lam quite uneasy about you.”

“You are very Kind to me,” he responded, gratefullyz

sut all her uneasiness did not prevent her drawing the
whitelace round her graceful shoulders and taking up the
third volume of a novel in which she was deeply inierest-
ed, while Sir Oswald, looking older and grayer than he had
looked before, went into the garden for a stroll

The sunbeams were s0 loth to go; they iingered even
now on the tips of the trees and the flowers: they Jingered
on the lake and in the rippling spray of the fountuins. Sir
Oswald sat down by the lake-side,

Had he done wrong? Was it a foolish mistake—one
that he coujd not undo? Was Pauline indeed ihe grand
noble, queenly girl his friend thought her? Wouidshe
havé made a mistress suitable for Darrell Court, or had he
done right to bring this fair blonde strangerinto iis tome
—this dearly-ioved young wife? What would she do will
Darrell Court if he leftit to her? The great wisi of hig
heart for a gon to succeed him had not been granted to
him; but he lad made his will, and in ithe had lefi Dar
rell Court to his wife. :

He looked at the home he had loved so well. Al, cruel
death! If he could but have taken it with him, or have
watched over it from another world! But when ceati
came he must leave it, and a dull uneasy foreboding came
over him as to what he should do in favor of this 1do!ized
home,

As he looked at it, tears rose to his eyes; and then he
saw Pauline standing a little way from him, the proud,
beautiful face softened into tenderness, the dark eyes fuil
of kindness. She went up to him more affectionately
than she had ever done in her life; she knelt on the grass
by his side.

“Uncle,” she said, quietly, ‘‘you look very ill; are youin
trouble ?”?

He held out his hands to her; atthe sound of her yoice
all his heart seemed to go out to this glorious daughter of
his race.

“Pauline,” he said, in alow, broken voice, ‘I am think-
ing about yon—I am wondering about you, Have Ll dons
—i wonder, have I done wrong ?”?

A clear light flashed into her noble face.

“Do you refer to Darrell Court ?? she asked. ‘If you do,
you have done wrong. J think you might have trusted
me. Iliaye many faults, but lam a true Darrell. 1 would
have done full justice to the trust.”

“J never thought so,” he returned, feebly; ‘‘and I dia it
all for the best, as 1 imagined, Pauline.’

“| know you did—I am sure you did,” she agreed, eager-
ly; “L never thought etherwise. It was not you, unele. £
understand all that vw. 3 brought to bear upon you. You
are a Darrell, honorabvle, loyal, true; you do not under-
stand anything that is not straightforward. I do, because
my life has been so different from yours.”

He was looking at her with a strange wavering expres-
sion in his face; the girl’s eyes, full of sympathy, were
turned on him,

“Pauline,” he said, feebly, ‘if I have done wrong—and,
oh, I am so loth to believe it~you will forgive ine, my
dear, will you not ?”” i

For the first time he held out his arms to Jer; for the
first time she went close to him and kissed his face. It
was well that Lady Hampton was not there to see. Pau-
line heard him murmur something about ‘a trne Darrell—
the last ot the Darrells,”? and when she raised her head
she found tu.. Sir Oswald had fallen intoa deep, deadly
swoon.

Ishail be bettes

[To BE CONTINUED.]
—_—_——_>-0+__—

SUFFERING VIRTUE is powerfully portrayed in the
story of “‘A Woman’s TEMPTATION,” which is com-
menced this week. Read it, arid you’ will be so
pleased that you will advise your friends to do like-
wise.

 

Lhave hada dull, nervous heaviness about me -

 

 

 

 
 

 

:

 
 

=

=4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

PAOD rr soa lace dene NAN

NEW YORK, JULY 12, 18765.

 

 

 

  

he wanted the money so much, he’d let me have it for
three dollars a yardl”?

Chorus of ladies: ‘And you took it ??

Mrs. B., triumphantly: “No, indeed! I guess I. know
my business better than that! 1 told him I couldn’t possi-
bly pay so much! and that I guessed V’d go into Martin’s
and Jook at his stock. You Know those Jews are awful
cheats, and 1 counted on his coming down half a dollar!”

Chorus of ladies: ‘Yes indeed! Such cheats!??

Mrs.B.: *‘Aud he did come down to two dollars anda
half, and I took it!? ;

Mrs..A.: ‘‘How are you going to have it made???

Mrs. C.: “Oh, side plaitiugs and folds are lovely!?

Mrs. B.: “Elegant!”

Mrs. C.: ‘Have you seen Addie Smith’s new point lace

LS et Aa Te en i HO cae

In startling sentences stie readof the loss of the steam-
ship Schiller off the Scilly Isks, and concerning the
wholesale loss of life during tha ocean horror, and then
allatonce it dawned upon he that her beloved was a
passenger on board the lost shipl

The blood rushed back to her teart from every channel
in her body. She was white as death itself, The list of
saved was published on the folowing day. She felt in-
tuitively that he was lost from tle first moment that she
read of the ship’s Catastrophe,

And it was so!

For two nights Lisette had not filled her accustomed
positoin at the Varietes,

The manager came round in his carriage tothe Rue
Saint Honore,

I RS

 

: been away, had she assumed the responsibility of direct-
pel Sai trains, and she had always acquitted herself with
credit.

Old Whately was very proud of her, as he had a right to
be, and he kept all the young fellows at a distance, until
it Was sald that he intended keeping his daugitter single
till the Czar of all the Russians came on to marry her.

This night in-November, old Whately and Floss were
out on the piazza of their country home, peering through
the gloom and fog forthe signal lights of the Golosha
train, which was nearly due.

“It's devilish strange it dosen’t come in ‘sight!? said
Whately, laying down his night-glass in disgust. “It is
hard on to ten now! They ought to show their light round
Sprace Pond by this time! ~

e

 

 

 

 

tone; and Lillian could not but be appeased and restored
to her usual good humor,

came apparent, and so often it happened that Felix, in
his endeavors to prevent her having the slightest cause,
became so distaut in his manner to Lola that the poor girl
thought she had in some way offended him, and so sought
an opportunity to beg him tell her what she had done to
hurt or worry him. '

“Oh, Felix, if you are angry with me, if you will not
smile on and be kind to me, | shall droop and die like the
poor flowers that the sun shines noton, What have I
done to displease you? Oh! tell me, please! and what I
must do to gain your forgiveness?’

She had caught his hand, and was looking so pleadingly

But not many days passed before her jealousy again be-

‘| collar 3”? He was shown to her apartmerts by the good old wo- ‘You telegraphed them, father? You let them know | into hiseyes, What could he do but comfort the grieved
Saat. Se ab ae ca kt pe Chorus of ladies: ‘‘Has she got another?! man who acted as housekeeper, ; the Pay train was on the road?” asked Fioss, child? Then, forgetting everything else, he passed his
Mrs. C.: ‘Yes, and her father owes Mr. C. fifty dollars There lay upon the spotiess bed the dead body of “To be sure, And good Heaven! there is the head-light | arm around and drew her to him. Raising her little dark :
; Terms to Subscribers : or more! And they do say that the new doctor is paying | Lisette! The brasier of charcoal dust, by which means | of the Pay train now! See! not ten miles away, and run- | face caressingly up, he gazed earnestly into her glorious :
One month (postage free} 25c, | One Year—l copy (postage free).$3 | attention to her! And such ared head as she has got! | she had taken her own life, stood near the head of the | ning like the deyil, as it always does!” eyes, so full of love and trust, and said:
Evo moun Wiovectesage SOc, {2 copies... 5 | He won’t need any gas in his house if he gets her,” bed. She had waited only to assure herself of her lover’s He pointed with trembling finger down to the. valley “Never think again, my child, thatIam angry with
for ee a Hc hon eR. MRC cage * 20 Mrs. C.:. ‘Did you hear about Fanny Laue?” loss, and then had lighted that fatal firel She had died | gorge, where, far away, a mere speck in the gloom, couid | you. Think anything else, and know that you are very

 

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

IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure a
draft on New York, or a Pest-Oftce Money Order, if possible.
Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but al-
ways in @ REGISTERED letter. The registration fee has been re-
duced to eight cents, and the present registration system has been
found by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro-
tection against losses by mail. All Postmasters are obliged to
register letters whenever requested to do go,

In addressing letters to SrREET & SMITH, donot omit our Box
Number, By a recent order of the Post-office Department this is
absolutely necessary, to ensure the prompt delivery of letters.

ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO e
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors.
25, 27 29 and 31 Rose St.,N.¥. P.O. Box 4896

 

 

Fourth of July.

As Independence Day will be celebrated this
year on the fifth of July, our regular publication
day, we shall issue the next number of the New
YoRK WEEKLY next Saturday. It will containa
variety of matter suitable to the time; hence our
readers, by an early perusal of the New York
WEEKLY, willbe put in the proper spirit for the
enjoyment of the anniversary of the nation’s

birthday..
—_—____ > 6+ -_____

GENUINE POLITENESS.

Somebody has compared politeness to an air cushion; it
is trifling in itself, but eases a vast amount of jostling.
Politeness softens the asperities of life, and gives a charm
to society. It is the duty of every body to be polite.
Boors, like drones, have no business, either in the hive at
home, or the strife of life.

Genuine politeness seems to us to be inherited to a great
extent; at least, ibis more apt to be acquired at home than
from the study of books on etiquette. The latter are more
likely to make the fop and popinjay, provided there is a
lack of good sense and discrimination,

Good manners are not learned from arbitrary teachings,
80 Inuch as acquired by habit. They grow upon us by use.
A coarse, rough nature at home begets a habit of rough-
hess which cannot be laid aside among strangers,

The only way to be a gentleman is to have the feelings
of one; to be gentle in its proper acceptation; to be
elevated above others in sentiment rather than situation,
and to let the beuevoience of the heart be manifested in
the general courtesy and affability of the demeanor. An
arrogant man is a reproach to his species, and if over-
bearing in disposition becomesin time more despicable
to himself than scorned by his fellows. The truest self-
respect consists not in exacting honor that is undeserved,
but in striving to attain that worth to which honor is ac-
corded unsought.

We should be polite in little things. The true generosi-
ty of the heart is more displayed by minor deeds of kind-
ness than by acts which may partake of ostentation.

Good breeding is a guard upon the tongue. Kind words
are the circulating medium between true gentlemen and
ladies. The sourest temper must sweeten in the atmos-
phere of continuous good humor, A smiling face sheds
sunshine; a hearty laugh is contagious; benevolence and
Sympathy must underlie genuine politeness. There are
some men and women whio never seem to grow old for
just those reasons. They carry their youth about them;

 

Chorus: “No, indeed!’

Mrs. C.: “She's mittened Harry Boyd, and took up with
that young Sykes. And she’s got such an elegant velvet
cloak, and a set of sables, and a poult de soie walking
dress, trimmed with nine ruffles behiud and wide flung
in front}?

Chorus: ‘Well, I declare!’

Mrs. B.: “Oh, did you hear that Judge Stone was keep-
ing company with Widow Buell? And her husband not
dead a year!’

Chorus: “Shamefull??

Mrs. C.: ‘“Pnat is dreadful about Deacon Lucas, isn’t it?”

Chorus: ‘What? Do tell???

Mrs. C.: “Oh, Inever like to tell news, but my hus-
band’s sister Aune’s husband saw the deacon call Mollie
Berch one side at Layton’s party, last week, and whisper
to her, and Mollie blushed like a beet, and everybody
knows Mrs. Lucas 1s jealous! Poor woman!’

At this jancture we took our leave, and as we went ont
we heard, mellowed by the distance: ‘At his time of
iifel” “Shamefull’? “Four flowers and a puff behind!” “No
bustle!’? KATE THORN.

—_—_—__>-e+__

POOR LISETTE.

BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY.

 

 

All strangers visiting the great French metropolis are
sure to pass one or two evenings at the very pleasant es-
tablishment known as the Varietes Theater, and those
who have done 80 at any time within the last six years
will remember upon the bills the pbame of Lisette, Made-
moiselle Lisette, the favorite danseuse ef the company.
Aside from her remarkable beauty of features, ier ex-
quisite form, and her graceful expression in every depart-
ment of her trying profession, there was a certain pen-
siveness and native refinement about Lisette which chal-
lenged admiration. Perhaps it was im part the contrast
which she presented in this respect to her associates as .a
class that rendered her so noticeable.

It is a sad fact, and one that cannot be overlooked, that
the calling of a figurante in Paris is synonymous with dis-

the loss of virtue in any young girl who adopts this peril-
ous profession.
In the instance of Lisette, however, po one had ever
breathed a suspicion as it regarded her modesty and vir-
tuous conduct. She was a prominent exception to the
rule we have just referred to. She made no pretense to
any credit above her companions; she was devoted to her
art, and though her private life differed so much from
theirs, still she was universally popular.
Lisette was a blonde, a natural blonde. There was noth-
ing artificial in the profuse, soft, sunny locks that adorned
her head. There was no need of painting her large and
pensive eyes, even for stage effect. They were simply per-
fect—shaded by long and dark lashes which afforded an
effect of exquisite delicacy and loveliness,
The premiere danseuse of the Varietes was the idol of
scores of habitues at that popular establishment. Their
liberal offers of presents she always declined, except such
as were given before the public in the always acceptable
form of floral offerings. She was courteous to all, inti-
mate with none.
There was known to be a mystery hanging over her life,
but aH who knew her in the least, felt that there was nothi-
ing in the past or the present which could in auy way re-
fect upon her personal purity.

*“‘An angel might have stooped to see,

And bless her for her purity.”
For over six years Lisette had appeared aimost
nightly upon those boards, commencing us a tiny fairy,
being at first especially chosen: for her singular beauty,
and afterward continued because she exhibited such re-
markable aptitude for the stage, particularly as a dan-
seuse.
The ballet-master took pride and pleasure in teaching
so apt a pupil, and his endeavors were rewarded by com-
plete success. Lisette became astar, which would have
reflected credit upon any establishment in the French
metropolis, The manager also realized this, and volun-
tarily so increased her salary as to enable her to procure
every needed necessary in her stage costumes.
No one ever insulted Lisette by indelicate proposals.

“He comes too near who comes to be denied.”

Her self-respect insured for her the respect of others,

repute, and the association is one nearly Certain to entail }

by asphyxiation the night previous,

She lay peacefully with her bands across her bosom,
elasping his miniature!

/Poor Lisette! ,

She had cut out the account ofthe steamer’s loss.
truth was at once surmised.

She left a few penciled directions, giving up her
small purse, five hundred francsfor the expenses of her
burial, five huudred francs to hei kind old landlady, and
the rest to be equally divided among her former compan-
ions at the Varietes.

The inquest was called, and tie old woman who Kept
the house toid the following story.

“About seven years since an elderly lady, dressed in
widow’s weeds, caine and took therooms which have
since been occupied by mademoiselle. She kept her own
secret. She was poor, for this child, then but thirteen
years old, went nightly to the theater and came home at
midnight, after filling her javenik part.

“One night she Came down and asked me for a lighted
candle. They were too poor to turn candies. I gave her
the candle and followed her up stairs. 1 found the woman
dead, and the child occupied ia burning a quantity of
letters which she took from an old trunk. She said ‘my
mother has died, and charged me to burn these letters
Without reading them, I have done so.’ And then she
went and wept on the pillow of the dead woman!

“She knew not the name of either father or mother, and
she was entirely alone in the world, having no resource
Save ler profession as a danseuse, She wasalways good,
true and pious, and she Was to have married the Ameri-
can artist who was lost in the late steamship disaster off
the English coast.’ Such is the stcry now currentin Paris.
“Poor Lisette!”

The

TEN MINUTES BEHIND TIME.

From the Note-Book of an Old Engineer.

 

 

BY HERO STRONG.

 

In 52 there wasn’t a likelier fellow on the line than
George Kirke. ;

He was the soon of a poor man, and his mother was
dead. His father was a confirmed invalid of the rheuma-
tic order, and George played the dutiful son to him ina
Way that would astonish the young men of to-day.
Somehow, nobody kuew exactly how, George had man-
aged to pick up a good education, and he had polished it
off, so to speak, by atwo years’ course at a Commercial
College, which they tell me is a school where they teach
people something as is practical, and not them Greek
roots and Latin folderols that is drilled into young men’s
heads in our universities. I ain’tmuch in favor of col-
leges, I ain’t; for, without meaning disrespect to anybody,
I must say that most of the young nen that I have known
as has *‘gone to college,’? has come out not knowing a
grain more’n when they went in, unless the art of part-
ing their hair in the middle, and calling their father
“Governor,’? may be reckoned as extra knowledge,

Aud if I had sons, as sure as my name’s John Garth, ’'d
send’eminto the backwoods to learn to scalp Indians
and to hoe corn before Fd let em egonize through a four
years’ course at one of our fashionable universities for the
sake of getting A. B. writafter their names. :

But then most foiks ain’t like me, and every one has his
own ideas, and the country’s a free one,

Kirke began on the Stony Hill railroad when he was
about twenty-one or two year old, First he was a brake-
man. This railway business is a regular succession, and,
generally speaking, aman has towork his wayup. It
aim’t often that he gets right up to the dignity of a con-
ductor atone step, with the chance to pocket stray ten
cent scrips, and the privilege of helping all the good-look-
ing and well-dressed ladies out of the cars, and letting the
homely ones, with babies and bandboxes in their arins,
Stumble out as best they may, while he is engaged in
“talking to @ man.’?

George did his duty so well that he was soon promoted
to fireman, and after he had learned the workings of the
machine he was made engineer and given an engine.

This engine was one of the newest and best on the line,
atid was called the Flyaway, and George was mighty
proud of her, you may well believe.

I tell you, sir, your true engineer—one as is out-and-out

be seen a bright light, scarcely@ moving it seemed, but
those anxious watchers knew it was approaching at light-
ning speed, ;

Father and daughter looked at each other.

The truth was evident. For some reason the train from
Golosha was ten minutes behind time, and it would not
reach the siding at Dering’s Cut until the Pay train had
pas@ed beyond on to the single track! And then? Why,
there would be another item for the morning papers to
read under the head of ‘‘Appalling Railway Disaster!’ and
a few more homes would be rendered desolate, and afew
nore hearts would be made to mourn, :

Father and daughter looked at each other in dismay.

“Is there time ?”’ asked the old man, tremblingly.

“Selim can do it,’’ said Floss, quickly. “If I can reach
Leeds five minutes before the train—yes, two minutes—
all will be well. Do not stop me, fatherl’? as he laid a
hand on her arm. i

“But you must not go! It is dark and dismally lonely!
No, Floss}?

“I shall go, father! Selim knows only me, and you
could not ride him. 1 have ridden darker nights. And
he is the only horse in the stable!’ Don't you remember ?
The others were sent to town yesterday.’?

Before old Whately could stop her, he had ordered the
hostler to saddle Selim, and she was already buttoning on
her riding babit with rapid, nervous fingers.

The horse came pawing to the door. Floss sprang into
the saddle, leaned down and kissed her father’s forehead.
‘Pray Heaven to speed mel!’)she cried hoarsely, and
touching the horse with her whip he bounded down the
sharp declivity.

It was raining steadily now, and the gloom was intense,
but Selim was used to the road, and he was sure-footed,
and his rider was courageous. She urged him on at the
top of his speed, up hill and down, through Pine Valley,
over Pulpit Hill, and then she struck upon the smooth
road which stretched away to Leeds two miles, and
straight as an arrow,

She could see the headlight on the Pay train far ‘down
the valley, distinctly now, and to her excited fancy it
seemed but a stone’s throw away. Slie even thought for
& moment that she heard the grind of the wheels on the
iron traek, but nol it was only the soughing of the wind
in the pines.

On, and still on she went. Selim seemed to fly! One’
might have fancied that he knew his mistress was on an
errand of life and death. The lights of the station were
in view—nay, she even saw the station-master’s white
lantern as he_strolled up and down the platform—the
white lantern which was to signal the approaching train
—to tell them to go on, for all was weli! Onto their doom!
She dashed across the railway track, flung the reins to
an amazed bystander, and striking the white lantern
from the hand of the astonished official, she seized the
ominous red lantern from its hook, and springing upon
the track, waved it in the very teeth of the coming train!
Two sharp, short whistles told her that her signal was
seen, and amoment later the train came to a stop, and
the officers rushed out to learn what it all meant.

Floss told them ina few brief words, and one of the
men at the station went forward to confer with the train
from Golosha, which had not yet been telegraphed from
the next station beyond.

The man waited fifteen minutes before Kirke’s train
slid on to the siding, and it was then known that but for
the decision of one young girl the two trains must have
collided four miles beyoud Dering’s Cut!

When told the whole story Kirke looked at his watch.
The man from the Station looked at his,

Kirke’s was ten minutes behind time!

You wantto know how it happened. Certainly you
must have guessed. Halliday did it. A man was found
the next day who confessed to having seen Jack tamper-
ing with the time pieces in the engine house that night,
but he had thought nothing of it, he said.

Jack? Oh, he left town, and was last heard of in Aus-
tralia. His little game was not a success,

And Kirke married Floss Whately, else this story would
not have been told, because what would a story be worth
that did not end with a wedding?

 

A STORY TRUE TO LIFE is begun this week, onthe
first page. Itis entitled, ‘A Woman’s TEMPTATION,”

dear tome. If you were my very own sister I could not
love ace better. Now you will not worry any more, will
you

“No, no! Oh, Iam so glad! so happy! I wish I could
do something for you, Felix, to prove my gratitude. Per-
haps I may some day. I hope so——’!

There came then a quick, light step which they well
knew, and looking round, they met Lillian’s scornfal
glance, accompanied by the remark:

“Oh, excuse me. I see 1 am @elrop.”? :
She turned and walked haugitily away. ;
Poor Lola soon understood tlie trouble, the cause of
Felix’s restraint toward her, and the continual watch
that Lillian kept over his words, actions, and even looks.

She knew that there would be no more peace for Felix
while she was under the same roof witi him, and so she
went away. No one but Mrs. Ardeene knowing where.
Poor child. Sie dared not trust herself even for one
parting word with him for whd0se happiness she wag
leaving home, and the only friend she had save himself.
Preparations were soon on hand for the wedding, after
which a tour through Europe was intended.

But before the appointed day drew near the country was
convulsed with the whisperings of war.

Felix Ardeene felt that he could not leave his country
during suchatime. He plead for a speedy union, with
the promise of making the tour immediately after the
struggle was over, which would be but brie/, was the gen-
eral opinion. 2

But Lillian would not agree. She wanted the grand
wedding, and everything as they had planned, and she
would wait until it could be so,

She was determined, and, Felix’s friends thought, cruel
and heartless, when she said:

‘People will expect me to be quiet at home if I am mar-
ried and Felix away in the war, and I am not going to.
I want to enjoy life while I can.”

And how different were the parting words of Lola when
Felix gained from his mother the knowledge of lier where-
abouts and sougiht her to say **Goou-by,””

“You wil pray for me, Lola? Andif we never meet
again you will not forget your brother? Return then to
re and love her forme. And be kind to Lilly,” he
said. .

“Go, Felix. You feel your country needs you. But we
will surely meet again. I know it. God is good, and my
constant. prayer He will hear and grant. Think of meas
ever near you, for in thought, if not otherwise, I shall be.
Heaven bless you!’?

She was clasped in his arms in one long, parting em-
brace, and he was gone.

* * * = * * *

Over the terrible field of Bull Run were strewn the
wounded, dead amd dying. Parched with thirst, burning
fever, laid Felix Ardeene.

Oh, those long, weary hours! Would help never come?
Eagerly he watched and listened for a coming footstep or
friendly word—some one to press to his lips a cup of
water.

At length his ear caught the sound of distant rumbling.
His first thought was the coming of the ambulances. But
a little longer and there was no mistaking the upproach-
ing storm. Nearer and nearer it came—the lightning, not
in lurid, angry flashes, but gently playing over that fear-
on ag perhaps to guide the footsteps of some coming
riend. ;

Soon, thank Heaven! the rain fell softly, cooling and
soothing burning brows.

How the hours of that long, dark night wore on Felix
Ardeene Knew not, until he felt his head gently raised
from its hard resting place, and again Jaid down, then on
a pillow of some kind. A moment more and a canteen
was placed to bis lips, and then a low voice asked:
‘Captain Ardeene ?”?

een he replied, and strained his eyes to see the friend-
y face.

Again the lightning played about him, and Felix recog-
nized the young private who had thrown himself forward
and received the blow that was dealt forhim. Hesaw _
him when he fell, and had not since. Later in the day
Felix received the wound that left him prostrate there.
“You saved me! Iknow you now. But where have we
met before? Great Heaven! you are bleeding—dying, per-
haps, and still caring for me.”

“No, nol only tired from my hunt to find you! Lie
down again; we will rest a little,’ murmured the youth

 

and possesses especial interest for the ladies.

in tones so low Felix could scarce catch them.

 

 

 

 

 

r

 

' Se 7

+.

s
,

+

; J 7

 

good nature shines in their faces; they are neither osten-
tatious nor arbitrary; they wish every body well; they de-
serve hosts of friends, aud have them, ‘

=o ~""T'aver the battle field. Felix Ardeene cast his eyes over the —

OVE UNTO DE ATH. scene of desolation, and then sought the face of the soldier
6

at his side, whose head was turned away and pillowed— >
on hisarm. Felix then noticed his pillow was the jacket —

 

for the business, and feels his responsibility, takes as
much pride in his engine as th rs ‘fo nis favorite
race-li oul * neglect hie aweet-

iorse, and would sit ap! + ar no c .
lieatt, to Keep the brasses and filagrees of his machine
so’s you could see your face in ’em, |

but if Must not be inferred that she had uo followers, or
gentlemen who sought her interest with honorable inten-
tons, “khere were several of these, but to none naa “Th
young and beautiful girl ever given encouragement.

 

 

where she

 

 

 

  

MEERSCHAUM.

This German word, which signifies sea-foam, has been
applied to the mineral substance which is so universally
manufactured into pipes. From its having been found on
the sea-shore in some places, in peculiarly rounded snow-
white lumps, it was ignorantly imagined to be the petri-
fled froth of the sea. This is a poetical fancy and has no
foundation in fact. Its component parts are silica and
magnesia, and though found in many parts of the world
is most abundant in Asia Minor. It is found very pure
and abundant in the Crimeaand in Moravia, but the
Jargest present deposits which are worked are in Asia
Minor, about twenty miles south-west of the city of Es-
kischer, formerly known as Dorylea. Here reside some
ten thousand Armenians and Turks, who are employed in
collecting, preparing, and dealing in the raw material.
It is regularly mined for, and shafts are sunk about forty
feet deep in the ground, at which depth it is found in
abundance, and of excellent quality.

The miners form themselves into companies of thirty or
forty and divide their united profits equally. The meer-
schaum is found in lumps, irregular in shape, and vary-
ing greatly in size, being from a square inch to a square
foot in measurement, the largest pieces being most in de-
mand and bringing the highest prices. When first dug
the mineral is of a yellowish-white color, and is covered
half an inch thick with a red, greasy earth, so soft that it
can easily be removed witha knife. The treatment of
the meerschaum before it is fit for export is expensive
and tedious. The pieces must first be freed from the ex-
traneous matter, dried for five or six daysin the sun, or,
if by artificial heat, a longer time is required. Itis then
carefully cleansed a second time and polished with wax,
to show its texture and fineness, and also to exclude
dampness.

Nearly the whole amount of the article which is found
is manufactured into smoking pipes, in which Germany

takes the lead. Vienna contains many large establish-
ments devoted to the trade, and in which some very ar-
tistic productions are made. Pipes worth a hundred
guineas (five hundred dollars gold), from the beauty of
their design and elaborateness of finish, are by no means
uncommon. There are some large mauufactories, also, in
Paris where costly pipes are produced and find a large sale.
Knowing these facts, doubtless our gentlemen readers
will now go on “coloring” their meerschaums with in-
creased satisfaction.

 

 

FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION.

Men are always finding fault with women, and though
they say a great many harsh things about us, some of
them are undoubtedly true.

But we do not hold any hardness against the sterner sex
on that account, because we know that they cannot get
along without us; and because we also know that they
are just as ready to love and marry us, and find us in bon-
nels, as they were in the times of the prophets, when it is
generally taken for granted that women talked nothing
but sense. :

A gentieman friend of ours told us, a few days ago, that
the women of the present talk nothing but nonsense. We
infer, from what he said, that he was at some time in his
life acquainted with the women of the past. But though
se spoke severely, we must acknowledge that he told some

ath.

A few days ago we made a call on a fashionable lady.
It was a fine afternoon, and several other ladies had also
calledon her. We took a note of the conversation, and
repeat it verbatim; and so far as our experience goes, it
may be taken as a fair sample of what one may hear dur-
ing a fashionable call.

First, the weather was discussed, and pronounced by
acclamation “horrid cold,’ and the real conversation be-
gan:

Mrs. B.: “Oh, Mary Etta! I have got me that lovely
blue sflk at Zimmerman’s! Just like Mrs. M.’s! only nicer
and thicker! -It is exquisite!”

Mary Kita.: ‘Dear mel phat oceans of dresses you do
have! What did you pay?

Mrs. B.: “} premised not to tell! Mr. Zimmerman said
he had never sold oneinch of it 80 low before! and he
never woukl again! He said he was just ruining himself!
but seeing as it was me, and the limes were so hard, and

 

Lisetie lived in the same modest quarters,
had found a home for many yearsin the Rue Saint Ho-
nore. Here she had two small rooms, a chamber and a
sitting-room. Everything was a pattern of neatness and
refined taste. The young girl had the good sense to im-
prove herself intellectually, and there were quite a num-
ber of good books to be seen upon her table.

A few choice pictures hung upon the walls. The furni-
ture was of an antique pattern, and very simple. There
was not an unnecessary price to be found in those two
little rooms in the Rue Saint Honore.

Sometimes people asked what Lisette’s other name was.
No ove knew. Noone could answer this question. Not
even Lisette herself!

A young American, named Huntoon, whocame to Paris
in tie fall of 1874, from Rome, where he had been study-
ing the art which he had embraced as a profession, saw
the premiere danseuse of the Varietes one evening while
she was performing at that establishinent. Huntoon was
greatly impressed by the beauty of Lisette, and more
especially by the unmistakable modestly and refinement
of the lovely figurante.

It was not until he had witnessed her appearance in
public several times that the young American sought an
introduction to her. This he found to be no easy task,
but it was accomplished at last, and those who observed
the danseuse on the occasion, saw that the art student
made ap unusual impression upon Lisette at once.
Huntoon was a Southerner, a Georgian by birth. He
was @ poor man’s son, but friends had seen the genius
Lluat wasin the lad, and had made up a purse to send
him to stuey artin Italy. He had improved bis oppor-
tunities, and though but twenty-five, could support him-
self handsomely now by his art. f

The acquaintance between these two young people
ripened into a tender intimacy.

One evening, after her return from the theater, Huntoon
called, as usual, an@shared with her the cup of tea and
biscuit which it was her custom to take after the exer-
tions of the performance.

“Lisette,”? he said, ‘I have got letters calling me home
to America at once.’?

“Lisette started, and her pale lips and tremulous frame
told the young artist more truly than words could have
done that he was beloved by this beautiful girl. Neither
had spoken of love up to that hour.

‘Lisette,’ he said, tenderly.

“Well, Louis?’ she answered, calling him by his given
name for the first time. ° ’

‘I love you very dearly,” he continued, taking the hand
that hung by her side.

She looked into his handsome and manly face, looked
deep and searchingly into his frank and speaking eyes,
and seemed as though she would read his very soul.
“Louis, [think you are very truthful. If 1 did not be-
lieve you I should be very unhappy.’?

“You love me then, Lisette ???

‘With all my heart!”

In the next moment she was in his arms and pressed
close te his heart. The young figurante had yielded at
last. Lisette was in love.

And then these two pledged their hearts to each other.
Lisette told all her story to Louis Huntoon; that is, all
which she herself knew. It was a meager one, and left
nearly the same mystery hanging over her which had
screened all Knowledge of her birth from the public for
years past. However, to his loving heart that mattered
little. She was pure, innocent, beautiful. He asked no
more. And best of all, she loved him.

“Must you go to America ?"?

“Yés, Lisette, that is imperative.’

‘Alas!’? she sighed.

“But I shall return almost immediately.

“You will return?” .

‘With Heaven's help, yes, and never again to be sepa-
rated from you, my dearest one’?

Alrangements were made for the young artist’s depar-
ture. He was to come back to the fair young girl aud
make her his wife within three months.

Happy Lisette!

Notwithstanding the tears shed at parting, still so bright
seemed the near future to the beautiful danseuse that on
the evening of lier separation from the young artist she
performed her arduous part in the ballet with such vigor,
grace, and Charming effect, as to elicit more than usual
applause.

‘How brilliant Lisette is to-night,®!

“She excels herself.”

“How bright and lovely she is.”

Such were the spontaneous expressions which ran from
mouth to mouth among the crowded spectators that even-
ing at the Varietes. ’

Lisette kept On the even tenor of her way, and patiently
awaited the time for the return of him to whom she had
pledged her heart and hand. More than one letter came
renewing the tender promises which had been exchanged
between them that eventful evening.

Happy Lisette!

There were now but a few days of time to intervene
ss her lover was expected to join her. Less than a
week,

She arose bright and happy on the morning of the eighth
of May last past. Shetook up the morning paper which
the housekeeper laid always upon the table with her cup
of coffee and breakfast roll, 8

 

There was another man wanted George’s chance.
There’s generally more than one after every paying job.
Jack Halliday had been waiting for some-time Lo be en-
gineer of the Flyaway, and when he lost it he was mad
enough to pull hair. He was a brakeman, likewise, and
had been On the road full two years longer than Kirke, and
it would seem that the chance really belenged to him, but
he was a quarrelsome, disagreeable fellow, with iudepen-
dence enough to have set an emperor up in business and
still have had some left.
When Jack realized that George had got the inside track
of him, his anger was at a white heat. He cursed Kirke,
and cursed the company, and old Whately the superin-
tendent, and things generally, until it seemed to be a pity
that there was not something else to curse, he was insuch
fine cursing order.
There was more than one thing which made Jack Halli-
day down on George Kirke. George had been his rival in
maby respects, and particularly where the fairer part of
creation was concerned. George was a great favorite
witn the girls, for he was handsome, and generous, and
good-natured, and Jack was sarcastic, and always on the
contrary side, and the girls avoided him, as they always
should such a man. ‘
We all expected that ill would come to George from
Jack’s bad blood against him, and we warned him more
than once, but he always laughed, and reminded us of the
old saw that “barking dogs seldom bite,” which is true
in the main.
And, a3 the time went on, until two, three, four months
had passed since Kirke’s promotion, and nothing oc-
curred, we forgot all about our apprehensions of evil, and
uf we tl.ought of the matter at all, we concluded we had
wronged Halliday by our suspicions, ;
It was a dark night in November, with considerable fog
in the air, and strong appearances of rain.
I was at Golosia, the northern terminus of our road,
looking after some repairs on a defective boiler, and I was
going down toe New York on the 7.50 train—Kirke’s train.
About seven there came a telegram from old Whately,
whose summer residence was nearly midway between
Golosha aud New York, ana the old heathen had not yet
forsaken it for the city. The telegraph operator came into
the engine house where Kirke was at work—for he was
always at work—and read itto him. Kirk made a note
of it in his pocketbook.
“Pay train on the line. Will meet you just west of
Leeds, at 10.15. Shunt on to the siding at Dering’s Cut,
and wait. . WHATELY.”’
Kirke’s watch hung on a nail beside the clock. it was
a fancy of his always to hang it there when he was off a
train}so that he could make no mistake in the time,
He glanced at the clock, and from it to his watch. Both
indicated the same hour—7.15.
“7.15,)) said Kirke, meditatingly—“and we leave at
7.50, and the Pay train meets us at Dering’s Cut at 10.15.
Scant time to make the run in this thick weather, but it
must be managed.’?
« And he turned away to give some brief orders to the
reman.
Jack Halliday was there—he had been strolling in and
out of the room for the past half hour, smoking a cigar,
and swearing at the bad weather. His train did not
leave until near midnight, so he had plenty of time to
swear.
We all went to the door and took a Jook at the weather,
and unanimously voted it dused bad, and then we walked
up and down the platform, and smoked our after supper
cigars, and by the time we were through it was time for
the train hands to be getting into their places. Both the
clock in the engine room and Kirke’s watch indicated 7.40.

Kirke was putting his watch in his pocket as he said:

“Garth, are you going with me on the Flyaway ?””

“No, thank ye,” said I, “If get enough of that sort of
thing in my every-day life. [am going todo a little swell
business to-night, and take passage in the palace car.
Want to rest my back. Good-night to ye, and hold her in
well round Rocky Bottom curve. The road bed’s a little
shaky.”? :

‘Aye, aye, sirl’? responded Kirke, and swung himself
to his position on the Flyaway.

The bell rang—I scrambled to my compartment in the
Pullman, and felt horridly out of place among the silks
and broadcloths and smells of musk. But I was in for
“first-class,’? and made the best of it so effectually that
five minutes after Gibson, who fancies he Owns all crea-
tion because he has got a silver coffin-plate on his breast
with CONDUCTOR On it, had shouted: ‘All aboard!’ I was
sound asleep.

What occurred in other quarters to effect the fate of
Kirke’s train I learned afterward.’

Olid Whately, the superintendent, of the road, as I guess
I have already said, had a country-residence in Leeds, on
a mountain spur, which commanded a view of the sur-
rounding country for more than & score of miles. The
line of the railway could be distinctly seen in each direc-
tion fifteen miles, and Whately was wont to say that his
lookont was worth more to the safety of trains than all
the telegraph wires on the line. }

Whately was a rich old buffer, kind enough in his way,
but sharp as a ferret in looking after the road hands, and
determined that every man should ‘to his duty.

He had but one chijd, a daughter; and Floss Whately
was the belle of the country. Sie was brave, beautiful,
aud spirited, and more than once When her father had

 

BY FAITH FAIRLEIGH.

 

-.*O, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy love waits thee in the far-off skies,
And Death, thy friend, will give her back to thee.”

Gracefully reclining on a silken couch, the color of
which, azure and gold, so well suited her fair beauty, sat
Lillian Snowden. She knew this, and knew too that while
it added to her charms, iftimade Lola Armstead, who sat
on a stool and leaned her littie GQark head against the
couch, look decidedly homely. Lola was never pretty,
but at times, when she became excited, her cheeks would
change from their usual sallow hue, and glow with the
crimson tide that rolled over and lingered on them for a
while; and her great eyes, so large, full, and dark, would
grow bright and flashing. Then the beautifal Lillian would
have a momentary feeling of jealousy toward the protege
of Mrs. Ardeene, the mother of Felix, whose betrothed
wife Lillian was.

Mrs. Ardeene and Lillian’s mother were cousins. The
latter dying left her child to the love and care of the for-
mer; with an intimation that perhaps their children
would learn to love each other, and her desire that it
should be so.

And so it was. But the fair Lillian was a cold, proud,
exacting beauty, who claimed all the love and devotion of
her betrothed, but vouchsafed very little in return. She
was fondling, teazing and attenuating her little poodle
Frolic, while Felix read, or tried to, as she had desired
him.

At length Frolic grew tired of his treatment, and ex-
pressed himself so by such snapping, snarling and bark-
ing that Felix closed his book, and Lola exclaimed:

“Oh, how can you do so, when Felix is reading so beau-
tifally to you? Send Frolic out, or keep him quiet, do.’?
Her cheeks were glowing then; her eyes, raised to his,
expressing so fully her appreciation of both the poem and
the reader.

An expression of contempt was on Lillian’s face, and
she said:
“J choose to be amused and entertained by both.’
Felix’s face flushed angrily for an instant, and then,
placing his hand caressingly on Lola’s head, he said:
“Thank you, little one, for your appreciation! You like
to have me read, Lola? ThenI willread to you, and for
ou.”? :
* “Felix, you-spoil that child. Send her away, and Wil
not tease Frolic any more, but listen to you!” said Lillian.
The kind words of Felix to the Httle Lola had filled her
heart with enmity toward the child.
Felix looked reproachfully at his lady love, and what he
was about to reply was prevented by Loila’s saying in a
tremulous voice:
“No, no, do not send me away, Felix; I willgo. But it
is you, Lillian, who are spoiled. You are unkind, unjust.
You are not worthy of his love.’
Her eyes were blazing, and she looked really beautiful as
she stood a moment iu her defiant mood, and then turned
and was about leaving the room, when Felix said:
“Lolal?
She was at his side in an instant, waiting his bidding.
Her eyes sought his, and there beheld an expression of
pain and regret.
‘Have I hurt you, Felix? she said, ina low, anxious
tone.
“Tt pains me, Lola, that those I love will not love each
other. Why cannot you and Lillian be frieuds? My little
sister should not speak as she did to her brother’s prom-
ised wifel”?

Quick, impetuous always, she sprang to Lillian’s side,
and catching her hand, said:

“Lilly, forgive and try to like me a little, and I will love
you if you will only let me. Please, Lilly, for Felix’s sake.
You can make him happy. J would just die to make
him so!’?

Felix Ardeene heard her words, saw the truth in her
beautiful eyes, and knew the devotion that filled her young
heart; allfor hf. Andin his own soul he felt that even
soit was. Her life she would give to secure his happi-
ness. His eyes grew moist, and he turned away to hide
the emotion which was plainly visible on his handsome
face.

“Nonsense! Lola. Whatisthe use of making a scene?
There, child, run away! I have notking against you, I
am sure!l’’ said the beauty, and rising from her couch she
walked out on the balcony, and Felix soon followed.

“Lillian, dear, be kinder to that child. Hers is a heart
to be held not cast aside! She is so grateful for any kind-
ness—that is why she is so devoted to mother and myself,’’
Felix said, pleading for the child, and thinking at the
same time some explanation was necessary for her words
and manner a few moments before.

“Felix, your petting Lola did very well when she was
a child, but she is no longer so; and I wish yeu to under-
stand that I willhave no divided heart. I will not share
your love with another.’

“Ol! Lilly! Lilly! how can youtalkso? Poor little Lola
has no one save mother and myself to Jove her! You are
loved by 80 many. Surely you do not envy her this affec-
tion that Cannot possibly interfere with the devotion that
fills my heart for youl I think of her as my little sister,
while all my lropes, all thoughts of success and happiness

 

of the devoted friend beside him.

“Comrade!” ie called, “how is it with you???

Feebly a hand wa sput forth to find his—a little dark
hand, which Felix Ardeene clasped, and a cry of horror
and surprise escaped his lips. Encircling one of those
cold fingers was a ring that Lola Armstead used to wear.
Summoning all his strength, Feiix Ardeene raised him-
self, drew nearer, and gently turuing the soldier’s head,
gazed into the face of Lola! :

Sopale, haggard aud marked by her suffering as scarce-
ly to be recognized. Yet Felix knew her. Oh! yes, and
Knew for whom she was dying.

“Oh! my child! my qdarling!” he groaned. ‘You re-
ceived my blow! Speak Lola! where are you wounded ???
She tied to raise her head—she could not, but mur-
mured;

“IT promised to meet you again, you Know! Do not
worry! Ido not suffernow. You will lfgel You will not
forget mel”? y
The gray morning light was growing brighter, but a
grayer hue gathered over the features of the dying girl.
“How dark it is!’ she whispered, and Felix Ardeene,
inthe agony of his soul groaued deeply. -

“Please don’t!’ she whispered. ‘*’Tis sweet to die for
youl ont how bright! beautiful! I see! Isee now! Take
me up!’

He strove to raise her, but could not. Bending over her
he raised her arms and placed them round his neck. A
beautiful smile told she was satisfied, and she whispered
the almost inaudible words:

“Kiss me, now.”

Scarce had his lips left hers when Felix Ardeene knew
that devoted heart had ceased its suffering.

Home again! Again to meet his promised bride—to
know she had not watched hopefully for his coming, but
had “learned to love another.’’ With sorrowing faces
friends told him this.. Yet no sigh came from his heart.
me Tis better sol I would not have it otherwise,’’ he
said.

They wondered. But soon they knew why.

His heart was filled with the image of that dying girl
seen in the gray morning light. That little pale, haggard
face of the dead was far dearer to him than any living
woman’s could ever be. True to that love he will con-
tinue until his earthly pilgrimage is over, and then find
waiting his coming on the “brighter shore,” the devoted
girl whose frail form was buried on the battle field.

 

“CAN THE OLD LOVE?”

This is the title of a volume I have noticed in the book-
stores. I do not know the author’s name, nor how he an-
swers the query, but I hope affirmatively. Itseems to me
there must come to alli—I mean to all true souls—a time
in life when love is an imperative necessity. When the
heyday of youth is past, 1 think there comes a riper love,
born of something higher than the mere passional attrac-
tion which the girl of sixteen and the boy of eighteen dig-
nify by the holy name of Love.

This beautiful »vorld of ours, overflowing with sources
of enjoyment, is fuil of wretchedness, and nine-tenths of
it is caused by the unhappy reiations existing between
the sexes. Murder and suicide have become an every-day
occurrence; infanticide is of so little importance as to
scarce provoke a comment; and well may those who can
find time to step outside the whirlpool for a moment cry:
How long, oh, Lord! how long can these things exist?
How long can we go on at this fearful pace?

Until men and women shall be true to themselves and
to each other—until they marry for love, not passion, not
wealth, not position, not for a handsome maintenance,
but because their love for each other is so great that they
cannot live apart—then I think we shall hear no more of
free love, of faithless husbands, of wives seeking their
affinities, of lovers shooting their mistresses, children their
parents, of the soul’ too weary to wait “till the passion
and madness of living are through,” filling a suicide’s
grave, of madhouses with their number of inmates fear-
fully increasing each year. a

We are living in a fast age, in a transition age, I think,
where all true workers may find a field; and out of this
chaos, perhaps, in future years may develop a beautiful
order, which our children or our children’s children ma
enjoy. But to return to the question, “Can the old love???
Isay yes. What is life worthif we must lay down our
love with our youth? Love must continue through time,
through eternity.

** When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,
First tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn—

Then, then is the time when affection holds sway
With a depta and a tenderness joy never knew;

Love, nursed among pleasures, 1s faithless as they,
But the love born ot sorrow, like sorrow, is true.”

Mrs. C. E. PERRY,
-e<___
. THE news reaches us that two-thirds of the popu-

lation of Fiji have been prostrated by the measles.
We suppose the disease “knocked spots out of

 

 

 

in the future, are for youl” Felix auswered, in an earnest

them.”

’

 

 

 

 

 
|

 

ee

cate

6 simran ties, Satna ve ip

Ae eterna tw

a

 

 

 

 

 

bao areca cua oceania Bo

YOU CAN'T MOST ALWAYS SOMETIMES TELL,
BY B. e arian.

Was it the voice of a bell or bird

Which, careless, I, half-hearing heard?
It bubbied forth with a laugh inblent,

Ané a girlish scream of merriment,

And these the words on my ear that fell:

“You can’t most always sometimes tell.’®

 

I marveled much such words to hear,
But smiled at their conjunction queer,
For in them was a pregnant thought,
To be in many a judgment wrought,
For what is ill or what is well

We can’t most always sometimes tell,

The outside glitter of wordly show
Obscures the meanings that lurk below;
We gaze and wonder, and think we see,
Bat our eyes are blurred by the glamoury;
We check our verdict, saying, ‘Well,

We can’t most always sometimes tell.”

Superlatiyes in dress and air :

May take the careless by their glare,
And simulated virtues shine

As bright as jewels from the mine;

We judge the kernel from the shell,
But can’t most always sometimes tell.

So verdicts every day are given

Of many matters under Heaven;

With honest hearts and truthful tongue
They earnestly are said and sung,
Where people pray, or preach, or sell;
We can’t most always sometimes.tell.

The smiling look may haply hide

A covert where the gloom abide;

The dullest tone in law or love

May treacherous and wicked prove;
The smooth mien hide a purpose fell—
We can't most always sometimes tell.

But if *tis thus, reflection saith,
We lose in men all living faith; |
The people moving round about,

Are seen through clouds of fear and doubt,
And they may say of us as well,

We can’t most always sometimes tell.

 

The Right to Dramatize this Story is Reserved by the Author.

THE SCALP-TAKER.

By Ned Buiitline.

(‘The Scalp-Taker” was commenced in No. 33. Back Nos. can
be obtained from any News Dealer in the United States. ]

 

 

CHAPTER XV.

\

The cavaicade which passed out of Indianola just be-
fore midnight, would in almost any Northern city have
attracted attention, especially at that late hour. But in
Texas men travel at all hours and in all ways, and no-
body cares but those specially interested.

Indeed few men were abroad at that hour and no

_ Women, for business places were all closed, and the gamb-
ling hells and liquor saleons in full blast, already leld their
customers engaged.

As soon as they were clear of the town, Gibson asked
Sam ifhe wanted to take the roads that led from one scat-
tered town to anothef, or would he make a straight course
by stars and compass for the points of destination.
omg considered a moment, and then consulted Miss

ean. ,

“Which course shall I adopt, Miss Fanny ?” he asked.

‘‘Address me as Don Ephanio,”’ said the lady, laughing,
“and I will answer you. It will be best to do so in all
cases now, so that you will get used to it and not forget
during the journey.”

. “Well, Don Ephanio, what course had we best take ?””

“I think that which keeps us most from the haunts of
men will be safest,*? said the other.

‘It will, unless we are pursued by a large party and
they find our trail.’

“Pil take good care thatis not found!’ said Gibson.
“The road direct would take us through Port Lavacea, but
I shall bear off south of that, strike a small stream only a
few miles out, ride up that in the water a couple of miles
to lose our trail and: then strike across to a ferry on the
Guadalupe that I know of.”

“Why, Gib, what an Indian you've got to be. You know
all about hiding your tracks already.”

_ . “Serve three months with the rangers, as I have, and
you'll know all that and a great deal more,” said Gibson.

_And leading the two pack mules, one on each side of
him, he pressed on at a gallop.

LY

=¢ JHE NEW YORK

 

 

scene of butchery, is now on our left, and there is scarce
a foot of ground over which we travel that is not historic
of the early days and battles of the Lone Star Republic.
At San Antonio old Sam Houston is almost idolized by the
people. In fact it is so all over Texas. For who but hin
eould cope with the wily Santa Anna and his hordes of
treacherous Greasers, hungering like wolves for the blood
of the “Americanos Perfidiosos,”’ as they called us then.

Now we are Queridos Amigos when they meet us face
to face, but hated as much as ever belind our backs,

Thus, conversing by spelis, when waiking their horses
up 4 ridge allowed it, the trio bore swiftly on, and by ten
o’clock at night had made a second ride of full seventy
miles, stopping only to water at convenient points, They
were now so near the San Antonio River that they cross-
ed several of its small affluents, streams that were dry
most of the season, but swollen by recent rains were very
useful, though no impediment to travel.

Finding a small grove, with water handy, they now
camped again, this time putting up thetents, for there
was a bank of heavy clouds away to the south-west, and
two or three times the muffled sound of distant thunder
fell on their ears,

Putting the saddles and packs under cover, and ar-
ranging Miss Dean’s bed under her tent, Sam made a
large fire, and aided by Gibson, who hastened to. wash
and assist him, soon hada fine supper, the remains of
the turkey and a wood-duck shot by Sam with his revol-
ver, making a nice meal, garnished as it was by bread,
butter, cheese aud pickles, all washed down by a cup of
hot tea,

After supper the animals were again looked to, anda
side-line fastened to their feet to keep them from running
oi if alarmed by the storm which evidently was about to
break. :

Sam and Gib with united strength rolled several large

logs on to their fire, so that it would assume proportions
that the rain would hardly extinguish—so placing large
ones Over $mali that the fire was sure to burn beneath no
matter how hard the rain fell.
And then, after Miss Deans had retired and closed her
tent, the two men followed her example. Noue too soon,
either, for the storm broke in all its fury soon after, and
for hours the rain dashed pitilessly down and the wind
shrieked tnrough the timber. But our travelers were
warm and dry iu their tents,

 

CHAPTER XVI.

We must now return to Natchez Bill and his party. Bill
had quite a row at his saloon before leaving, fora drunken
woman, who had been much attached to Cut-throat Jim,
made her way into his ‘“‘parlors,’’ as he called them, and
charged him with having led Jim into the scrape that cost
him his life.

She was silenced with a heavy bribe, and Bill was in a
fearful humor when he rode out of town with Hamilton
and the rafflan he had hired to bear them company.

This fellow, known by the name of “Big Bowie,” from
a propensity he had of using an immense weapon of that
kind, which he had always wore, rode on in silence, but
Hamilton mingled groans and curses as he dashed on, for
Natchez Bill had purposely given him a hard-going horse
to sicken him of his journey belore it was well begun.

Starting late as they did, or rather early, for it was af-
ter one in the morning when they mounted, they only
entered Port Lavacca as the sun rose. Here they halted for
breakfast and to make inquiries after those whom they
pursued, while their horses were being fed and groomed.

As might be supposed, they did not here get any trace
of the fugitives, but supposing they had passed through
long before daylight paid no heed to the disappointment,
Laying in a fresh supply of liquors, for that class of men
live more on strong stimulants than food, they rode on
after a coupleof hours of rest, intending to cross the
Guadalupe at the town of Victoria should they not over-
haul their intended victims sooner.

Indeed they were not anxious to overtake them until
they had got beyond the settled part of the country, for
there was some respect for law in that section, and their
intended atrocities might be called in question, or find a
check.

What they wanted now was to get on their trail and to
follow them into an unsetuled ee: where there would
be no witness to theiractions. They rode briskly on after
leaving Port Lavacca, and though it was a long ride and a
fearful strain on their horses, never ‘broke a galiop till
they reached Victoria, where they were to cross the Guad-
alupe.

Here, obliged to stop, refresh themselves, and feed and
rest their horses, they made inquiry after two Americans,
a Mexican, three horses and two mules, which they said
had been stolen from them by the aforesaid parties of
whom they were in hot pursuit.

But their inquiries were fruitless—no one had seen any
such parties.

“They’ve taken another trail, or else they are not going
to San Antonio at all,’? said Natchez Bill.

“They are going there, for Post-Oak Bill’s will has got
to be recorded before the Little Yank can put foot on his
property. There are taxes to pay, and all that, and the
Yank has got to see to it. He has taken the girl with him
to keep her out of my hands, but he don’t know who he
has got to deal withif he thinks he candothat. [ve
sworn to have her, and what I’ve sworn to I’ll do or lose
my scalp)?

“You'll not be long getting into a region where that
last is easily done,’ said Big Bowie, grimly. ‘Both Kio-
way and Comauche raid a long ways down the banks of

 

 

3 “Pil have you over the Guadalupe by daylight,’ he said.
© fignt hand of San Antonio River all the way, but near
enough to find water and timber when we want to camp.
‘There aren’t many towns to go near—there’s only Goliad
and Helena, and we can keep clear of them.”

“Allright, Gib. You seem to know the country likea
Well-read book,”

“i've learned a good deal about it since 1 have been
here, by Keeping my mouth shut and my eyes and ears
open.

They now struck the water course and rode for some
distance in the water and sand.

After leaving the water, Gib headed away a little west of
south toward the ferry he had spoken of.

They now Kept ata lope over the prairie, the favorite
gait of the mustang, aud it seemed to the rest that they

. Tode very fast—too fast indeed for the animals to hold out,
but Gibson laughed and said they could stand that gait for
twelve hours without food or drink, tiough they had been
watered already twice since they started.

“Do you think that gambler noticed us particularly 2”
asked Miss Fanny, who had heard the exclamation of Sam
in front of the hotel door, and learned its cause.

“Yes, but I do not think that he penetrated your dis-
guise. If he did, he showed no sign of his knowledge by
either look or remark.”

“Then 1 feel yet more safe. For such men, used to
ae are very observing, What a lovely night it
8 ?

She spoke truly. It was a cloudless night, and in that
‘clear atinospliere the stars were indeed countless. By
them, one who had any knowledge of the heavens, could
steer his course as well as with a compass, and Gibson
never faltered, but kept right on until just as the day
dawned, when he showed them timber and told them that
it fringed the Guadalupe.

An hour later, such had been his good judgment, he
brought them to the ferry of which he spoke when they
bay Indianola, and they crossed to the other side of the
river.

An old negro and half-breed—Indian and Méxican was
the mixture—ferried them over and put them on an old
cattle trail which would carry them to the San Antonio,
while it had on it several good watering places where they
could Camp when so disposed.

Sam handed each of the ferrymen a dollar extra over
their ferriage, and told them if anybody asked after a
party like theirs, not to speak of their having crossed—in
other words to be ‘know nothings,” so far as Sam and his
party were concerned.

The negro promised for both, for the other fellow seem-
ed too stupid to understand anything except that he
could buy a guadiente (rum) and tobacco with the
Stranger’s gift.

“We must Camp as soon as we find a good place after
getting out of sight of these fellows!’ said Gibson. “The
stock have liad a long run—we have covered seventy
miles instead of the sixty I promised—and are tired. A
good rest and plenty of grass will soon set them right,
though.’

Ao hour further on and they halted beside a little pond,
where a half-dozen trees made shade and offered a few
decayed branches for dry fuel. The feed was good for the
horses, and here it was decided to stay for four or five
hours at least. There was no need to put up the tents,
for the trees gave sliade and they could sleep as comfort-
ably without as with shelter.

Building a good camp-fire, Sam spread two blankets
under a clump of bushes close by the fire for Miss Dean,
and begged her to lie down and rest; and then he picket-
ed the horses out, while Gibson unloaded the mules and
performed the same office for them.

Then feeling no present danger, for they were yet far
from the Indian country, and too far from the Rio Grande
to fear border raids, they slept until the sun was high in
the heavens.

When they woke, the animals filled to repletion on the
luxurious grasses, had lain down to rest,

Restirring the fire and throwing on fresh fuel, Sam
made coffee, while Gibson, absent from cainp scarce ten
mainutes, brought in a magnificent young wild turkey,
which he hastily dressed and broiled to add to their meal
of celd ham-sandwiches, crackers and cheese.

Miss Dean ate with an appetite which astonished her

. and Sam too, for she was generally very abstemious, and
this augured well for her ability to stand the fatigue of the
journey. Gib did very well, for he was a hearty, happy
youth, taking everything as it came, aad thankful for ali.

 

 

 

 

The meal was prolonged, for except a cold bite as they
rode along they did uot expect to eat again until the end
of another long ride.

At last the mules were brought in and packed, the horses
re-saddled and a little after noon they were on their way.

The ground gently rolling and sparsely wooded in
clumps here and there, with once in a long while a ranch
Seen in the distance, offered no picturesque features, yet
the ride Was very pleasant. The horses aud mules fully
rested and refreshed, loped on as swiftly as they had done
on the start, and Sam dryly remarked if Hamilton or his
friends had started in pursuit, they would have a gay
oa in Coming up with them, even if they had found the

“They will not find it!” said Gibson, confidently.
“The regular road leads up by Port Lavacea, and they’il
go that way if they go atall, Weare at least thirty miles
sonth of the travele: route, and they'll not find us on
that till I see the walls of the ola Alaino!”?

“The Alamo, where Orockeit fell?’ asked Sam, with
interesi. ‘‘Is that near San Antonio?” é
‘It is at the very spot!’ said Sam, “Goliad, another |

the San Antoni ortina, too,

ere
town, aud he is smart enough to doitif he tries. He
comes and goes like a whirlwind.”
“If this is not the trail they’re on, how’ll we find the
rigiit one?” asked Hamilton, impatiently,

“It is hard telling. We'll soon have a storm on us that
will wash out all trails. There are signs here that never
fail, and they’ve been working up all day.’?

The result of Bill’s prophecy came only too soon, and in
spite of Hamilton’s fiery impatience, they were obliged
to stay all night and until late next day at Victoria, for
the Guadalupe came tearing down in a fearful flood, and
the ferryman would not risk the crossing. i

“What shall we do? We are working in the dark now,
for we have no idea where they are,” said Hamilton, after
they had at last crossed the river.

“If had my way, I’d go back to Indianola, where we
can make money hand over fist—where good rum and
pretty women are as plenty as ticks on a sheep’s back,”
said Natchez Bill. ‘*But if you’re bound to go ahead,
I’il see you through, ifit takes a year. My pards down
there will keep the bank running.’?

“I will go ahead,” said Hamilton, sullenly.
no turn back in me,”

“T like your grit,’ said Big Bowie, who had his reasons
for wanting to go to San Antonio, apart from the pay he
was getting. ‘And I reckon if we ride straight on till we
get within a half or a quarter of a day’s ride of the place,
where all the trails narrow down to one or two, we'll be
ahead of ’em, and can fix ’em when they come up. If
they’re to the south of this, where the country is more cut
up, they’ll be kept back more than we, and I reckon
bast there, or we should have heard from ’em before
this.

‘You talk like a man of sense,” said Hamilton, relieved
a good deal by Big Bowie’s views, and he rode along in
a far better humor.

That night, at a late hour, they camped, and lying on
the damp ground did not improve Hamilton’s feelings in
any sense. He spiced his coffee in the morning with
strong doses of brandy, and ate but little of the lunch that
Big Bowie had been so thoughtful as to stuff into his sad-
dle-bags.

They started early, and rode briskly on, for the air,
cooled by the late storm, was brisk and sharp.

An hour before noon a rider was observed coming from
the south on a swift lope, and they halted to meet him,
hoping to hear something of the people they sought,

The man proved to be the mail-carrier from Goliad for
Victoria, and he told them he had passed some persons
just going out of camp, where they had weathered the
storm, some miles on the other side of Goliad.

“There were three men of them,’’ he said, and six or
eight animals, he thought, for he only saw them at a dis-
tance. They were going slow, for the travel was heavy
over that way.

“Did one wear a wide sombrero, and look like a Mexi-
can ?”? asked Natchez Bill. -

“Yes; the other two were small men—looked like boys
D size.

“Good as wheat! That’s our party!’’ cried Bill. “Stran-
ger take a drink!”

The mail-carrier was not one to refuse; but Hamilton,
impatient of delay, dashed on, followed by Big Bowie,
who had @rink in his canteen. It was an hour before
Natchez Bill came up with them,

“You ride as if you were using your own horseflesh!”
said Bill, angrily, when he cid come up. “By and by,
os Speed is wanted, we'll not have a horse fit fora

un.

“If I use up your horses, Ill pay you for ’em,”’ said
Hamilton. “I’m tired of creepiug over the ground I
Want to get where we can wait for them to come up, as
Big Bowie here suggests.”

“Oh, we’re ahead now. They’ve a heavy country to
travel over where they are, and, as he said, they must go
slow. Itisn’ta bit likely they think we're after eum,
any way.’? :

“I don’t care if they do,” said Hamilton,

“There is

 

CHAPTER XVII.
“Gib, you ride on, and’ l’ll let Miss Dean rest two or
three hours yet,” said Sam, to his old friend and com-
panion. ‘The mules travel slow and we'll overtake you
before you get to town. If you should get there first, ‘tell
me where you'll stop.’
“At the Moodie House!’ said Gibson.
I stopped the last time I was there.”
“Good. When sle wakes up I'll saddle and come
along.”?
The lady lay slumbering under a clump of bushes close
to a large camp fire, for the clear, dewless night had not
rendered the pitching of tents necessary. They were with-
in a half day’s ride of their destination, and Miss Dean,
worn down by the hard, rough journey since the storm,
was fearfully fatigued,

Even Sam, hardy as a pine knot, felt the strain, for he
was yet unused to roughing it, but Gibson had been on the
range long enough to stand it very well. Though he took
in pate? of the work on himself, he was the freshest of

It was NO wish of Gibson’s to leave Sam behind, but the
Muies were tired and did travel slow, so Gib’? thought
he would be overtaken easily long tefore he got to town.

About two hours afier he Started, Gibson passed a grove
on his right, a mile or more out of his way, where some
men were in camp. But this was nothing strange in that
part of Texas, so he took no particular notice of them,
bat rode en, Had he known who they were, the braye

“There is where

 

 

 

EEKLY. #305

Slee tteeiale ee cls ala sate shad. i ge atop ae ge

:

seco

 

and faithful young msn would have suffered death before
he would have passedthat spot. ,

But he kept slowly @, Kiiown and recognized too, by
Natchez Bill and his pirty, who reckoned ail too traly that
those who were Most Mportant to them were behind.

To them we will rernra.

For full two hours: Sam stood or sat by the camp-fire,
watching the coffee-pa& which he had retained, hot for her
when she woke, keephg up a good bed of coals on which
to broil her a luscious venison steak, which hung on a
branch close at hand, veing,saved for her, when Gibsou
and he cooked and atetheir breakfast.

“Where is Gibson?’ she asked, when she woke and
started to her feet, surmrised at the late hour.

He started ahead tyo hours or more agol’? said Sam.
“You were so tired, L houghit 1 wontd let you rest as loug
as you could. The loises have been feeding all the time,
and after you have hac break/ast we will Mount and over-
take him yet before hegets to town.”?

Quickly the lady nade her toilet, and by the time
that was done Sam hal her venison steak done to a turu
and her coffee poured put in her tin camp-cup.

“I feel so refreshed dy this long rest,’? she said, as she
took her coffee. ‘I caiuot be tov thankful to you for your
kind consideration.”?

“I need no thanks, ny good friend,”? said Sam. “I do
but my duty.*?

And he went to sadde the horses, and when that was
done, rolled up their Hankets and lashed them to their
places in the rear of the saddles,

By this time Miss Fainy, still in her Mexican garb, was
ready to mount her howe, and Sam led himup. The lady
had long since learned on which side to mount, andin a
few moments they were loping over the ground as freshly
as on the start, for no natler how you tire a Texan horse,
a night of rest with pleaty of good grass will set him all
right again.

“Is not this delighthl? The prairie is but a sea of
flowers, and their perfume fills the air!’ said the lady, af-
ter they had ridden along several miles at the same steady,
sweeping gait.

Sam made no reply. He carried a field glass slang over
his shoulder, and he hat drawn jt from its case aud was
atthat moment scannitg some movement in a grove off
on their right hand a mile or more distant.

“What do you see, San?’ cried the lady, for she saw at
a glance there was something wrong. His face flushing
up and his set fips told that.

“IT was a fool to let Gb part company with us!’ he mut-
tered, ‘They are sadding up as fast as they can.”

“Who? asked the laly.

“The scoundrels Reldy Hamilton, Natchez Bill and
another ruffian, Threeagainst one—big odds, but 1 don’t
wilt.??

“Do you not count me as anything, armed as well as
yourself!’ cried the lad7. ‘‘Let them come and I’ll show
you What a@ marksman .am. You forget the prairie hen I
shot on the wing with ny pistol.’?

“No, I don’t,’ said fam. ‘But put your horse to his
speed, please; well give them arace anyway before they
close, aud maybe we Can keep it up till we overtake Gib.
if not, we'll show them what lead and powder will do, at
any rate,”?

The lady touched her nustang with the spur, gave him
the rein, and, as Sam did the same, away the splendid
animals flew, increasing the distance between them and
their enemies at the same time. The latter were thus no-
tified that they were dissovered, >

With a yell of anger, which faintly reached Sam and
his companion, far away as they
mounted their horses ard dashed out of the grove in swift
pursuit.

But now Sam was fillamile and a half ahead, and
though his horses were aeither so fresh, nor of such blood
as those ridden by the vllains, he hoped to keep the lead
until at least Gib was overtaken, so as to make them more
even-handed in the battle which was sure to ensue,

Sam hardly dared tolook back, but keeping his horse

well in hand, though atnearly full speed, he watched his.

companion, fearful thatshe would weaken, for the fatigue
of constant travel aud poor rest had worn on her very
much.

But she rallied nobyin the presence of danger, and
bore herself like a queen, sitting her horse firmly, and
showing not a sign of fear.

“Do they gain on us”? she asked, but it was at least
half an hour after they lad spurred forward in race,

Sain turned slightly ii his saddle, and saw that they
had gained fully one-hal’ the distance already. He looked
ahead, and a sigh involuntarily broke from his lips,

‘Do not fear to tell, Mr, Hall,’”? she said, as calmly and
as sweetly as if asking about his appetite forsupper. ‘J
am perfectly cool, and as ready to use my pistols as lam
my spurs.”?

“They gain a little, dear lady,” he said. ‘Still I hope
to come up with Gib befcre they close on us. Hear them
yell! They think to frightén us with noise. We don’t
scare that way worth a cent!’?

Miss Dean smiled, but there was a sternness of resolve
in her Knit brow and set lips that, following the smile,
told she might die, but she would never be taken alive by
the desperate trio.

- The leading horses were now white with foam, and,
though they Kept their stride, their breathing was sharp
and labored.

Again Sam looked back. The leading horse, ridden by
Hamilton himself, was within less than a quarter of a
mile of them, and almost as fur ahead of his fellows.

Sam had carried thus far at his sadate-bow a Colt’s rifle,
insure hands. He knew

 

has more than once | good for eight hundred yz
alogpe

ac : Omer Hal ivabe could drop that
horse. If not, he was tere than a match for Hamilton
alone with his revolvers.

“Breathe your horse a little, Miss Fanny,” he said, “but
still keep going. I shall halt and drop that leading
horse.’

The heroine nodded her assent, and brought her horse
to a gentle lope, while Sam halted, dismounted, and let
his horse stand trembling and panting while he raised the
rifle to his shoulder. '

He took quisk aim and fired. The gambler’s hat flew
from his head—whether stricken off by the ball or lost by
accident Sam could not tell, but the horse still sped to-
ward him bearing the one-armed rider. :

Again and again Sam fired. His fourth shot was gone!
Could he never hit the horse or rider? Ah! that last shot
either grazed or frightened him—he halted and looked
back to see where his companions were,

Now was Sam’s last, best chance. The horse and rider
were not over three hundred yards away.

Sam took careful aim, fired low, and the horse fell dead
in his tracks. Sam saw that he lay motionless—this, and
no more—as he sprang into hisown saddle and again
urged his mustang Lo its speed.

“One horse down, at any rate! cried Sam, as he rode
up alongside of Miss Dean, who once more urged her
horse to its speed.

Sam loaded his rifle as he dashed on, and when it was
again ready for use he looked back. He saw the other
men halt a moment by the unhorsed gambler, then the
latter mounted behind one of them and on they came.

“They must have the best horses in Texas, they gain on
us yet!? he muttered. ‘Oh, where is Gib?”

“I see a town ahead; it must be San Antonio!" said
Miss Dean. “Oh, if we can keep on a half-hour longer we
silail be safe. But see, your horse staggers—he will fail—
he will fail!’

“Yours stands it well. Ride on, dear lady, ride on and
I will check or kill them all. Ride on, and if you over-
take Gib, send him back to me,”’

“Never will I desert you, Sam!’ cried the brave girl.
“When your horse falls, mine stopsalso, Ah! look ahead!
Tiere is a horseman Coming this way. He is at full speed
—it must be Gibson!’

Sam had no time to look, for at thatinstant his horse
Staggered and fell allin a heap, Sam having only time to

Clear himself from the stirrups so as to light on his feet.

In an instant Fanny Dean was off her horse, and with
revolver in hand she stood by his side. :

“Oh, madness—why do you not ride on!” he cried,

“Use your rifle while they are yet at a distance—kill
their horses and Gibsou will be llere before them!’ she
answered, as cool as he in contrast was excited.

“Nobly rebuked!” said Sam, and he raised his rifle with
a steady hand, ’

The ruffian, Big Bowie, riding single, was full a hundred
yards ahead of his companions, yelling like a wild
Comanche,

Sam aimed steadily in the line of his horse, fired, and
the animal fell so suddenly that its rider was pinned to
the ground,

But on came the other two men on one horse, halting
not a second for their fallen comrade, thinkiug to over-
match Sam and the girl with their superior skill in the use
of deadly weapons.

Agaiu Sam aimed and fired at the horse as before.

“Itis hit, it staggers, butit keepson! Fire again!’ cried
Fanny Dean,

Sam took aim as deliberately as if at a target. The
gambler, Natchez Bill, saw it, and to distract his aim
wheeled his horse off at an angle,

Quick as thought Sain fired, and with the horse broad-
side on could not miss. He seemed to have done more
than to hit the horse, for while the latter fell, only one
rider rose to his feet.

The other seemed either to have been hit by the ball
that killed the horse or to have been injured by the fall,
for he lay helpless on the ground while tue man who was
on his feet bent down to his assistance.

Sam coolly raised his fleld-glass and surveyed the scene.

“Natchez Biil only is unhurt!” he said. “The man
whom I first unhorsed is coming up limping badly toward
the others, but Hamilton does notrise at all, He seems
to be writhing in pain.’? ’ <

“Then we are safe!’ erled Fanny. ‘Here is Mr. Gib-
S0n almost in rifle shot, and there is but one man among
them fit for batile, and he is on foot. With your rifle you
could kill him, even where he stands,”

‘*{ believe I will,’? said Sam, “and again the fatal bar-
rel went into the air, his eye ranging for its sight.”

Natchez Bill waved a white handkerchief iu the alr and
yelled at the top of his voice:

“Don’t firel We're whipped! . We give it up!”

His auswer was a bullet, and it seemed to have stricken
& liinb instead of a vital part, for he hopped around on
one leg, screaming terribly. The other ruffian halted.

“That's rather a pretty looking mess, isn’t it, Gib?’ said
Sam, laughing, and pointing back to that horseless group.
“Three horses down and three cripples to boot in the
shape of men. How is that for long range. My colt kicks
hard, does it not 9”?

Gib was breathless, and his horse was as nearly used
up as Sam’s, which had risen to its feet, panting and
trembling.

“[ heard your gun faintly, and looking back saw that
something was up,’? said Gibson, “1 tied my mule to a
bush and got back as fast as I could,”

“In time, too, to have helped us, had not Sams aim
been so truel” said Miss Dean, ‘‘He is very selfish, and

 

has given me no cliauce to help him,” she said, laughing.

‘

were, the gamblers.

e

‘“Hadn’t we better go back and finish them, Gib?” said
Sam...

“No,”? said Miss Dean, “they are all unhorsed and crip-
pled, and would, if approached, fight with the despera-
tion of men who know they must die, and they will sell
their lives as dearly as they can. Your horses can walk
on, and by the time we get to the mules you will be able
to ride. Let us do our best, and we cannot more than get
to yonder town by dark. Let us go on at once, leaving
them as they are.”

“Miss Dean’s advice is good, even as her conduct has
been brave and noble,” said Sam. “She would not ride
on when my horse gave out, though I begged her to do
so. I never dreamed she had such nervel’?

“I fear that it and my strength will all go only too
soon,’’ said the lady. ‘Pray let us move on while I have
strength left.”

Sam instantly took the bridle of his horse and walked
on by the side of Miss Dean, who now trembled as if with
an ague. Gibson, also leading his horse, waiked on the
other side, so that if the lady fainted in this sudden re-4
action of her nerves, one or the other could catch and
keep her from falling.

Halting by a small stream to get some water for Miss
Dean, as well as to refresli themselves and their horses,
Sam looked back. The three men were grouped together
—two on the ground and the other one bending over
them.

“We'll have no more trouble from them on this side of
San Antonio, at least,’ said Sam. ‘They’re a used up
and sick commuuity!?

‘That's my reckoning!? said Gibson. ‘See, there are
the mules. And I think our horses will carry us when we
get to the packs,”? :

“Kasy—niine is breathing quite easy now,’ said Sam.
“He had a terrible pull of it—I only feared when he feil
that he would never get up again.”?

“You don’t kiiow Texas horses yet!” said Gibson. ‘The
world cannot beat them for bottom)?

He now unleosed his mule, started them on the trail
ahead, and then the two mounted their horses and moved
forward at a fair walk.

Just as nignt was closing in upon them, through the
haze of twilight, Gibson pointed out the old Alamo, a spot
sacred to the memory of its butchered heroes, dear to
every Texan and famous wherever history is read.

And thirty minutes later they drew up in front of the
Moodie House.

“Not a word about the rufflans in our rear,” said Sam,
just before they halted. ‘If they ever getin, or are
brought in, let them tell their own tale, without we see it
worth our while to contradict it. If they die out there so
much the better,’?

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

Leaving our heroic and adventurous trio safely inside
the Moodie House, with their faithful auimals well groomed
in its stables, we will return to the scene where Sam’s
cool and deadly aim put a stop toa pursuit which could
have ended but in one way—disaster or death to the pur-
suers or pursued.

The first shot which Sam fired had indeed shot the hat
from Hamilton’s head, grazing his scalp so closely as to
cut away some of the hair, and his last shot dropped the
horse dead in its tracks.

The gambler, wild with rage, shouted to Natchez Bill,
in the name of the Brotherhood, to take him up on his
horse, aud Bill had to do it, while Big Bowie scoured on
alone, thinking that he could wipe out the Little Yank
and secure the girl.

But when Sam tried his hand on his horse he made a
dead sure shot, and the horse fell at the end of a terrible
bound so full on Bowie’s leg that it was nearly broken—
so wrenched that fora long time he could not extricate
himself, and when he did he could hardly creep along.

Now Natchez Bill and Hamilton passed him, riding to-
gether, without offering to help him, so intent were they
on closing with the supposed helpless Sam, whose horse
had fallen, aud whom they believed they could now anni-
hilate,

But Bill soon saw Sam on his feet, with the rifle raised
that had already done such execution, and, thinking to
disconcert his aim, touched his horse with the spur and
wheeled him short out of line.

It was a fatal mistake. Sam fired, and the horse, shot
through the kidneys, fell; while Hamilton yelled out in
agony that his left leg was shattered at the knee.

And soit was. Natchez Bill, who had lighted.on his
feet, dragged the shrieking wretch out from under the
dying horse, that had before received a shot in its chest;
and then seeing Sam readyto fire again, he raised his
white handkerchief fora flag of truce, and shouted for
mercy.

He got the mercy he deserved. It was a ball which
shattered his right Knee, and foran instant he hopped
about on his other leg, yelling piteously, then dropped by
the side of Hamilton. :

Both, with fearful oaths, gnashed their teeth in help-
less rage as they saw Gibson return, and then saw the
three move on unhurt toward San Antonio.

Natchez Bill blamed Hamilton for the whole thing, and
the latter, almost speechiess frOm excess of pain, suffer-
ing from thé old wound as well as the new, had to
bear if.

While this was going on, Big Bowie crept up to them
and mingled his curses and groans with theirs. Their
worst euemies could have heard no more comfortirg
music,

“What shall we do?’ groaned Big Bowie.
almost broken, aud we have nary horse left.’? .

“Ten thousand dollars’ worth of the best racing stock
in Texas gone to please this infernal fooll’? cried Natchez
Bill. ‘l’m glad he is out a leg as well as an arm, for his
Knee is all a pulp!”

*So is yours, you white-livered curse!
got to brag on?’ cried Hamilton.

“Stop quarreling. Give me a drink, if either of you
have one—that cursed Yank sent a ball through my can-
teen!” said Big Bowie.

‘Look in my saddie-bags there—I think there’s a bottle
left ou one side orthe other. Take it, and try to creep
into town for help—for we’ll die here without fire, bleed-
ing too all the time.”

Big Bowie crept to the,horse, and found to his increased
misery that there had been a bottle there, but it was sliat-
tered by the fall of the horse. .

“Pd give all I’m worth in the world for one good, square
drink! groaned the ruffan, “My leg will drive me mad.
It aches from my toes up!”?

“Then creeponto where you can get help. Yu are
better off than either of us,’’ said Bill.

“Creep? Whiy, man, itis atthe Jeast five or six miles
in to San Antonio—maybe more!’?:

“I don’t care. You can get there, and we can't. Start,
or I'll put lead through you from where I lay!”

‘Boss, that’s a big brag! That’s a game two can play
atl? said Big Bowie, aud his cocked revyoiver covered
Natchez Bill.

“Fool! We have somebody else to shoot. Have you no
wish for revenge?’’ cried Hamilton. “Keep your powder
and jead for them that have crippled us. Im not dead
yet—neither are either of you. Put up your pistol—l’vea
bottle of brandy left yet in my coat pocket here.”

Brandy is a wonderful peacemaker sometimes, if it is a
peace-destroyer at others. In this case the very word
acted like acharm. Both men put up their pistols, and
Big Bowie crept to Hamilton.

“Drink first, pard!? he said, as Hamilton drew out the
botile, ‘‘and then give it to Natchez Bill. 1 was awful dry
when I thought we hadn’t e’en a drop, but now I can wait
for my swig—you two uns need it the most.”

Hannilton took a long draught, then Natchez Bill paid
his respects to the fiery stimulant, and after him Big
Bowie took liold and drained the bottle.

“AN! that puts lifein me. Vl getinto town if I have
to go On my hands and knees!” he said, as he drew a
ong, gasping sigh after he threw the now useless bottle

0

“My leg is

What have you

“Look, there are. horsemen back on our trail. They
may come in hail and help us, or send help,’ said Bill.
Big Bowie scrambied up on his unhurt leg and looked

ack.

“‘Pards, I’m a nigger if they’re not Indians!’ he gasped,
turning white as marble,

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

UU Ske Ee! EE,
HINTS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE.

— A substitute for a corkscrew may be thus made:
Stick two forks vertically into the cork on opposite Sides, not
too near the edge. Run the blade of a knife through the two
and give a twist. Another way to uncork a bottle isto fill the
hollow at the bottom of the bottle with a handkerchief or towel;
grasp the neck with one hand, and strike firmly and steadily
with the other upon the handkerchief.

— White ostrich feathers may be nicely cleaned
in this way: Take four ounces of white soap, cut small, and dis-
solve in four pints of rather hot water. Convert the solution into
a lather and introduce the feathers. Rub with the hand for
about five minutes. After this wash in clear water as hot as the
hand can bear, Shake until dry. ©

—- The following hints will be found very useful
at this season of the year: To keep away musquitoes scatter
the oilof pennyroyal about the room. No fly will lightona
window which has been washed in water in which a little garlic
has been placed. Roaches can be exterminated by scattering a
handful of cucumber parings about the house.

— In peeling and slicing onions, it is said that if
you hold between your teeth a pair of scissors, a steel knite, or
almost any iron or steel sustance, no tears need be shed during
the operation.

— To impart a tine fiavor to ordinary tea, place
rose leaves in the tea-canister, or add one drop of the ottar of
rose on a piece of soft paper to every pound of tea, and keep the
canister closely covered,

— To bring horses out of a stable on fire, throw
the harness or saddles to which they are accustomed over their
backs, and speak to them inthe tone of voice with which they
are familiar,

— A French chemist asserts that if tea be ground
like coffee before hot water is po upon it, it will yield neariy
double the amount of its exhilarating qualities,

— A good waterproof paper for covering jars, &c.,
may be made by brushing over the paper with boiled linseed oil,
and suspending it over a line until dry.

— To restore the color of black kid boots, take a
small quantity of good black ink, mix it with the white of an
egg, and apply it to the boots with a soft sponge. »

— To prevent the formation of ‘a crust in tea-ket-
tles, keep an oyster-shell in them, The shell attracts the stony
particles to itself. /

— For washing finger marks from looking-glasses
or windows, put a few drops of spirit of ammonia on 4 inoist rag

and make quick Whe ving them.
— To prevent stoves from rusting during the sum-

 

 

mer, apply with a raga little kerosene.

 

BE SORRY IN TIME.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Tis no use to be sorry
For things that are past
When the moments are flown
And the die it is cast;
But a much better plan,
Though now told you in rhyme,
Is to guard well your ways
And be sorry in time!

 

Your former experience,
Though sad, as you say,
May be turned to account
In the future some way,
And may aid you, whatever
Your station or clime,
To be readily warned
And be sorry in time.

But if you keep slipping
And tripping along,
Never heeding that part
Of the past that is wrong,
You will never, depend
On this part of my rhyme,
Save from shipwreck your lite,
Or be sorry in time!

 

The right to dramatize this Serial is reserved by the Authar.

ON E
NICHT’S MYSTERY.

By Mis. May Agnes Fleming.

 

{One Night’s Mystery” was commenced in No. 29. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.

 

CHAPTER XV.
“TO ONE THING CONSTANT, NEVER,”

There was an instant’s pause—both stood and
looked each other full in the eyes. Then Sydney
spoke.

PeYou, Bertie ?” she said, in slow wonder.

“T, sis,” he answered, lightly. ‘I have been to
Wychcliffe. The engagement I had to break this
morning I kept to-night, But what is the matter?
Your father——” ;

‘‘Has been taken suddenly ill—a sort ofague. He
must have got thoroughly chilled on our way home.
Oh, I wish we had not gone at all. Perkins is away
for Dr. Howard. Ah, here he is now.”

The doctor entered with the coachman, and went
straight to his patient’s room. Sydney and Bertie
waited outside, both silent. both pale and anxious,
though from very different causes. If the old man
died, the young man thought, with his will unal-
tered, his course lay straight before him. He would
marry Dolly out of hand, and go off with her to New.
York. There would be a nine days’ scandal—Syd-
ney would despise him—he winced at the thought—
but otherwise she would not care. And in two or
three years some lucky fellow would win her heart
and become master of Owenson Place. A pang of
jealousy and envy shot through him as he thought
it. He was prepared to resign both himself, but all
the same, the idea of that other who would profit by
his folly was unbearable to him.

Presently the chamber door opened and Doctor
Howard came out, looking jolly and at ease. Syd-
ney sprang up and ran toward him.

“Tt’s all right, my dear, it’s all right,” the old doc-
tor said, patting the cold little hands she held out

to him; ‘papa won’t leave us yet awhile. He thinks
he will, but bless you, we know better. If he keeps
quiet he’s good foradozen years yet. Now, just

run in and kiss him goodnight, and then away to
bed. Those pretty eyes are too bright to be dimmed
by late hours. Ah, Mr. Bertie, good-morning to
you, sir.”

Sydney shot off like an arrow, and Bertie went
slowly, and with a disgusted feeling, tobed. ‘Good
for a dozen years yet!” Oh, no doubt, no doubt at
all, It is in the nature of rich fathers, and uncle
and guardians to hang on to the attenuated threa
of life, when they and everybody connected with
them would be much more comfortable if they went
quietly to their graves.

“No fear of his going toes up before the wedding-
day,” thought Mr. Vaughan, bitterly. ‘‘He’ll tough
it out, as old Howard says, to dandle his grandsons,
Pve no doubt. And then there’s nothing left for
me but the ‘all for love and the world well lost’ sort
of thing. By Jove, Dolly will have to work for me
as well as for herself when I make her Mrs,
Vaughan.”

Next day, by noon, Squire Owenson was able to
descend to luncheon, A letter from Montreal, ina
stiff, wiry hand, lay beside his plate. It was from
Miss Phillis Dormer, and contained a gracious as-
sent to the visit of her niece, Cyrilla. That same
evening brought a note from Cyrilla herself to Syd-
ney:

7 . “PETITE ST, JACQUES, Nov. 8th.

“DEAREST SyD:—It is all arranged. Aunt Phil cheerfully con-
sents, and has actually (who says the days of miracles are past?))
sent me ten pounds to buy my bridemaid’s dress. Three days.
from this I will be with you on unlimited leaye of absence: la
haste (class-bell is ringing), but as ever

“Devotedly yours, CYRILLA.”

Two days before Sydney would have danced with
delight, but now she read this note, her color rising,
a look of undefined trouble on herface. Everything
seemed setiled—her trousseau had come, the very
bridal vail and wreath were up-stairs. Cyrilla was
coming to be bridemaid, and Bertie had never
spoken one word. She glanced across the table—
they were at dinner—to where he sat trifling with a
chicken-wing and tasting, with epicurean relish, his
glass of Sillery. Wasshe worth so little, then, that
she was not even worth the asking? Less vanity a
pretty girl could hardly have than Sydney, but a
sharp, mortified pang of wounded feeling went
through her now as she looked at him—cool, care-
less, unconcerned. :

‘*Papa forces me upon him, and he takes me be-
cause he cannot well help himself,” she thought.
‘“‘He is inlove with that dark-eyed actress, and he
will marry me and be miserable all his life. Oh! if
papa had only let us alone, and never attempted
this match-making!”

‘*Bad news, puss ?” her father asked. ‘You look
forlorn. What’s the matter, little one? Let me see
the letter.”

She hesitated a moment—then passed it over to
him reluctantly, and the'squire, adjusting his double
eye-glass, read it sonorously aloud. Sydney’s eyes
never left the plate, her cheeks tingled; Bertie sat,
an indifferent auditor, his whole attention absorbed
by his champagne.

Squire Owenson laid down the letter and looked
at his daughter through his glasses.

‘Well, petite, that’s all right, isn’t it? She’H be
here in three days—two more; and you and Bertie
shall meet her at the station. What’s that troubled
look for, then? You're fond of this young lady, are
you not ?”

‘*Yes, papa—very fond. Dear old Cy!”

“Then what is it? Itisn’t that you’re afraid she’ll
make love to Bertie—hey ? and are jealous before-
hand ?”

But Sydney had finished her dessert, and jumped
up abruptly and ran away. It was little short of
a ae to see Bertie sit there, that languid
smile of his just dawning, and feel all the cool, self-
assured, almost insolent indifference with which he
took her without the asking.

The two days passed. Bertie spent a great deal of
his time away from The Place, doing home duty at
stated intervals, when it was impossible to shirk it
without arousing the quick suspicions of the ‘‘gov-
ernor.” He drove Sydney and her mother along the
country roads together, he rode out twice with Syd-
ney alone, but that conversation had not taken
place; the explanation Miss Owenson meant to have
she had not had as yet. It was one thing to resolve
to ask Bertie whether or no he was in love with the
actress, to tax him indirectly with falsehood, and
another thing to do it. Bertie Vaughan, her old
comrade and playfellow, was a man—'‘a gentleman
growed,” as Pegotty says, and every instinct of her
womanhood shrank from broaching the subject. It
was for him to speak, for her to refuse or accept as
she saw fit. He never did speak—never came within
miles of the subject, avoided it, ignored it utterly,
as the girl could hardly fail to see. And so the day:
and the hour of Cyrilla’s arriva came, and matters
matrimonial were in statu quo. .

It was a gloomy November afternoon, .“‘onding
on snaw,”—sky and atmosphere steel gray alike, a
wild, long blast rattled the trees and sent the dead
leaves in whirls before it. A few feathery flakes
were drifting through the sullen air, giving promise
of the first snow-storm of the season before mid-
night.

The train came thundering into tie lighted sta-
tion as Sydney and Bertie took their piaces. Sydney
in a velvet jacket, a velvet cap, crowned wi --1 an os-
trich feather, on her bright, wind-Jlown hair, and
in a state of eager expectation. «or Mr. Vaughan,
he had not deigned to take mue!: ).rerést in the new

 

 

went

 

 

£9 oro.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

6 ~<<24 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #30

4 s

 

 

 

/

 

comer from the first; judging, from Sydney’s talk, he
was predisposed to dislike her indeed, as a young
person inclined to ‘‘chaff.”
Bertie had found, from experience, generally chaffed
him, and like most weak men he was acutely sensi-
tive to ridicule.

The train stopped; the passengers for Wychcliffe,
half-a-dozen in number, came out. Among them a
tall young lady, in a traveling suit of dark-green
serge, at sight of whom Sydney uttered a joyous
cry and plunged forward straightway into her arms,

*‘Oh, of course,” says Bertie, cynically, eyeing the

air, “they must gush. A quarter of an hour of
Coie and exclamation points, as though they had
She’s not

not seen each other for a century or so!
bad looking either—got eyes like Dolly.”

She might have eyes like Dolly, but there all re-
semblance ended, Miss Hendrick’s tail, pliant figure
bore no similarity to Miss De Courcy’s ‘‘rounded and
ripe.” Miss Hendrick’s_ patrician profile, and clear
cut, colorless, olive face, was as unlike as can well
be conceived Dolly’s little saucy retrousse nose and
highly-colored complexion.

“Cyrilla, this is Bertie; Mr. Vaughan, Miss Hen-
drick.”

Bertie flung away his cigar, doffed his hat, and
bent before Miss Hendrick with his best court-
chamberlain bow. Miss Hendrick looked at him—
looked through him—with those lustrous ebon eyes
of hers, smiled, showed very brilliant teeth, and
frankly extended one invisible-green kidded hand.

“J don’t feel at all as though I were meeting a
stranger in meeting you, Mr. Vaughan. I have been
your most intimate friend for the past two years—
haven’t I, Sydney?”

‘“‘Miss Hendrick’s friendship does me proud,” says
Bertie. He would like to utter some very telling
and sarcastic compliment; he has an instinctive
longing to ‘take her down” at sight, but the truth
is, he can think of none. Her pronounced manner
has taken him decidedly aback. He had expected
to meet a school-girl, more or less gauche and bread-
and-buttery, and instead he saw a regal-looking
young lady, with the ‘steely tranquil” manner and
gracious civility of a grande. dame. The aggressive
feeling he had felt before he saw her deepened ten-
fold. He had intended to be very civil—crushingly
eivil indeed—to Sydney’s little school friend; to pat-

-ronize her in the most oppressive manner, to get up
a mild flirtation with her even if she had any pre-
tensions to good looks; and behold, here she was ab-
solutely patronizing him, and looking him through,
to the very marrow of his bones, with those piercing,
steadfast black eyes—like in color, but wonderfully
unlike in every other respect, Dolly’s.

**T expect you two to become fast friends at once!”

-eries Sydney. ‘‘You know all about each other be-
forehand, and are compatriots besides.”
‘* ‘None know me but to love me,
None name me but to praise,’ ”
says Berlie, helping them in. ‘I have heard Miss
Hendrick’s praises sung so assiduously for the past
week, that——”

‘“‘The very sound of her name bores you—yes, I
nnoderstand,” interrupts Cyrilla. ‘‘Syd, what a be-
Witching little turn-out, and what handsome steppers!
You will let me drive you, won’t you? I’m a capital
whip.”

“T'll let you do anything you please. Oh! darling,
how good it seems to have you with me again!” Syd-
ney said, cuddling close to Cyrilla’s side. ‘*How are
they all in Petite St. Jacques? How is Freddy?”

“T have not seen Freddy since the night I risked
abroken neck and ashattered reputation getting
cut of the window to meet him. I managed to an-
swer his letter, and there things remain. For the
rest—Miss Jones has left the school.”

, What!”

“Perfectly true. It was suddenly discovered that
she had a passion for novel-reading (Mlle. Stepha-
nie’s pet abomination), and wasea subscriber to the
town circulating library—that one of the French
girls was in the habit of smuggling in the forbidden
truit, and having all her lessons done by Miss Jones
in return, The crime was proven beyond refutation,
and—Miss Jones suddenly and quietly left the
school.”

*‘Oh-h!—a very prolonged ‘‘oh,” indeed.

**Mile. Stephanie dismissed her ?”

“So I presume. The fact remains—she went.”

“‘Oyrilla!” Sydney said, a look of pain on her face,
*‘did—did you do this ?”

*And what if I did, Syd? There was little love
betweenus from-the first, and it pleased Heaven to
Giminish it on further acquaintance. Yes—indirect-

Uy it was through me that Ma’amselle Stephanie made
the discovery—I must own.”

Yhere was silence—unconscionsly, involuntarily,
Sydney sbrunk a little from her friend.

“Well, Syd, did I do wrong? Were you so fond of
Niss Jones that you put on that shocked face ?”

*Fond of her ?—no,” Sydney answered, slowly;
“ut Iam sorry you did this. Poor Miss Jones! lite
had gone hard with her, I am afraid, and soured
her. She stood quite alone in the world, and it was
a'| the home she had.”

*“‘My dearest Syd,” Miss Hendrick said, laughing,
“if you carry that tender heart of yours through
life you'll find it bleeding at every turn. I owed
Miss Jones a long debt, and I have paid it—that is
all.”

**‘And she will pay you if ever she has the chance,
you may be sure of that, Cyrilla.”

“Lam sure of it, Sydney. But it isnot my inten-
tion to let her have the chance. She does not know
Aunt Phil’s address, and most likely never »will.
People who have to work for the bread they eat
have no time for vendetta. Why do we talk of so
contemptible a subject at all? Let us talk of your-
sal, chere belle. So that is our Bertie. He is as
handsome as Narcissus.” ’

*‘And like Narcissus knows it only too well.”

There was a touch, all unconscious, of bitterness
in Sydney’s answer that did not escape the quick
ear of her friend. :

‘Kverything is settled, I suppose, and the happy
day fixed? When is it to be, darling, this month or
next ?”

“The happy day is not fixed,” Sydney answered,
trying to speak lightly, and feeling the color burn-
ing in her cheeks; *tnot this month, certainly. Next
very likely, ix—~at all.”

“My dear child,” Cyrilla cried, really startled, ‘* ‘if
at all? What an odd thing to say.”

“Igift? But who knows what may happen? Who
can tell what a day may bring forth, much less a
month? Ihave the strongest prophetic conviction
here will be no wedding at all.”

She spoke almost without volition of her own—
something within her seemed to say the words. In
the tragic time that was to come, that was even
then at hand, she recalled that involuntary sentence
with strange, somber wonder. For Cyrilla—she sat
and looked at her, rendered utterly speechless for a
moment by this unexpected declaration.

“Don’t stare so, Cy,” Sydney laughed, recovering
her customary good humor, “it’s very rude. Why,
I may be dead and buried in # month!”

“Very true—or Bertie !”

“Or Bertie.”

“Or one of you may prove false.”

“Or one of us may prove false;” but as Sydney re-
peated the answer the color slowly died out of her
face.

“Sydney!” Cyrilla exclaimed, ‘it isn’t possible—
no, it isn’t, that you have gone and fallen in love:
since you left school ?”

Sydney’s clear laugh rang out so merrily that no
other answer was needed, and Bertie turning around,
demanded to know the joke.

«Nothing concerning you, Bertic—only something
very witty Miss Hendrick has said by accident. Here
we are, Cy—welcome to my home, which [hope you
will make yours very, very often.”

Miss Hendrick was received with profoundest de-
ference by Captain Owenson, with a smiling kiss by
Aunt Char, and shown to the pretty room prepared
for her—the prettiest by far that she had ever occu-
pied; and here Sydney Jeft her, to change her own
dress before dinner. Cyrilla sat down for a moment
in the low easy chair in front of the fire, burning
cheerily in the steel grate, and slowly and thought-
fully removed her wraps.

**So,” she thought, “that’s the way the land lies—
already. Master Bertie has placed his pretty face
and impecunious hand at another shrine, and Syd-

ney has found it out. He doesn’t like me. I could
see that. We are antagonistic at sight. All your

weak men are fickle and foolish.
inamorata can be ?
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men Were decvivers ever,
One foot on sea and one on shore,
Toone thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go—»

Cyrilla hummed softly asshe dressed. She wore the
before-mentioned garnet merino, the gold and ruby
set; a jet comb in her black hair, a cluster of scarlet
geranium blossoms and velvet green leaf over one
ear. And so, with the air ofa grand-duchess in her
own right, Miss Hendrick swept down to the draw-
ing-room.

Thoroughbred.” was Captain Owenson’s inward
critique; “‘a Bohemian by accident. a lady by birth
and breeding to the core. Ah! they may say what
they like in this new land, but blood will tel.”

I wonder who his

 

People inclined to chaff

He gave hi
room, with stately Sir Charles Grandison courtesy.
Bertie followed after with Aunt Char, and Sydney
came in the rear.

“T say, Bertie, can't you get up anything to amuse
the girls this first evening ?” the captain inquired.
“There’s a theater of some sort over in the town
they tell me. Isit eligible?” ~

**All the best people of Wychcliffe attend, sir.”

‘‘Ha! do they? And what is the piece to-night?
Anything worth going to see ?”

“The ‘School for Scandal’ and the ‘Loan of a
Lover,’” answered Mr. Bertie Vaughan.

“Ambitious at least—capital things both. And the
actors, my boy—very fourth or fifth-class, no doubt,
as befits strolling players ?”

‘A few of them, sir: a few also are very good in-
deed,” answered Vaughan rather resentfully.

“Then what do you say, young ladies? What do
you say, mamma? Shall Bertie take you to see the
‘School for Scandal ?’” :

“T should like it of all things, papa,” responded
Sydney.

‘And so should I, I am sure,” said Aunt Char.
‘‘There’s nothing I used to beso fond of when I was
a girl as going to the theater.”

“And you, Miss Hendrick ?’ inquired the deferen-
tial host.

“T shall be charmed, Captain Owenson; I delight
in the theater.”

“Then that is settled. There will be no trouble
about seats, or anything of that sort, Bertie ?”

“T am not sosure of that, sir. Itis a benefit night,
you see, and the season closes to-morrow. The bene-
ficiary is a prime tavorite, and the honse is likely to
be crowded.”

‘tWho is the beneficiary ?” asked Sydney, flashing
a sudden intent look into his face.

That fatal trick of blushing! Up came the blood
of conscious guilt into the ingenuous face of Mr.
Vaughan.

‘Miss De Courey—you saw her the other night,
you remember. She plays Lady Teazle.”

‘*What’s the. boy blushing about ?” cried the cap-
tain. ‘Miss De—what did you say, Bertie ?” ;

‘De Courcy, sir—a nom de theatre, no doubt,” an-
swered Bertie, his natural complexion back once
more. As he made the reply he looked involuntarily
across at Miss Hendrick to find that young lady’s
dark, searching eyes fixed full upon him—a look of
amusement in their depths.

‘She should be a tolerable actress to undertake
Lady Teazle,” Cyrilla said, suavely. ‘I know of no
more difficult part.”

‘She is a good actress—a charming actress,” re-
torted Bertie, a certain defiance in his tone. “I
have seen many, but never one mucli better.”

‘*Isn’t she rather wasting her sweetness on desert
air, then?” snggested the captain. ‘‘It seems a pity
such transcendant talent should be thrown away on
mill-men. Suppose you all start early and so make
sure of good seats.”

There was a universal uprising, a universal alacri-
ty in hastening away to prepare. Squire Owenson’s
proposal met the views of all capitally. Bertie, who
had looked forward to a long, dragging, dull even-
ing listening to Sydney and her friend playing the
piano or gossipping about the school, brightened
up wonderfully. Sydney had an intense curiosity
to see again the actress whose very name could
bring hot guilty blushes to Bertie’s boyish face, and
Cyrilla was desirous of beholding Sydney’s rival. So
a hasty toilet was made, and the three ladies piled
into the carriage, with Bertie, submerged in drapery,
between them, and were driven away througha
whirling snow-storm to the Wychcliffe theater.

Half an hour later,and as the last bars of the
‘‘Acnes Sorel Quadrille,” with which the provincial
orchestra was dclighting the audience, died away,
there entered a group that at once aroused the in-
terest of the house, A flutter of surprise and admi-
ration ran along the benches—a hundred pair of
eyes turned to stare with right good will. The
theater was filled, as Vaughan had foretold—pretty,
piquant Dolly was so great a favorite that they were
giving her a bumper house. All eyes, and a few
glasses, turned upon these late comers, who swept
up to the third row of seats, taking the play-house
in splendid style.

Bertie Vaughan came first, with a young lady on
his arm—not Miss Owenson—a tall, dark, stately
young lady, dressed in white, wearing a scarlet
opera wrap, ajet comb, and scarlet-geranium blos-
soms in her hair. Miss Owenson came next, with
her mamma, looking fair as a lily, her light flowing
hair falling loose and unadorned. A few significant
looks, a few significant smiles were interchanged.
It would be rather good fun to see the actress
Vaughan was in love with, and the heiress he was to
marry, face to face.

The broad, universal stare sent the color flutter-
ing tremulously in and out of Sydney’s childlike face.
Miss Hendrick bore it all with the profoundly un-
conscious air of a three-seasons’ belle, hardened by
long custom to open admiration. A little bell tin-
kled as they took their places, the curtain went up,
and the ‘School for Scandal” began.

Cyrilla, lying gracefully back in her chair, slowly
fluttering her fan, smiled with barely-repressed dis-
dain as she watched that first scene. Ah! she had
seen that most bewitching of comedies played three
years ago, in London,-in a theater where all were
good, and a few were nearly perfect. To Sydney it
was simply entrancing. It was almost her first visit
to a play, and she was neither prepared nor inclined
to make invidious distinctions.

So absorbed did she become that she almost forgot
her principal object in coming, until at last Lady
Teazle appeared on the stage. A tumult of applause
greeted her; again and again the house rang—and
Dolly, looking charmingly in the piquant costume of
old Sir Peter’s youthful wife, bowed, and dimpled
and smiled her thanks.

‘Ah! pretty, decidedly!’ was Miss Hendrick’s
thought. She glanced at Bertie Vaughan. Yes, the
tell-tale face had lit up, the blue eyes were alight, a
smile of eager welcome was on his lips, his kidded
hands were applauding tumultuously. She glanced
at Sydney. A sort of pallor had chased away the
flush of absorption; a sort of gravity her friend had
never seen there before, set her soft-cut, childish
mouth. 2

‘*Poor little Syd!” Cyrilla thought; “it is rather
hard your father should insist upon making you mis-
erable for life whether or no. You don’t love this
handsome dandy, but he will break your hedrt all
the same. I would like to see the actress, were she
beautiful as Venus herself, that Fred Carew would
throw me over for!”

The play went on. Dolly did her best, and re-
ceived applause enough, noisy and hearty, to satisfy
a Rachel or a Ristori. The smile—a smile of quiet
amusement—deepened on Miss Hendrick’s lips—a
smile that nettled Bertie Vaughan. The great
screen-scene came, and at Miss De Courcy’s pose,
and the acting that followed, Cyrilla absolutely
laughed aloud.

‘““You seem well amused, Miss Hendrick!” Bertie
said, aggressively, an angry light in his blue eyes.

“T am well amused, Mr. Vaughan. I may safely
say, this performance is a treat. JI may also safely
say, [ never saw a comedy so thoroughly comical be-
fore.” :

“You don’t like it, Cy?” asked Sydney. “Of
course, after the London theaters, if must seem very
poor. What do you think of—of Miss De Courcy ?”

‘**Miss De Courcy is the most original Lady Teazle
I ever beheld in my life,” Cyrilla replied, still laugh-
ing. ‘Mr. Vaughan, I thought you said they had
some tolerable performers in this company! . What
has become of them to-night ?”

“Miss Hendrick is pleased to be fastidious. For

 

shandsome guest his arm to the dining-

ter,” responded Cyrilla, coolly. ‘I lived among
theatrical people all my life before I ceme to Canada,
and was pretty thoroughly drilled inthe rudiments
of the profession. Once [ looked forward to tread-)
ing the boards myself before my aunt changed all
that. If I were in Miss De Courcy’s place to-night,
I assure you, I would play Lady Teazle very much
better. Don’t look so disgusted, Mr. Vaughan—it is
perfectly true.”

Again she laughed—more and more amused at
Bertie’s irritated face. The curtain had fallen, and
Ben Ward had left his seat and gone out. Bertie
knew what that meant—a quiet flirtation with Dolly
behind the scenes. He fidgeted unessily—galled by
Cyrilla’s contemptuous criticism, yet unable to re-
sent it, jealous of Ward, and longing desperately to
break away and rush behind the sc2nes also. The
two girls were discussing the play—Cyrilla in an
undertone burlesquing Miss De Courcy for Sydney’s
benefit, That was the straw too much; he arose,

“Tf you'll excuse me, Sydney,” he said, pointedly
ignoring Sydney’s friena, “Dll leave you for a mo-
ment. There’s a—er—man down at ‘he door I wish
to speak to.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walk-
ed out, with his usual negligent saurter. Two min-
utes more, and he made his appearance in the green
room, in time to behold his rival presenting Miss De
Courcy with a very handsome bouquet.

“Ah, Vaughan!” Ward said, with acool nod, ‘Show
are you? Dusedly pretty girls those you escort to
night. Who’s the dark one ?”

**No one you know, Mr. Ward, or are likely to
know,” retorted Bertie, turning his sack upon him.
‘Dolly, yowre in capital form this evening, never
saw you look or play better in my life.”

“T's a pity you can’t make’ one of the youug
ladies you have with you think so,” cried Dolly, her
eyes aflame. ‘‘Do you suppose I don’t see her
laughing at me—at us all—since she came in? Such
sneering fine ladies as that ought to stay at home—
not come here to laugh at their betters.”

“Gently, Dolly—gently,” put in Ward, maliciously;
‘you'll hurt Vaughan’s feelings. One of those two
is the girl he is to marry this monti or next. It
wasn’t she who was laughing at you, was it? Ad-
miring you as yaaa does, I should think he
would have taught her better.”

“Tt was the girl in the red opera cloak and white
dress,” said wrathful Dolly; “she sat and sneered
every time I opened my lips—7 could see her. You
had better go back to them, Mr. Vaughan,” cried
Dolly, with a toss ot Lady Teazle’s tall head-dress.
“Youre only wasting your time here.”

“T think I am, by ” exclaimed Vaughan, with a
furious oath. ‘I’ve wasted too much of it already.
Youw’re a fool, Dolly, and you’ll,live to repent it!”

He dashed out, his blue eyes lurid with jealous
rage.

“Bertie,” Dolly called faintly; but if he heard he
never looked back. He strode straight out, straight
into the theater, and resumed his seat beside his af-
fianced. .

“By jingo!” exclaimed Mr. Ward, his shrill whistle
of astonishment cutting the air; ‘twho’d have
thought there wasso much fire in milk-sop!. Let me
congratulate you, Dolly, on your pluck in getting rid
of him.”

“Keep your congratulations,” retorted Miss De
Courcy, the fine furious temper she naturally pes-
sessed all afire, ‘‘and let be get rid of you. Keep
your flowers, too—I don’t want them. I wish I_had
never seen him or you!”

She flung them at his feet.

“Goon, Dolly,” said somebody, hurriedly; “stage
is waiting,” and Dolly went on. Went on, white as
ashes where rouge was not, playing worse than ever,
half maddened by the sight of Bertie Vaughan laugh-
ing and chatting with his two fair friends. For Mr.
Ward, he had calmly picked up his disdained bou-
quet, and sauntered back to his place in front.

“T'll throw it to her at the end,” thought this mill-
owning young philosopher; ‘‘and she'll take it too.
I know what Dolly’s tantrums amount to. ‘All
things are possible to the man who knows how to
wait.’”

The end came, the bouquet was thrown and—ac-
cepted. Bértie saw her pick it up, press it to her
lips, and bow and smile to the doner, unmoved. She
was coarse (so had set in the current of this most
unstable gentleman’s thoughts); she was a poor ac-
tress; he wondered how he could ever have been so
blind as to think her otherwise, If he married her
he would be ashamed of her all his life lone. He
was the sort of man to make a mad marriage, and
be ashamed of his wife all the testof tris-days,and
revenge his folly on her head. ~“Shé was uneducatea
—she was vulgar—she had horrible relatives no
doubt—she had nothing in thé world to recommend
her but two bold black eyes and a highly-co?ored
complexion. Wasthe game worth the candle? Was
this actress worth the sacrifice of honor, wealth and
caste—all that had ever made his life? And if what
Miss Hendrick said were true—that she did not pos-
sess the first elements of theatrical success—what
then? As her husband he would be a beggar—a
miserable, seedy, shabby beggar. To many an ac-
tressin receipt of three or four hundred dollars a
week would still be a tremendous sacrifice for a man
of his appearance, prospects and standing—to marry
an actress earning a wretched pittance of forty or
fifty dollars a week only—good Heaven!—a shudder
ran through him; what an escape he had had! He
detested Miss Hendrick, but he felt absolutely
grateful to her for opening his eyes. What an
idiot—what an utter drivelling idiot he had been!
Let Ward take her—greater fool Ward—he was
rich and could indulge in folly if he choose.
For himself, he would keep his honor intact, he
would marry Sydney, and become master of Owen-
son Place and the captain’s noble bank stock. He
looked across at her, her cheeks flushed with excite-
ment and warmth, her eyes sparkling, her fair hair
falling to her waist. How pretty, how sweet, how
refined she was. Hers was thesortof beauty. Years
would but improve—at thirty she would be a radi-
ently beautiful woman. What a contrast to Dolly

 

 

De Courcy—poor Dolly! singing, dancing, coquetting

before the footlights in her peasant garb in the
‘Loan of a Lover,” casting imploring, penitent
glances at him, doing her best to attract his notice.
He put up his glass and surveyed her, a feeling akin
to repulsion within him. He did not know it, but it
was the turning point of his life, his last chance of
earthly salvation.
It allended. They called Dolly out, and she came,
curtseying, and with that stereotyped smile on her
lips, her imploring eyes still bent on Bertie. But he
would not see*her, he was tenderly and solicitously
wrapping Miss Owenson’s blue scarf about her
shoulders, preparatory to going out.
Through the white, whirling night they drove
home. Twoor three inches of snow aiready covered
the ground. Winter had come beforeits time. And
Bertie in acorner ‘pondered in his heart and was
still.” 3
“Tl see Dolly once more and make anend of it ail,”
he mused. ‘I would be the most contemptible cad
that ever lived it I disappointed the governor after
all he has done for me. ‘To jilt an heiress like Syd-
ney for a penniless, common-place actress like Dolly
would be sheer madness—a girl with lovers in New
York and Wychcliffe, and, the duse knows where
besides. And I would tire of herinamonth. She's
as jealous and exacting as the verydickens. Yes,
by Jove! Pll throw over the actress and imarry the
aeiress!”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

——>-© <_____—

Etistorieal Items.

 

 

my part, I think Miss De Courcy plays remarkably
well, and gives promise of becoming in the future a
very first-class artiste. Try to recollect this is not
the Prince of Wales’ Theater.”

‘*f am not likely to forget it,” langhed Cyrilla, with
wicked enjoyment of the young man’s evident cha-
grin. ‘‘And you really think, Mr. Vaughan. that
Miss De Courcy plays well, and gives promise of be-
coming a popular actress ?”

‘Do not you, Miss Hendrick.?”

“Most decidedly—most emphatically not. If she
lives for fifty years, and spends every one of them
on the stage, she will not be a whit better at the end
than she is now. She does not possess the first ele-
ments of a good actress. Personally she is too short,
too stout, too florid, too—may I say it ?—vulgar.
Mentally—she has not an ounce of brains.in her
head—she does not know the A. B.C. of her art.
But I see I bore you—lI had better stop.”

“Byno means,” cried Bertie, defiantly. ‘Go on.”

“Well, then—did you not see how flat the screen-
scene fell ?—that is the best situation in the play—
she made nothing of it. And she is making eyes at
ihe house all the while—afatal mistake. An actress
should be the character she represents, and ufterly
ignore her audience. And she minces in her walk;
she talks English witha Yankee accent; she is coarse
in voice and manner; she hasn’t the faintest concep-
tion of alady. Atolerable ‘‘singing chambermaid,”
with training, she might make—a tolerable come-
dienne—never!”

‘A strident sentence.
ways to criticise than to do better.”

 

 

“T beg your pardon—I could do very much bet-

But it is so much easier al-.

Frew towns have more mementoes of patriotic an-
cestry than Quincy, Mass., the birthplace-of Hancock, the
Adamses and the Quincys. On the east of President's Ilill is the
site of the old home of John Hancock, now occupied by the
Adams Academy; tothe southeast stands the mansion whiere
both John Adams and John Quincy Adams were born; and on
the north is the fine old estate built by a Tory and confiscated to
the Government, and which afterward beeame the residence of
John Adams, and is still occupied by his grandson, Hon. Charles
Francis Adams. A few rods further tothe north stands the old
club-house known as the Greenleaf Home, where many of the
leading patriots of the Revolution were wontto meet.

THERE is & gun in Schuyler, Nebraska, which was
captured by the Massachusetts. volunteers under Pepperell at
Louisburg, June 17, 1745, was used: at Lexington and Concord on
tlie patriot side in 1775, and on Bunker Hiil, Jane 17 of the same
year, One Mr. Bray who-had the weapon at Bunker Iii, after-
ward remoyed to Castine. Major Join Jvellison, one of the first
settlers of Ellsworth, Me., bought it of Bray in 1792, kept it until
his death, In 1850, and gave it to his son, who turned it over to
the presentowner in 1865. The owner’s father served with it in
the war of 1812, and bis youngest brother took it out for service
in the celebrated Aroostook war.

THE war ending in the independenee of the United
States commenced with the battie of Lexington, April 19, 1775,
and was ended by the Treaty of Paris, i783. Tnis war cost $135,-
193,700.

Tur oldest fire company in the United States, a
correspondent claims, is the Union, of Trenton, N. 4, organized
in 1747. @

Tue trial of Warren Hastings, in England, by Par-
liament, for misconduct in India, lasted over seven years, It
ended, April 25, 1795, in aequittal.

TuE tread-mill is an invention of the Chinese, and
is used in China to raise water for the irrigation of the fields.
They were first introduced into prisons in England, in 1817,

Minirary uniforms were first used in France in
1668. They were soon after adopted im England. ,

THE affirmation of Quakers in lieu of swearing on

 

the Bible, was first Iegally accepted iu England, im 1696.

etn

Sera ele

YOUNG MEN'S PREFERENCE,
BY werbiaier anes WALLACE,

Let him listen to the spheres
If they most delight his ears;
But to us they’d be eclipsed—
We prefer her rosy lips,
Singing what we understand,
Man and woman hand-in-hand.

«

Let him love the planet's rays

If they most delight his gaze;
But for a brighter prize !

It is found in woman’s eyes,
Flashing thoughts of bridal bliss
In the first, but not last, kiss.
Let him look for graces curled
In the rainbow o’er the world;
But we cannot help ow" taste
Takes to woman’s dearer waist.
Waft, old Sage, your heart above!
We prefer more earthly love,
Earthly, yet diviner love!

A Story of Bunker Hill.

hee Yuk

—— Or —+—

THE PATRIOT SPY.

By Lieutenant Murray.

 

(1775? was commenced in No. 34. Back numbers can be
procured of any News Agent in the United States.)

CHAPTER VII. 4
THE DISCOVERY.

Until she was about seventeen years of age Ellen Duda-
ley had been brought up tenderly by a mother who had
devoted her life as long as it lasted to the good of her
child; but about two years previous to the opening of our
story, Mrs. Dudly had been taken from her by death,
The mother had been a Women of the highest standard of
integrity and principle, and bad jmparied her conscien-
tiousness of spirit to her only ebild.

So mucl it is necessary }o say with regard to the moth-
er of Ellen, whose teaciiings had not ceased to exercise
an influence over her daugitier, though she had been long
since separated from her, Tne young and beautiful New
England girl was wont to say to herself whenever called
upon to decide upon some special course of conduct—
“Would mother have approved of it?’ or, ‘Is this strictly
right and proper for me to do???

it was therefore that Ellen Dudly sat at this timealone
im her little back room, the evening after her lover had
ieft her, as described im the previous chapter, musing to
herself:

“1 pronvised to be his wife,’? she said to herself; ‘fam
I not already his in the eyes of Heaven? He promised,
on his part, to make my poor father comfortable, and to
aid him in securing the remnant of his property, and he
did so. Wit right, then, have I to break my word be-
cause a temporary exigency has separated us? Would
tiny mother have sanciioned that? Am I notin honor and
truth bound to keep my solemu word?

“Alas! what weight 1s there in the argument that] do
not jove him? I knew that, and 1 told him so, before I
passed iny word to be his wife. Oh! I want to do right!
[ thought it to. be my solemn duty to consent, for my poor
father’s sake, and having cousented, lam virtually bound
to him. I must keep my wordl”?

The reader, unless fully realizing the powerful influ-
ence of her mother’s teachings, and the Puritanic spirit
of the period, which carried Conscientiousness to the ex-
tent of martyrdom, can hardly appreciate the resolve of
the truthful young girl. She had the highest sense of
duty, truthfulness and honor, and these she cousidered to
be involved in her promises to Major Harris.

When young Ainsworth, finding a leisure moment, has-
tened Lo her side that evening, he came just in time to in-
terrupt this self-examination on Eilen’s part, and found
her thus in tears, She had not strength of will sufficient
to repulse his tender embraces, and did not chide him
for kissing away her tears.

Ainsworth knew her character perfectly; herealized how stern-
ly conszientious she would be under any circumstances, and he
saw that these convictions which we have heard her utter to her-
self, were tuking a strong and potent hold of the young girl. His
specious arguments, as he felt himself, did not weigh against her
simple thoughtfulness,

What was tobe done? The happiness which had seemed within
his grasp appeared about to elude him at the very moment when
he had teltsure of its censummation,

be ane ee Ellen, you were mine before you ever saw Major
arris.’

SN eZ:

“Major Ainswerth,” said General Ward, ‘‘from the commence-
ment of hostilities your name has been always marked on the
rolls for promotion.”

“Thank you for the compHment, general,”

“You had the good fortune to attract General Washington’s
eye more than once, and tocommand his earnest approval.”

The young soldier bowed, wondering what was coming next.

“General, formerly Colonel Prescott, has also warmly inter-
ceded in your behalf, acknowledging that he owes his life to your
courage and intrepidity. I have therefore the pleasure, in con-
sideration of your gallant and faithful services, to hand you your
commission as a full colonel in the Continental army, and to as-
sigma you to the command of the new regiment just raised and
already prepared to muster into service. You are the youngest
colonel in the service, but I feel confident that you will be all the
more careful to merit the confidence of your superior officers,”

This was a complete surprise. Harrison had received uo inti-
mation of such good fortune.

His answer to General Ward was modest and appropriate to
the occasion, :

At that moment General Prescott entered, and shaking the
young officer by the hand, he took trom his pocket theausignia
of colonel, and said:

“Let me put these upon your shoulder, Colonel Ainsworth, as
a recognition of my indebtedness to you, and also as an expres-
sion of personal regard.”

His fellow officers, among whom he was a favorite, now came
forward and congratulated him until he felt fairly overwhelmed
with his good fortune.

But amid it allhe thought of Elien Dudly, and the gratifica-
tion of her pure and truthful beart at his promotion and the
performance of daty which had commanded it,

Well might there be sunshine in his heart.

CHAPTER VIII.
_ THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Young Ainsworth was impatient io see Ellen, but he faithfully
consummated his professional duty first, however anxious he
was to see her again.

He had left her with a heavy load upon his heart. Knowing
the force of her conscientious nature he really feared that he
might lose her after all, but. as we have seen, the discovery—the
chance discovery which he had made so opportunely at Sulem—
had put him quite at rest. ‘

Here was a moral and legal barner to Ellen’s promise which
settled the matter between her and Major Hatris, without. a word
of argument.

Ellen sat in that well-remembered little back room industrious-
ly plying her needle. She wore a small lace cap upon her head,
after the style of the period, but it could not hide the sort, wavy
luxuriousness of her auburn hair. A rich carnation bloom
spread daintily over her cheeks, and her lips were ot deepest
coral, partially open, and displaying her regular and ivory-like
teeth. Ellen Dudly was a very sweet and beautiful girl, who
would have won admiration in any class of society where for-
lune might place her.
“What could he mean by his note ?”’? she said to herself, as she
sat there. ‘It wasso positive, so convincing in what it intimated,
and yet it said, as it were, nothing.”
“Flow brave and handsome Harrison is!”
“How much I do love him!”
‘So devoted to the glorious Patriot cause too. Oh! how could
Lever have made up my mind to marry Major Harris 2?”
“Tie’s nearly old enough to be my father!”
“TI know Harrison must be right. He would not raise my hopes
by such words unless he was sure, and yet what can he have dis-
covered down there in Salem, I wonder ?”
So Ellen sat ta!king to herself, when suddenly she was aroused
by aknock at the front door, and in a moment more a quick,
firm step was heard approaching the little back room. Her heart
began to throb with lightning-like rapidity, and she knew ia-
stinctively that her well-beloved was near to her—iu a moment
more she was in his arms,
“Oh! Harrison!”
“Ellen, darling!”
“You are back again safe.”
“Safe and sound, as usual.” r
“Why, Harrison,” said the beautiful girl, drawing back a tittle,
“what has become of your major’s insignia ?”?

Gone.”
“Gone ?”?
“Yes, but replaced as you see by a colonel’s.”
“Oh, you are promoted.” F
“*4S you see.”
“Ah! Tam so glad.”
Then the young soldier explained about his good fortune, and
how he had become a full colonel that very day.
“But, Eilen, lam more gratified at your approval and smiles
man with those of the whole army, from the commander-in-chief
down. r
As he said this he kissed her cheek tenderly, and she nestled,
as she used to do, closer to his side, laying her head upon his
shoulder.
She then took from her bosom the note he had so lately sent
to her, and holding it toward him for a moment, said:

“Harrison, I could not understand this.”

“T suppose not,”

“What do you mean by it f

“1 will tell you, Ellen.” They sat down side by side.

“Would you have thoughtMajor Harris a villain?” asked young
Ainsworth, ;

“Certainly not. IT knew he was a-selfish, and possibly a heed-
less Man, but his sins I should say were those of omission rather
than of commission.”

“Well, Ellen, he is a convicted raseal.”’

“Why, Harrison, you use strong language.”

“We wanted to marry you f”?

“Oertainly.”

“And the day even was appointed?”

“Tt was.”

“By the meerest chance then you escaped a terrible fate,” said
young Ainsworth,

“What do you mean?’

“Why, he is married already!’

“Impossible!” said Ellen, her cheeks burning with a senso of
shame and surprise.

“It is even so.”

“What proof have you.of this, Harrison?” asked Ellen, very
seriously, and rising to her feet.

“His wife herself!”

“Do you really mean this?”

“Certainly.”

“Where was she all the while?”

“Tn England.” ‘

“And you saw her in Salem?”

“She came passenger in the captured vessel.’

 

 

’

- ‘ y ear Tarris { il) ewe it dart >
ner e ee aR alae AGA BEAR: UNL rd aeiatov ee eae
heve been implied.”

“That is true, Ellen,” Le answered, dejectedly.

“T did, under terrible pressure, as you know, promise him.”

“T know, I know,” repeated Uie youug soldier, walking up and
down the little room.

“Twas honest with him. 1 told him that Iloved you, and that
I married. him for my father’s sake.”

“Will you kiss me, Ellen? I must hasten to my post. Iam on
guard duty to-night.”

“Oh, Harrison, it is dreadful to think that we must part after
] »

all.
“You are tired, and almost ill, Ellen, just now. We will not
talk longer at present, dearest.” ’
He pressed his lips to hers— E

“A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love—”
clasped her tenderly to his breast, and hastened away.
Though Major Ainsworth was on duty that night until nearly
morning, still he promptly responded to an order calling him at
an early hour to Geveral Ward’s headquarters. 7
“Major,” said the commander-in-chiel, “you received the cargo
of the Nancy ordnance vessel when she was captured by the Lee,
and escorted it to Boston, 1 believe?”
“Yes, General. I was also on board the Lee when she captured
the British brig.’’
“Aah! [remember now. Well, [have sent for you to go down
with a few troops and receive and see to the transportation of
another cargo.”’ ‘
“Another, General?”
“Yes. An ordnance ship was captured by one of our privateers-
men and taken into Salem harbor yesterday aiternoon.”
“T bad not heard of the good news.”
“Tt has just come to hand.”
“Tam ready, sir, at @ moment’s notice.” :
“Very good. Take a couple of hundred men, and go down by
the turnpike road this morning. It is importafit that we should
get tkese stores at once in our Own hands here, wareloused in
oston.”?
The young soldier penciled a few lines and sent them to Ellen
Dudly, saying that he was’ suddenly called away for a tew days,
and in an hour was crossing the ferry with his men to Charies-
cown, and from thence marched toward Salem,
The ship just capiured had sailed from England before it was
khuown there that the British army had evacuated Bostoy, and
therefore fearing nothing, had boldly made the mouth of ihe
narbor, When she was boarded-and captured by a schooner from
Jane Ann. The cargo waseven more valuable than that of ihe
icy, being much larger and containing all military siores rc-
quired iov ibe armament of the American troops.
Four ov five British officers were also taken prisoners with her,
who had Come out to join General Howe, and threes of these had
brougiat ibeir wives with them, with some ladies, also’passengets,
come (o join their husbands in Boston,
Major Ainsworth paroled these officers, but confined them with-
in certain limits in the town of Salem, and devoted himself to
dispatching the cargo to Boston.
The ship itself was leaky, and had only been kept afloat with
great exertions during the last few days, so that she was taken
into Salem as the nearest port. Much of her cargo wasdispatch-
ed by schooners to Buston, and a large portion sent over land by
wagons. .
One evening Major Ainsworth was looking after the prisoners
and satisfying himself of theirsafety and proper bestowal, when
one of the ladies asked to see him privately for a few moments.

This person was a lady, very evidently, mn all respects, but she
had a strange story to tell him,

“We have discovered,” she said, “that General Howe and his

army have evacuated Boston. Do you ee where they have

gone?”

” «Doubtless to Halifax.”?

“Do you propose to detain us ladies as prisoners???

Only until my commander's wishes are Enown,” he replied.

“T have come out to join my husband.”

“What name, madame?”

“Major Harris.”

“Who?” asked young Ainsworth, in surprise. ‘Who did you

say, madame?” :

“Major Harris, of the general’s staff.”’

“Js Major Harris your husband?”

“He is.”

‘Did he expect you?”

“No.”

“Why have you come ont, then?’?

“The death of my mother, with whom I was living, has re-

cently occured, and as my home was broken up, I concluded to

come out and join him.”

“Ah, I understand,” said young Ainsworth, while he could

hardly suppress an expression of joy at the discovery which he

had made.

“So that scoundrel of a British officer wanted two wives,” said

the young soldier to himself. ‘Fortunate discovery; and poor

Ellen was so very conscientious all the white.”

He was too considerate to give the negkeeted wife any infor-

mation as to her recreant husband, but he wrote a line to Ellen

Dudly as follows:

“My DARLING :—I have an argument to adduce when next we

meet which will counterbalance ail your seruples relative to the

matier of which we talked ae we were last together, Cheer

up. my dear Etlen. The sun. shines brightin my heart once

mere. You need not shed another tear.
“Your loving

He received the next day this answer:

“Dar HARRISON:—Ot course, 1do not know What you can
possibly have discovered to make you write to me so confident-
ly, but I know you would not do so without good reason. You
have certainly filled my heart, as you say of your own, with
sunshine, ana with much curiosity I shal await your explana-
tion. Affectionately, ELLEN.”

“Dear, innocent soul,’’ said the young soldier, as he kissed this
little note and slipped it iuto a peeketin the neighborhood of
his heart, P

A new regiment of Massachnsetts troops had just been raised
to take the place of a large number of the forces dispatched un-
dey General Washington to New York. General Prescott had
been intercedinz in behalf of young «Ainsworth with the com-
mander-in-chief, and it wasdetermined to give this regiment to
Harrison, who had exhibited such business and soldierly quali-
ties under every emergency.

In the store slip, Zhe Queen, asshe was named, which had
just been captured, were some three thousand stand of muskets,
and allthe neeessary fixtures and accoutrements to go with
them. This was most fortunate, and the regiment designed tor
young Ainsworth, numbering some nine huudred men, was at
once provided with these arms and other necessities, from the
newly-captured prize.

Major Ainsworth stopped at Salem until he had emptied the
Queen, storeship, and dispatched all of her cargo to the ware-
Louses i Boston,

     

 

 

 

TIARRISON,”’

Vinee or Massachusetts,
Here a pleasant surprise awaited our hero, -

 

 

 

emi Qed uasersiand > said, Ellen. “How, frightfal is all this to

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tinued, with a shudder.

“Of course you do not wish to see this Madame Harris?”

“No, indeed.”

“Are your scruples now removed?” he asked.

“They have vanished,” she replied, with a long breath.

Then the young soldier told her that he should at once make
arrangements to send Mrs, Harris to Halifax, where she would
surprise her husband.

“Of course you said nothing toher about this delicate matter?’’
asked Ellen, with heigktened color.

“Certainly not.’

“T kvewI could .trast to your discretion. Inced not have
‘asked you that.??

“You must tell your father, Ellen, or he will not feel, perhaps,
that you are quite free again.”

*) was just thinking of that.”

‘Don’t you think it best?”

*‘Yes, quite necessary.”

“Very well, darling. I have to hurry back to quarters now,
and must leave you for a while.”

The indignation of John Dudley when his daughter explained
to him the perfidy of the British officer, who had sought to dig-
grace his child and himself, knew no bounds. It was the last
feather destined to break the back of his lingering, weak-kneed
loyalty tothe British cause. From that hour forth he was as ar-
dent and active a patriot as any of his fellow citizens in Boston,
and, like all new converts, he was perhaps almost toy zealous. +

The cause of his somewhat sudden conversion was at last aun-
derstood by his friends, and then they no longer wondered that
John Dudly was so bitter toward the English.

Mrs. Harris, in blissful ignorance of ber hasband’s disloyalty
and dishonorablepurposes, availed herself of the first means of
starting for Halifax to join him, a design which young Ainsworth
promotee in every possible way. Perhaps his inceitive was not
entirely of a philanthropic character. It may be more than in-
ferred that he took a malicious satisfaction iti sending the lady
to mect her recreant husband. ’ :

Jolin Dudly freely evinced his pride in Colonel Ainsworth, and
was now prone to say that the young soldier had been brought
up in his eountiug-room, and had eurly shown great promise,
which was now being fulfilled. ;

The intimacy between the youthful colonel and his daughter
was also a matter of pride to the old man, and he threw no im-
pediment in the way of their frequent and happy meetings. Un-
der the new aspect of affairs his physical health had greatly im-
proved, and his cheerful spirits once mere returned to him.

He seemed to Elien and his friends like another man, he was
so much changed for the better. ;

‘The pleasantest part of a man’s life is undoubtedly that which
he spendsin courtship, provided his passion be sincere and the
party beloved be responsive; and so it was with these two lovers
—youth, health, beauty, everything conspired in their behaif at
last. ‘

{n the meantime the Patriot cause, in which they all felt so
bound up, was daily growing stronger, and the wish of their
hearts for independence and national freedom looked more and
more possible.

Finally Colonel Ainsworth, who was sitting by Ellen’s side one
June evening, said:

“Let mereadyou the resolutions just offered in Congress,
Ellen.”

They were as follows:

“That these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free
and independent States; that they are abselved irom all alle-
giance to the British crown; and that all political connection
between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be,
totally dissolved.” :

“That, darling,” said her lover, ‘isa Declaration of Indepen-
dence, and if that is passed, when itis passed, let us be uuited
before the altar.” ?

Ellen Dudly blushed just a little as she said:

“If you choose, Harrison.” ‘

*So let it be, then.”

“But my father ?”?

“Oh, ne will not object.” 3

“FTow do you know ?” she said, shyly.

“Tntuitirely.” g

“Still we will ig hs? won’t we, Harrison ?”

“Oi course, My dear. ‘ r

oi seb oh rr were discussed for some days in the Contin.

ental Congress, but it was pretty well understood that they would

soon pass, or rather that a fomal Declaration of Independence

would be framed upon these resolutions, and become the settled
of the nation.

Crone Declaration of Independence was adopted, July 4th, 177&

When the members of Congress came up to the Speaker's table

to sign this famous and important document, Franklin was there

with his ready wit to cheer and encourage his fellow-members,

John Hancock, who headed it, sa‘d to the others: — .

“We must be unanimous; there must be no pulling different

ways; we must all hang together.”

“Yes? said Franklin, ‘we must all hang together, or else we.

shall all hang separately!” J ;

It had been arranged that when the Declaration was signed

the bell of the Old State House in Philadelphia, where the ses-,

sions a held, should rung. te

This bell bore upon it the inscription:

“Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants

thereof.” .

So the old bell-ringer placed his little boy at the hall door to
await the signal of the doorkeeper; and when the document
was signed at last, the boy ran out exclaiming:

“Ring! ring! ring!” iat
- Then the bell peaied forth its joyful tidmgs, proclaiming liber-
ty throughout the land! '

It was the nation’s birthday! 7

Jolonel Ainsworth now reminded Ellen of their mutual agree-
ment, that when this act was consummated they should be unit-
ed, ohn Dudly, now a warm and earnest patriot, gave his
hearty consent, and arrangements were at once made for the
wedding. 3

Thess were not times for lavish display, nor for useless expense
in dress, but Ellen did not require the extraneous aid of orna-
ment to make her look beautiful in her lover’s eyes.

Phe King’s Chapel, still oe on the corner of Tremont
and School streets, was the place of the marriage ceremony, and
a brilliant assembly of officers of all ranks graced the occasion
with their presence, for the yout! ful eolonel was as popular as
he was already famous.

 

circle of Colonel Ainsworth’s home knew only peace and mutual
love.

The sweet young wife presented only added grace and beauty
to her former attractiveness, and ere long the binding and beau-
teous tie of motherhood. :

At last, when the war closed by the treaty of Paris in 1783, our
hero was General Ainsworth, whose career had been as event-
{ul as it was honorable.

‘All that the Declaration of Independence proclaimed was €3-

ile then warched his men up to headquarters and reported to : he new nation. “The United States of America,’”
General Ward, then m command of the troops of the Bay Pro- ates ities srutiegs ue pa renarsneeen the earth.

 

THE END, 3

 

 

 

 

Those were troublous times for the nation, but the domestic

 

 

ears.

he ee a

 

 

“a os
Leal Tic.” Saiesgreagmeapenenegneenne en

Cc

+
Sy
€
A
y
]
>‘ | Yr

quan

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

TO,ADVERTISERS.

One Dollar and Twenty-five cts. per line,

CUTS DOUBLE PRICE,
FOR BACH INSERTION CASH IN ADVANCE

mene eeeeeeeeeem

FIRST CLASS

BILLIARD TABLES

Can now be purchased for $100 and upward, {|
complete,
Send for catalogue to L. DECKER & CO.,

Manufacturers of PREMIUM AMERICAN TABLES,
Cor. Canal & Center Sts., New York.

 

 

10-13e0w.

MONEY tiietiaocte nt Mame Ore

w26-8eow BOSTON HAND-SCAMP CO., Boston, Mass.

BO % & AND GIRLS, make money at home,
Scrap-Book - Pictures, Transfers, Novelties, &c.
64-p. Catalogue free. J. JAY GOULD, Boston, Mass. 26-6e0w

per annum: to all. Particulars free. A. P. Mor-
“GAN & Sons, Stationers, Philadelphia, Pa.
w30-13t-eow
NTS wanted for the best selling Maps, Reli-
A gious and Historical Charts. Great Va-
riety. Cheapest Rates. Large Profits. Address HAASIS & LU-
———, Empire Map & Chart Estab’t, LOZ Liberty st., N.Y.
t

A € : ENTS Send stamp for Illustrated Catalogue
Boston Novelty Co., Boston, Mass.

w30-13t

 

 

 

 

 

argest Stationery Package in the World mailed for
L* or Gero. L. Pifecon & Co., LLM Nassau street, N. Y.
w30-l

* j\ 1 ) {\ to all Agents. The
peypoe- ct k aH GA BLY crandes Y city
w30-7

 

Beautiful French Oil Chromos, size 9x11, mounted
ready for framing, sent post-paid for ONE DOLLAR.
Grandest chance ever offered to Agents. For par-
ticulars send stamp. Address F. P. GLUCK, New
Bedtiord, Mass.

w27-52
A WEEK tocanyass for Vickery’s Fireside
WVisitor. Costs NOTHING totry it.
P. O. VICKERY & CO., Augusta, Maine.

87
A MOUONTH SURE TO AGENT
everywhere. 10 bestselling articlesin the world,

Sample free. Address J. BRONSON, Detroit, Mich. 14-26.

LAN TERNS and STEREOPTI-

MAGIC CONS of ail sizes and prices. Views il-

lustrating every subject tor Parlor Entertainment and

Public Exhibitions. Pays weilon u smull investment. Cata-

logues free. McALLISYER, M’t’g Optician, 49 Nassau St, N. Y.
12-26.

5O FINELY PRINTED BRISTOL VISIT-
ING CARDS sent for 25 cents. Send stamp (ot
postal card) tor samples of Glass Cards, Marble, Snowflakes, &c.
Agents wanted. A. FULLER & CO., Brockton, Mass. 24-13

GUNG MEN SUFFERING FROM WEAK
NEss, &¢., will learn of a Simple Means of Cure FREE by
addressiug I. H. REEVES,
27-13. No. 78 Nassau st, New York.

2OO A MONTH TO AGENTS, everywhere.
oa! Address EXCELSIOR M’r’G, Co., Buchanan, Mich.
w2Z/-

y AGENTS for the best selling
Prize Packages in the world.
contains 15 sheets paper, 15 en-

oC

It
yelopes, pen, yen-holder. pencil,
tent yard measure, package of pertumery, and piece of jew-
lry. Single package, with elegant prize, post-paid, 25 cents.
Oircuiar fre’ BRIDE & CO., 769 Broadway, New York.
wv27-13 ’

MA B | RT AGH | sitnazes containing vatuable flor

 

 

 

 

 

mation for those who are married
| or contemplate marriage.
Price 50 ceuts, by mail. Address
Dr. BUTT’S DISPENSARY,

wy35-4 12 North Eighth street, St. Louis, Mo.

GENTS WANTED.—Salary or Commission. Valuable

yeupies tree. Address F. M. REED, 8th street, New York.
av31-52

° per day. Send for Chromo Catalogue. J. H.
$10 a $25 BUFFORD’S SONS, Boston, Mass. w31-52

E circulars of our new Chromos, and 20 other
salable novelties for Agents. Sample 10 cts.
ROE &SIMPSON, 105 Jonn street, N. Y. w30-6

WINCHESTER’S
SPECIFIC PILL,

A prompt, radical and permanent cure for Nervous ek a
Weakness, &c. ‘Tested for over 30 years with perfect success. It
is a genuine and effectual Remedy, and the best, known to Medi-
eal Science, For further information, testimonials, &c., SEND
FOR A CIRCULAR. Prices: $1 per box, six boxes $5, b y mail
with full directions for use. Prepared only by

 

 

 

WINCHESTER & CO., Chemists, 36 John st.. N.Xy

 

Q 7 ‘1
TO FARMERS. MECHANICS.
AND ALL OTHERS!

Secure a Home in the Country for a little money.

MOR SALB#, in Holvrook, L. 1, smail farms, 5, 10 and 20
macres, at $40 per acre; 25 percent. down; $10 monthly; no inter-
est for oue year. Also, 900 fine lots in the village, $50 to $150
Zine Segar Factory just built—100 hands to work. Lots given
Free for Manutacturing purposes.

333-3t A. Me COTTER, 142 Fulton street, N. Y.

WEST POINT

AND THE NAWAL ACADEMY.

Do you want an Appointment to either the
Military or the Naval Academy?

4 you do, send One Dollar to our address, and we willsend you
full instructions for gaining the Appointment and passing the en-
tering examination, together with other information valuable
to young gentlemen seeking a Military or Naval career.

Ss E. SMYTHE & CO., 2% D street S. E., Washington, D. C.

-4¢

VQ 1 for Catalogue of Foreign Stamps or Coins,
25 CENTS illustrated with every style. J. W. ee
7% Nassau street, New York. Circulars sent tree. 33-13t
EAU DE BEAUTE
FOR THE
COMPLEXION.
w32-4

RED, TOY, BALLOONS, ais

J. L. PATTEN & CO, 162 William St., New York.

UN FOR ALL !—Great profit to agents; the Needle To-
bacco Box; pricks the fingers of bammers who sponge your
tobacco; samples by mail for 35 cents. Per dozen, $2.50.
34-6t L. G. ABBOTT, Mir., 103 Beekman St., New York.

WANT AGENTS EVERYWHERE. New In-
i. vention, Sample 25 cts, A. W. JOHNSON, New Haven, Ct.
£-2t

 

 

 

Nothing like it in the World. Ladies
send Stamp for particulars to Ma-
DAME DavoOuURST, Providence, R. I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

RIN’TERS’ Cabinet, Type, Press, and Boxwood Depot;
EAGLE CABINETS; PATTERN LierTers for Machinists.

wEr eee ee RGU, WELLS & CO., cor. Fulton & Dutch Sts., N. Y.
-13t

A GREAT WONDER, Baawerss,

new catalogue, 3c.x. QUEEN & CO., Stoneham, Mass. 35-3

 

 

 

REE! FREE! Newstyle Acquaintance Cards. Free
7 to every one. H. F, DAMON, New Bedford, Mass. 35-2t

DARLINGS LILLIE MAY.
DARLING LILLIE MAY.
DARLING LILLIE MAY.
DARLING LILLIE MAY,

The new Song and Chorus is the prettiest and most taking
ere for years. Two editions sold the first three weeks.

tis just the thing for voices of medium register, as it lies in the
staff in the best possible position.
Price, 30 cents.

Published by E. A. SAMUELS, 125 Tremont street, Boston.

ISSING NUM BERS.—Twenty-five cents each will
be paid for the following numbers ol the New YORK WEEK-
KY? Vol. 25, No. 32; Vol. 26, Nos. 12, 14 and 26. °
Address JAMES W. FORFAR, Lyons, N, Y.

 

It is already very popular.

 

 

ges of Pharaoh’s Serpents, Nest of (10), with old
French Secret to make and natch ’em, mailed for $1.00, by
PROF. PARSON, Box 209, Arlington, Mass.

sks WITHOUT A MASTER—a 200 page
aD book, handsomely bound and illustrated, and clearly ex-
Plaining the whole art. Onty 50e., Post-PaID!

H. LEEDS & CO., Publishers, Box 47, Northfield, Vt.

B80 Visiting Cards, 9 styles, with name, 20 cts., Outfit,
19 styles, IV cts. One Black silk Bow, 10 cents and stam DP,
by J. B. USTED, Nassau, N. Y. 36-1t

CQUAINTANCE CARDS, two styles ina pack, sent
L for only 0cis. F. B. WASHBURN & CO., Middleboro, Mass
3-4 ‘%

 

 

 

 

 

our Name neatly printed on 50 nice Visit ing Cards, (no two
alike), sent for 30 cts. ; 40 fine Bristol Cards, 6 tints), 10 cts,
and 3 ct. stamp. Address CLINTON BROS., Clintonville, Conn.

HEODORE TILTON vs. HENRY WAR
BEECHER, ”
,_ he Great Picture 20 by 26...
Lifelike Portraits, artistically grouped, ef All the celebrities
of the Brookiyn Trial, Mailed in a card-board wrapper,

for 20 cts. Agents Wanted.
McDIVilT, CAMPBELL & CO., 7 Nassau st., New York.

 

 

Tmitation Gold Watehes and Chains,
At $15, $20, and $25. Each Chain $2 to $12 to
match. Jewelry of the same sent ©. O D.
eee Send ee for eee Cir-
os Cular. No Agents, OC YS METAL
WATCH FACTORY, 335 Broadway, New York. Box 3696.
In ordering, mention the New York WEEKLY.

BASE-BALL GOODS.

Send 10 cents for our new eatatc ru Ling 160
ered SE oe Mya Riles, Pistols” Fishing Tackle.
ymnasium, Base Balt, and Sporting G st
complete Catalogue ever published. Mere ed Omran
86-2t FISH & SIMPSON, 132 Nassau street, N. Y,

©

   

 

 

 

ONLY $10 MONTHLY,

A GRAND OPPORTUNITY FOR

Prudent Persons of Moderate Means,

Profit by the Millions of Capital

Famous Garden City

Mr. A. T, STEWART, the Merchant Millionaire.

Necessity is said to be the Mother of Invention, and the
great and growing necessity that has caused thousands to
seek homes in the suburbs, away from the overcrowded tene-
ments and unhealthy apartments which they occupied in the
city, led us to adopt the plan of monthly payments, as a means to
induce the multitude to seek the pure and health-given atmos-
phere of the immediate suburbs. We were the first to offer the
facilities, and the thousands who have patronized us can attest
the value of our plan, and its benefit to-themsetves.

While we are still largely engaged in the sale of finely-im roved
property, at higher prices, nearer this city, we have decided, af-
ter much consideration, to offer the splendid property at

GARDEN CITY PARK
Those who Desire io Speculate,

AND TO THOSE

WHO DESIRE CHEAP HOMES,

A? THE VERY

Small Quilay, $10 a Month

FOR EACH LOT PURCHASED,

 

 

 

Having noticed the eagerness With Which the thoughtless
and inexperienced buy at rand6M unuer the excitements of
auctions, and the foolish manner in which many are daped by
designing men, who offer lots which are in the willerness (and
might aswell bein the moonso far as _ utility and value aré
concerned) for ridiculous prices, wire, should warn instead of
alluring persons of medium sense. We take pleasure in pre-
senting our_new plan, and calling attention to its features.
We do not deem it necessary to enter into a history of Mr.
Stewart’s laudable and gigantic enterprise, as the press has exten-
sively commented upon it. We assume that with his acknowl-
edged business tact, sagacity and capital, he has projected a
feasible, systematic undertaking which cannot fail. Already he
has added to his original purchases, at very large advances upon
first prices. Land near his improvements has increased several
hundreds per cent., and as his plans are developed the rise will
continue, untilland contiguous will be increased almost incred-
ibly. Wesubmit that if any class of the community deserves to
be benefitted by that immense outlay, it is the industrious and
prudent, who manage tosave something of their small income.
We have placed the prices ef our Garden City Park upon a basis
of fair value for to-day, and we propose to receive $1( per month
from purchasers, so that they. can buy one or more )0ts, accord-
ing totheir means. The land is excellent, and has been under
cultivation, amd Is located 1n a well-settled community.

AsMr. Stewart’s operations progress this property will be large-
ly benefitted by them. Very mauy persons engaged during the
day in New York City, reside at a greater distance; and to those
who have work at home, this location being very healthful, pre-
sents an epportunity whereby they can live comfortably in a cogy
home at asmall cast. ’

SECOND DISTRIBUTION
TEN DWELLINCS

AMONG THE

LOT OWNERS,

ON OCTOBER 30th, 1875.

NO EXTRA CHARGE
BUT ALL
FREE GIFTS TO OUR PATRONS.

On last Christmas Eve we aistributed among those who pur-
chased lots last season, ten newly built dwellicngs; (the fortunate
possessors of which are named below and to whom we with plea-
sure refer), and to still further advance thé interests of GARDEN
CITY PARK, we are now erecting ten more two story dwellings,
each containing five comfortable rooms, neatly finished inside
and well painted outside, which, together with the lots they stand

 

 

358, 398, 597, 642, 712, 884, are to be given as

PRESENTS TO PURCHASERS

who buy between May Wth to October 30th, 1875, and shall have
paid one quarter of the amount of their purchase money pre-
vious to that date. Thus each purchaser will have an equal
chance with the others toreceive a warranty deed for a house
and lot, and also will receive a warranty deed for the lot orlots
he or she may have purchased as expressed in the contract issued
attime of purchasing. By this plan each of our patrons receives
full value fer their investment, and if they are awarded a House
and Lot in addition to what. they pay for and receive, so much
the better for themselves. Each person selects one or more
lots as they may desire, and for each lot purchased, a chance will
be had in the distribution. There will be

NO POSTPONEMENT

under any circumstances, but the aw pe enaried out as stated
o > lave never dealt with us and are ‘or’

nst tamailiar with our mode of doi S ate, Lenore
ing report of our

DISTIBUTION OF DECEMBER 24, 1874.
(From N. ¥. News of Dec. 29th.)
The Christmas Presents and who Got them.

The great distribution of dwelling-houses took place on Christ-
mas Eve, according to previous announcement, at Real Estate
Hall, 355 Third Avenue, with the following resnits, viz:

E. H. Rowland, No. 96 Clermont Avenue, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No, 2,505.

i crn No. 29 Henry Street, N. Y., drew house and lot

0. 2,259.

Jaynes McAnespie, No. 158 Wes: Fifty-third Street, N. Y., drew
house ond lot No. 2,350.

_H. H. Heinrich, No. 8 John Street, N. Y., drew house and lot

0. 2,197.

Miss M. Sheridan, No. 496 First Avenue, N. Y., drew house and
lot No, 2,238,

James M. Putnam, No. 61 Carondelet Street, New Orleans, drew
house and lot No. 2,113.

Miss M. Maloney, No. 68 Remson Street, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No. 2,178.

Joseph Lawson, No. 140 West One Hundred and Twenty fourth
Street, N. Y., drew house and lot No. 2,417.

F. im“, No. 182 High Street, Brooklyn, drew house and lot
No. 2,066.

R. S. Seabery, No. 48 East Fourteenth Street, N. Y., drew house
and lot No. 2,006,

PRICES OF THE LOTS.

 

  

  
  

On Denton Avenue............... +eee----$120 each $10 Monthly.

On Stewart Avenue. Ae Ge 10 he

On UGRtrak BVenae. ooo isc shscnwas sue ae ee 10 e

On First Street and First Place. .......... LD ss 10 *

On SeconcésStreet. .. 2.0... lee ce eee wce m0. OS gh

On Third Street............ oT igs eee

On. Fourth Breetis: cae AG - 100 4, 20°55

Op Witth Speeta sc dicid; sete hyped eds 80. ,, 10 6

OT SURE SERCO G55 55 sings dmb <p is nin bo Se aos 8

OR SEVENCR SUKGCt on anwis ates ins sbe ues cy ee See | a
Plots at Special Terms. ALL CORNER LOTS

ARE FEE" DOLLAKS EXTRA.

  
  

On Jericho Boulevard..........3......... $250 each $10 Monthly.
On Broadway..... pee Ne 10 %

On Dennis Street... ee DWe Saescn Rule 5 200." 10 »

A MAIPORC AVORUS. olive cescsceseres ss aa 4 mOs 28

 

On Denton Avenue, and First, Second,
Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth anf 1503"! 53 10
Seventh Avenues,
Ten Per Cent. Discount when allis paid at time
o urchase.
Send Stamp for Map and full Particulars.

SPECIAL NOTICE.
Garden City Park Lots are conveyed in every instance by full
covenaut warranty deeds (free of all incumbrances) by the under-
signed, who owns the property remaining unsold.

BENJ. W. HITCHCOCK,

MUSIC PUBLISHER,
STORE, 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK, COR. TWENTY-
W32 9b SIXTH STREET.

”

 

Scovill’s Blood and Liver Syrup.—Scrofula,
Rheumatism, Pimples, Gout, and Kidney Disorders, and all dis-
tempers which affect the external portions of the body indicate
an unclean condition of the venous fluid. ScOVILL’s BLOOD AND
Liver Sykup may be relied upon as a swift and certain remedy.
The concentrated extracts of Sarsaparilla, Stillingia, and other
invaluable antiseptic and alterative plants and herbs torm the
basis of this powerful remedy. Price $1 per bottle.

 

Edey's Carbolic Troches,—Among the various
remedies for coughs, none enjoy a higher reputation than Epry’s
CARBOLIC TROCHES. This fact places them above the ordinary
list of medicinal preparations. For Coughs, Coids, Asthma, and
as a disinfectant and preventive against eontagious diseases they
are aspecific. Invaluable to Singers and public speakers, Sold
everywhere. Price 25 cents per box.

The Great American Consumption Remedy.
DR. WM. HALL’s BALSAM FOR THE LUNGS cures the worst cases
of Coughs, Colds, and all the diseases of the Lungs, Throat and
Chest. For Whooping Cough and Croup it is a certain specific.
The most obstinate cases surely yield to Hall’s Balsam, when
used perseveringly. Stauds at the head of all cough preparations.
Soldeverywhere. Price $1 per bottle.

Dr. Mott’s Liver Piils,—It ts easy enough to
make a pill, but tomake a good pill, ah! that’s the diffleulty.
There are clieap. harsh, drastic pills, that are of even less value
than a dose of salts. But a good medicine, like DR. Mort’s LIVER
PILLS, which penetrates to the seat of disease, is a desideratum
indeed. Will positively cure all diseases of the liver. Sold every-
where. Price 25 cents per box.

About Bitters,—At certain periods of life a tonic
is a necessity; but there is danger in using stimulants that injure
the organs of digestion while giving temporary relief. To obviate
this and present to the public a tonic free from Alcoholic poison,
Dr. GREENE roreme the OXYGHNATED BITTERS, a sure cure for
Dyspepsia and all kindred complaints. Sold everywhere. Price
$1 per bottle. ———

Henry’s Carbolic Salve.—This article is so well
known that it is only necessary to caution the public against
imitations. Remember that it requires a particular proportion
and a careful admixture of the carbolie acid with other ingre-
dients to produce a salve that may be relied upon. The genuine
only guaranteed. See that it bears the fuc-simile signature and
pert proprietary stamp of John F, Henry. Sold everywhere.

-rice 25 cents per box.

Townsley’s ‘Toothache Anodyne,—A sure cure.

te <4 " invested in Wall street often
SIO TO $500 leads to fortune. A 72 page
Pov ning UT BY and copy of the WALL STREET

SEN FR HK, soux urcxrixe &0O.,

 

344 Bankers and Brokers, @2 BROADWAY, N, Y.

on, designated on the Map as follows: Lots Nos, 96, 195, 226, 306, }.

 

 

 

 

Pleasant Paragraphs.

John Marble, Hero.

John Marble wis a level-headed boy, and he would have
slipped through the world al! right but for the romance
in his nature. He read about how William Tell’s son
stood bravely upand let his father shoot an apple-off his
head, and he devrmined to be as much of a hero as young
Tell. When his ather came home to supper John Marble
asked him to sha@t an apple off his head.

“You young idol! do you want to feel the bootjack?’?
exclaimed the istonished father, and Jolin Marble felt
wretched in spirt. He knewthat he had the heart of a
hero in him, but how could he be a hero when there was
no chance?

One day John yas reading a long puff of a boy about
his own age wWhostopped a runaway carriage aud saved
a lady’s life, and ie started out to find a runaway and to
become a hero. He was momentarily expecting to find
one, when an asi-wagon ran over him aud bruised him
so that he had be carried home on a shutter, and his
father said that le would trounce his hide right off if he
ever caught him poling around down town again.

After John Mable got well he heard the Alderman of
the Tenth ward, tliing a crowd of men of the heroism of
a boy living in thit ward, who found his father’s house on
fire and subdued he flames without saying a word to any
one.

“That's the kind of a boy!’’ cried the men.

“There isn’t anether such boy in the world!’ added the
alderman.

John Marble say an opportunity to become a real hero,
and lie hung arouid the house for a whole week hoping
to see it catch fire. No such accident occurred, and grow-
ing discouraged h?> determined to start oue for the sake of
putting it out again and becoming a hero. He was piling
shavings in the wood-shed when his father happened
around, got hold c{ the plot, and he made his son John
think that a whoethreshiug machine had fallen upon
him at once.

It was some time before the boy felt like working up
any more new ideas, but at length the papers came out
with a grand account of how a boy still younger than he
satup withagun and watched his father’s house and
killed a burglar, John had often heard his mother ex-
press her fears that burglars would get into the house
some night, and so he secretly traded his goat for a shot-
gun, and one night he crawled under the veranda with
\wo other boys to watch and bécome heroes. About mid-
night John’s uncle from Chicago arrived, and as he was
coming up the path the boy fired a handful of bird-shot
into his legs. As 300n as matters were explained, and a
surgeon called, Mr. Marble asked his son to please step
around under the eaves of the woodshed for a brief mo-
ment, and the boy got such a dusting that he couldn’!
take any comfort sitting ou the fence for a whole month
after.

John Marble was much discouraged and about ready to
adinit that he could neyer become a hero, but he ccn-
cluded to try just once more, He read about a boy who
saved a big mill-dam from giving way by ringing a fire-
bell and gettinga crowd of citizens out. The boy was
presented with a purse of $100 by the grateful peopie, and
John Marble saw that he could be a hero and receive pay
for it. He took a jook at the big dam, made up his mind
that there was danger, and he posted off, stole into an en-
gine-house, and danged the bell uutila hundred meu
were around him.

“Where’s the fire??? they shouted, and he replied that
the dam was in danger.

The town turned out, found the dam as secure as ever,
and Jolin Marble was thrown into jail for three days for
ringing a false alarm. When last heard from he was re-
niarking to his father: ’

“Ohl dad, let up on me and I'll never be a hero any
more!”? M. Quop.

Sensible Advice. .

A youth fal rhymer thus describes a casualty that further
illustrates the total depravity of inanimate things:
“As I was trying the other day
To chop off a stick in a careless way,
Holding my head right over the block,
Up came the piece, with a fearful knock,
Aud almost ere I’d time to think,

My dexter optic was black as ink,

In vain cold water and uncooked beef
Were tried—they gave me no relief;

And then I went to a doctor friend,

To see if he could some service lend.

He’s a funny one as e’er did live, -
ind only this advice could give:

*‘Whene’er you again experiment, try,
Just look out and mind your eye” ”

Patrictic Colors.
At the recent celebration of the Centennial of che first
Declaration of Independence, at Mecklenburg, as the pro-
cession was passing, Mrs, Minus was at her front door,
with her child in her arms, epjoying the spectacle, when
oid Hi Howard came aiong. He was on terms of inti-
macy with Mrs. Minus, aud as he neared her, smiling, le
said:
“That’s right, my dear Mrs. M.; that’s the way to honor
the day.” ,
“What do you mean??? she asked, looking somewhat
surprised, but half i
“Why,’? said he, *}

up in the national

 

oing business, we give the follow- |

colors oO such a day 4S this.”

She looked at the#22by, very much puzzled now.

“I?m sure 1 don’t \20OW what you mean,” she said.

a Hosstote you can say so??? he asked, ‘‘whenr he

has on a white Qress; a b sash, and—a 2ed head.”

He passed away very suc deny. for he remembered the’
he had an engagement just then, and kuew that Mrs.
Minus was not quite an angel. -OLD NorrH Stvrr.

Anothet Epitaph.

-These lines are to be found in a church-yard near to the
town of Leamington, Englaud, over tire remains of a wo-
man who died by lightning:

“Here lies the body of Ellen Green,
The kindest woman ever seen.
She died of thunder sent froin Heaven,
In seventeen hundred und seventy-seven.”

Serious Punishment.

Old Master Brown brought his ferrule down;

His face was angry and red.
“Now, Anthony Clair, go set you there

Along with the girls,” he said.

Then Anthony Clair, with mortified air,
And his chin down on his breast,

Crept slowly away, and sat all day
By the girl that loved him best.

Spiritual.

“Kink, of Oldtown, Me., informs us how he obtained.

asplendid reputation for being a medium: ‘I was asso-
ciated in the printing business with Thatcher, a very
quiet little fellow, who was a favorite with everybody,
and among the friends who visited him was Bumble, a
burly Englishman, One day he came in much excited,
when I was away, and commenced a conversation with
Thatcher regarding spiritualism, which had begun to be
popular. Thatcher, without being a believer, pretended
to be, and a pretty warm discussion ensued. Said Bum-
ble, at last: ‘Weil, if they can give me the name of my
grandmother, who tas been dead for twenty-five years, I
might think there was something init.’ ‘What is the
name?’ asked Thatcher, Bumble wrote a very strange,
outlandish nameona piece of paper and handed it to
him. ‘They’d never guess that, you know.’ ‘No, I should
think not,’ said Thatcher, handing it back, at the same
time writing it on the sleet before him. Some weeks alf-
terward hie came in and broached the same subject with
me, in which Itook the affirmative side, having been
posted by Thatcher. I told him thatI had partial medium
power myself, and some queer things had happened there-
from. ‘I'll bet a dollar,’ said he, ‘that you can’t give me
my grandmother’s name, who died in England twenty-
five years ago.’ ‘I don’t Know thatI can,’ replied J; ‘but
please step outside the door and write the name yourself,
and then the spirits may impartitto me.’ He went out
and closed the door, and then waited for my summons.
I took the name {rom beneath my inkstand, wrote it on
another slip of paper, and called himin. ‘I have gota
strange name here,’ said I; ‘and I found some difficulty
in making it out. Idon’t think it can be correct; but
here itis.’ I handed it over to him, when his eyes dila-
ted and he fairly trembled with excitement. ‘That’s it,
by Jupiter!’ cried he, and rushed out. Before the day
was pastI had a dozen invitations to attend seances,
Buinble having spread my fame to every part of the town
as @ first-class meditum.”?

Court Scene,

After a three days’ trial in a California court, lately, the
case was given to the jury, who retired, as usual. In
half-an-hour or more they came into court again, and were
asked by the judge: ;

“Have you found a verdict, Mr. Foreman?’?

Yes, your honor.”

“Prisoner, rise and face the jury,’ said the clerk.

“What is you verdict?’ asked the judge.

“A conditional one,’?

‘What is that???

“That the prisoner is not guilty, provided he will leave
town within twenty-four hours.”?

Smart Boy.

A father was boasting about his twelve-year-old boy as
being very smart, when the lad coming in, the neighbor
asked him by way of test:

“Tiberius, how do you’make the letter H ?"?

“Put a horizont.l beam between two upright posts,’
replied tiie boy, vanishing behind the barn.

A Watch As Is a Watch.

It will be remembered that Captain Cuttle boasted that
his watch was one yhich if put forward about half-an-
hour in the morning, aul set back abent twenty miputes
in the afternoon, was one as would do any body credit.

Jenks had one of this sort also.

“Say, Jenks, what time is it??? asked Jones.

“Ten o’clock,” le replied) opening iis hunting-case.

“What sort of a watch is that??? asked Jones.

‘A lever,”? was the replyge

“Poh! That’s not a lever.)

“IT ought to know,’ replied Jenks. “I have to leave her
six times a week at the watchmakers for repairs,’?

English, trish, and Scotch.

The Irish are gay and ardent, the Scotch are cool, steady
and cautious, the Englis) are between the two.

An Englishman, an {rishman, and a Scotchman, all
three, stood before a conéectioner’s shop watching a preity
girl serving customers from behind the counter.

“@cul’? exclaimed the Irishman, ‘let’s be after spend-
ing half a crown wid the dear creature, that we may
look at her and have a bil of chat wid her.”

 

“You eXtravagant dog,” said the Englishman, “half

*

 

the money will answer the purpose justas well. But let’s

goin atall events, She’s a little beauty.”

“Ah! wait a weel’? said the Scotchman, “dinna ye ken
it’ll serve Our purpose just as weel to ask the bonnie las-
sie to gie us twa saxpences for a shilling, and inquire
where Mr. Thompson’s house is, and sic like? We're no
hungry and may as weel save the sillerl’?

Brevities.

The other day an old fellow from Delaware, going West,
stepped off the car, and sitipping on the platform, went
flat down and broke a leg. Everybody sympathized with
him in his misfortune, but he waved his hand and replied:
“Is allright; no one to blame.but myself.. My old wo-
man was laid up for two years, and now I’ve got a chance
to geteven with her. Ifshe don’t have to do some tall
dusting around and sitting up nights, then my name isn’t
Jordan!’

Judge Perrin, of Falmouth, Kentucky, performed a
marriuge ceremony for Clay Ashton and his sweetheart.
A week later the husband called again. ‘0, I see,’? said
the judge, *‘tyou have come after the Certificate. “O, you
don’t see,’? was the reply; ‘I haven’t come after the cer-
tificate. What I want is a divorce.”

A friend lately called upon the historian, Runke, in
Berlin, and observed: ‘*Well, professor, I suppose you
work as hard as ever in your old age.” **Yes,’? replied
the veteran, tenderly; ‘‘my wife isdead now, you see, and
I have less annoyance and can accomplish more.’

Aman whose appearance indicated that he was stag-
gering from the excessive weight of a brick in his hat, be-
ing asked ifhe was a Son of Temperance, replied: ‘‘([Hic)
no—no rejation—not evel au ucquaintance!’?

A man is said to be absent-minded when he thinks he
has left his watch at home and takes it out of his pocket
to see if he has time to return home and get it,

To P. P. ConrripuTors.—The following MSS. are accepted:
“*A Nautical Miner,” “The Hidden Leg,” “Soap and Water,” *“‘S.
R. & D. R.,” Pienty for All,” ““fom’s Answer,” “A Queer Guess.”
The following are respectfully declined: ‘Accommodating,”
“His Money Shaved,” “A Missing Wife,” ‘One Calf,?. “‘Fun
Alive,”? “Price ot Worms,” “His Upening,” ‘Mary Aun Riker,”
“Yankee Auctioneer,’”? “Going to Sea,” “Ish Dat All?”

—_—_ > 0-+4______-

LavtEs, read ‘A WoMAN’S TEMPTATION,” a Charm-
ing story begun this week. You will be delighted
with it.

= ——_——_>0<+—__

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
CHEAP FLOWERS.

The dandylion haz cum again once more.

Welkum, dear Yello Blossom!

Thare iz a Karelessness about yu thatiextol; ya ain’t
afrade ov @ sno storm; yu ain’t stuk wep, and ain’t
ashamed to be born in a cow pasture, or cluss alougside
OV a hen-coop.

Yu are the fust posy that puts in am appearanse, and
will gro on poor sile.

Yu are a demokrat, Got bless yul

Yu waz a leading artikle in the fust bokay i made when
a boy, and i hay bragged on yu ever since.

Yu don’t smeli so powerfull az the lonesum violet, or the
stately sun-flower, or the swimming pound lily, but yu are
good fur greens. (Dandylion greens are not only the fust
but the cheapest greens in market.)

When yu cum, spring haz cum too, so haz the singing
frog, and the kakling hen proklaims a uu born egg im hon-
or ov yure arrival.

Don’t fail to cum each year, mi saffron buty; the ritch
and the lofty may not harp yure praizes, but who eares
for that, yu are the fust born ov natur’s pets, yu are inuo-
cent and tuff.

I should miss yu more than enny flower that gilds the
turf.

Ifi waz a poet, i would weave yu into lines. Yu should
shine in stanza, and gro more golden in mello verse.

Yu hav no nobel pedigree, no klassik name, no royal
history,but yu are a flower, the poor mans friend, lifting
up yure round and velvet face, cluss beside hiz threshold.

Yu aint worth five cents a dozen atthe floral mart, but
a golden dollar, kant buy ov me, the onel gather the fust
ov spring, or last ov winter, bravely growing Kiuss beside
the melting sno drift.

THE VIOLET.

Little blu eyed innocent i saw yu one year ago this very
day, in this same cold and sunless spot, (pertiaps it might
hay been yure sister) far away from liuman eyes, or human
footsteps.

It waz winter then, so it iz now, but they call it spring.

If yu could only tell me yure history, how gladly would
i listen.

Yu are too gentle for this cheerless place, do the fairys
visit yu, and whisper words ov hope?

Yu needp’t hang yure hed, nor tremble, i wont hurt yu,
gladly would i swop places with yu, heglekted az yu are,
yu kant be Jost, 1 may be. , 2

I would lift you up and take yu whare the dandylion iz
laffing in the Sun, batya are too modest to liv thare Jong.

Simgrigth Whare yu are, little innocent, the fust lny sik
maiden | cum akrost I will send to keep yu company.
She will have a lot ov silly and soft things to tell yu.

Yu kan laugh at her, or pity her, just as you pleaze.

Good bye, little violet, dry the tear in your eye, and let
me see yu Jaif just once, -— =

Thank yu, littie-bira, Tor that smile. Good bye, good
oye. .

THE SUN FLOWER.

Great, good-natured herb! pleaze accept mi thanks.

1 like yu bekause-yu are so big, and blunt. ~ ‘

l rather like the way yu stare at folks. Yu aint afraid,
bekause yu know full well that yu are natral.

1 like yure grate honest face, az big az a puter platter.
Thare Is no milk and water in it, thare iz no guile in it.

Yu are az faithfull, and az tru az a pocket compass.

i like to see a whole lot ov yu looking over the garden
wall, stauding in single file, with yure broad aud pok
marked countenances allwuss stareing at the sun.

When the sun cums galloping up from the east, every
one of yu are gazing atit, and when it goes to bed at night
in the west, yure faces are all turned that way.

Are yu astronomers, mi dear, philosophik herbs?

Yu hav but little fragranse, but fu kan beat yu for good
old-fashioned common sense, :

Yu ain’t a gaudy flirt, n0 Miss Nancy, seeking praize
from every passer-by.

Thare iz more in yu than the world knows ov; natur
haz whispered in yure ear, and yu kno enuff to keep the
sekret.

Yuare just az virtewous and just az gentle az the or-
phan violet, but yu don’t work up into poetry haff az
well, stilliluv yu just az mutch becauze yu are a flower
and kan make a deserted korner or deKaying cottage feel
more happy and look more cheerfull.

Thare iz a profit in yu too, mi honest friend; one ov yu
eye ake two good-sized bokays, if not three; only tiink
oy that,

Farewell, yu cheap and simple flower; don’t git jealous
ov the bright-eyed pink, the gaudy June roze, or the per-
fumed heliotrope, nor git angry if the loitering and sassy
skool-boys once in & while fur a target fire stones at yure
blooming face. ‘
THE POND LILY.

Out on the dimpling buzzum ov sumboddy’s saw-mill
pond, whare the water iz about three foot deep, riding at
ankor, floats the butifull pond lily.

Away down in the fatt earth at the bottom oy the water
natur plants a seed, out ov this seed rizes a slender thread
like shoot, when it reaches the surface a broad leaf iz
born bigger than yure hand, and on this leaf the pond
lily is formed, and nestles.

Riding here, on its little flatt boat, this fragrant white
flower spends its summer vakashuon.

The muskrat swims up to it from hiz hole in the nabor-
ing bank to take a snuff at its sweetness, and the clipper-
built and sharp-eyed pickrel, az he sails leazurely under-
pence casts an admiring eye upon its lazy innocence and

uty.

The silver-breasted Seal and the sooty Mud Hen paddle
around it, and the yello-throated frog sings to it at sunset.

Theze are the cheap flowers—the golden dandylion, the
little sad violet, the honest sunflower, and the sweet
breathing pond lily; a bokay ov them would hardly bring
a sixyiace in market.

They are so plenty, and so cheap that the world over-
looks their truth and buty.

+ ©~—____

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

 

Ba GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—

Artist.—Ist. Let well enough alone. Itis no time to leave a
certainty tor an uncertainty, when good mechanics in all
branches of trade look in vain for employment. 2d. Perfectly
proper.
; Julian Cibriamel.—ist. The poems are declined. 2d. See No.
10 of the present volume. 3d. Washington Irving is said to have
been very much attached toa lady who died in her youth, and
on this account remathed single the balance of hislife. He died
suddenly from disease of the heart, in his seventy-seventh year,
at his residence, Sunnyside, near Tarrytown, N. Y., Nov. 28, 1859
4th. From your own account, your prospects are very flattering
—heyond those of journalists in general,

Young Writer.—The sentiment of the poem is good, but the
rhythm is faulty. Study versification and works on composition.

. Hunt.—The address will be found in our advertising columns.

Whom it may Concern.—Reson Newman, who left his home last
August, is requested to communicate with his mother, Mrs. Ma-
hala E. Lang, of Lafayette, Ind. Her husband was killed early
in April, and as she has not heard from her son in several
months, she is fearful some accident has befallen him, Any
person haying a knowledge of her son’s fate or whereabouts will
oblige the mother by addressing her at the above place.

W. B.—We have no recollection of the story. It may be among
our unread MSS,

Daniel Billinger and others.—We should be glad tocomply with
your request, but the stories are of too recent a date to admit of
republication for a term of years. We can furnish the papers
should it be desired.

Anxious.—Ist. The marriage is legal, and the widow, if the
husband should die without making a will, would be entitled to
her dower, or to such of the property as might be willed to her,
although the husband had not arrived at his majority.

Minstrel.~-The song cannot be procured.

David Copperfield.—The various books under the head of “Ready
Reckoners” give short methods for calculation of aggregate val-
ues. Wecan send you one for 75 cents.

Bufalo.—Do not marry aman addicted to the use of intoxi-
cating beverages,

F. F. and J. A. K. B.—Address a letter to.the Secretary of the
Board of Trustees, Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y.

Louis S.—You have our permission to correspond with as many
young ladies as you choose, but we do not propose to allow you
to make our columns the medium for obtaining addresses or
giving your own.

T. P. D.—ist. To become a member of the National Rifle Asso-
ciation, send your application to the secretary’s office, 93 Nassau
street, giving your name, age, residence, place of business, and
statipg whether you are a member of a military organization.
The application is referred to the Board of Directors, and if ap-
proved, you will be admitted to all the privileges of membership.
Thedues are $2 per year, 2d, An appropriate present for a

 

 

mes THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. S>> 7

 

— 2 ee ao wo wee: oes,

young lady would be a handsome book or chromo, lace set, set
of jewelry, writing desk, fan, etc.

Young Phonographer.—Munson’s and Graham’s systems of
short-hand are mostly used. We can (urnish either for $2.
‘enchman.—We cannot aid you. The ecurse suggested is the
last one to adopt.

Lawyer.—The authenticity of the will must be proved before
the surrogate of the county. Should it be unsatisfactory, an ap-
peal may be made to the courts. The nieces and nephews have
no clain: on the estate willed to a more distant connection, and
can only receive a portion of the estate by breaking the will,
which will require the strongest evidence, either that the teslater
was of unsound mind, or that an undue infucnge wus exerted
over his mind to induce him to make the wil! in favor of the
party to whom the property is devised. 7
Studious.—We have u0 means of obtaining the list. Ayply at
the office of the Western Union Telegraph Co, Broadway and
Ley streets, this city.

are Cecil.—_We have never heard of the ‘notorious’ indi-
vidual,

John Doyle.—Dexter’s best record for one mile is 2:17 1-4. It
has been beaten hy five horses—Gloster, 2:17; Occident, 2:16 3-4;
Lula, 2:16 3-4; American Girl, 2:16 1-2, and Goldsmith Maid, 2:14.
Rusticus.—An application by letter would provably remain un-
answered. Better apply in person to any one of the heads af
departments, of which there are several.

Lawrence.—Better send the book to a friend, with power ta
negotiate asale. You could do nothing by letter, as the price
would have to be determined by bargaining,

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS.
In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no
addresses, we give the prices at which the following articles may
be procured through the New York WEEKLY Purchasing Agen-
cy: ‘“Alphabets—Piain, Ornamented, and Illuminated,” $2.50;—
“Ornamental, Ancient and Medieval Alphabets,” $2; Coplay’s
Alphabets,” $3. :

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Blanche Arden.—\st. It was not wrong for you to accept attentions
from the young man. There are often many unkind and un:
tounded rumors in regard to the best of people. If you have
found the gentlemen honorable in his dealings to you, you would
do wrong to condemn him upon wiat others say. 2d. WH you are
not engaged to any one, you are at perfect liberty to allow gen-
tlemen to call upon you and to accept their escort to church oF
to places of amusement. 3d. We do not recommend any young
lady to receive attention from a great number of young m2n, as
she would gain the name of being a flirt or coquette, names that
every young girl should try to avoid. e

n. Tucker.—It is proper for a gentleman to shake har’ ~ith
his lady acquaintances whenever he meets them, yet not ......9's
essential.

All Serene.—There are many ways of asking a lady to go to a
place of amusement or to be allowed to escort her to an oyster
supper. The most simple way is generally the best, as ‘‘Miss
Wilson, shall Ihave the pleasure of your company Wednesday
evening to see the play of the Two Orphans at the Brooklyn
Theater?” or ‘Will you honor me by accepting my escort to an
oe Pee to be given at Delmonico’s, Friday evening, May

Sth ?

Love Dick.—Ist. It is perfectly proper for you to ask the young
lady to write toyou. She may correspond with you as a friend
and acquaintance, and if you wish to become a suitor for hex
hand, you may ask permission of her to address her parents o7
guardians. 2d. The gentleman should first present the lady with
his likeness, and then ask her to give him her own in exchange

Clara.—If a Jady makes an engagement to go to call with one
gentleman tosee some friends, she should excuse herself to any
one that might call to see her at the time appointed to go out, by
merely saying she had an engagement, and that she should be
pleased to see them at another time. 2d. Many a young man
marries upon a much less sum then one thousand dollars
ayear, but they must both practice economy. 3d. When @
young man and a young lady are engaged to be married there is
no.impropriety in their receiving other company or making
calls, providing always they are agreed. A lady should not re-
ceive the company of gentlemen if her intended husband ob-
jects, neither should a young man visit young ladies if his
affianced expresses a desire that he should not.

M. J. S.—Twenty-one years istoo young for a man to marry;
however there are some who marry at that age, and even
younger. Werecominend that you wait at least three or four
years, 2d. For twenty-five dollars you can purchasea ee. pretty
ring, with a diamond setting. 3d. There are many articles that
are appropriate for a birthday gift toa young lady—a glove box,
or a handsome handkerchief case, with a lace handkerchief or a
pair of bracelets, either of which would be pretty and appro-
priate presents,

M. Mayer.—The young lady should not, after having made an
engagement with one gentleman tor a certain evening, make one
for the same evening with another gentleman, especially as the
first stated that he wished to see her personally. She could have
excused herself to the second by saying she had a previous en-
gagement for the evening,

Holstin.—1st. On bowing to your friend when passing him in
the styeet, it he was accompanied by a lady you should have
raised your hat in deference to her. 2d. See Kuowledge Box.

ee ee
Our Kunowledge Box.

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Skinnie.—l. A cheap BLACK INK may be made thus: One dram
of prussiate of potash, one dram of bichromate of potash, one
ounce extract of logwood, one gallon of water, Mix all together
and shake well. When dissolved it will be fit for use. 2. A Goop
BLACK PRINTING INK is thus made: Take 16 ounces printers’ var-
nish, 4 ounces linseed oil, well boiled, 4 ounces clear oil of tuy-
pentine, 16 ounces of fine lampblack, 2 ounces of Prussian blue,
fine, 1 ounce of indigo, fine. Boilone hour, PRINTERS’ RED INK:
—Sofi varnish and vermilion with white of eggs not very thick.
Common yarnish, red lead and orange. Colcothar is indelible.
PRINTERS’ BLUE INK.—Prussian blue and a little ivory black with
varnish and egg very thick, common indigo and varnish; then
wash off with boiling lees. 3. COMPOSITION FOR PRINTING INK
ROLLERS.—This consists of glue and molasses, the proportions
varying {rom eight pounds of glue in summer.to four pounds ih
winter, for each gallon of molasses, The glue should be placed
for half an hour in a bucket, covered with water; then pour off
the water, and allow the glue to soften. Put it into a kettle and
heat it until thoroughly meited; if too thick, a little water ma
be added. Lastly, the molasses 1s stirred in and well mixed wit
the glue. When properly prepared, an hour’s boiling will be
sufficient, as too much boiling is apt to candy the molasses. Pour
into a clean mold, well oiled witha swak. 4. To CLEAN INH
ROLLERS.—Rollers should not be washed immediately after use,
as they will become dry and skinny, but they may be washed
halt on hour before using again, In cleaning a new roller, a lf:
tle vil rubbed over it will loosen the ink, and it should be scraped
clean with the back of aknife. Itshould be cleaned this way
for about a week, when lye may be used. New rollers are often
spoiled by washing too soon with lye. 5. Potash is the best thing
with which to cleanse type...... Sip.—We have no recipe......-
F. A. G,—Y0 MAKE AN EOLIAN Harp.—The first requisite is 2
long, narrow box, the length of the window, or the position in
Which itis to be placed. It must be made of thin pine, four inch-
es deep and five in width. At the extremities ot the top glue two
pieces of oak about half an ineh high and a quarter ot an
inch thick, for bridges to which the strings are to be fixed. With-
in the box at each end glue two pieces of beechwood about ap
inch square and the width of the box. Into one bridge fix seven
pegs, such as are used for piano strings; into the other bridge
fasten the same number of smaM brass pins; and to these pins
fasten one end of the strings made of small catgut, and twist the
other end of the strings around the pegs; then tune them ib
unison, Place over the top of the strings a thin board supported
by four pegs and about three inches from the sounding- board, to
procure a iree passage for the wind. The harp should be exposed
to the wind at a partly opened window. ‘To increase the draught
of air the door or an opposite window in the room should be oper.
If the harp be placed in a suitable position so as to receive a suk.
ficient draught of air, in a grotto or arbor, or hidden in soma
shady nook near a waterfall, the effect of its sweet sounds is en-
hanced....... J. M.—We have no recipe that would answer.......

. D. E.—CAYENNE PEPPER IN POULTRY DietT.—An authority
on the subject, says: Cayeune pepper can, with great benefit, be
added to the food of fowls, to increase their vigor and to stimu-
late egg production, This apparently artificial diet will be seen
to be natural, if we remember that wild birds get access to verr
many highly-spiced berries and buds; articles that help to give
the ‘‘game flavor” to thelr flesh. The ordinary food of the da-
mestic fowl is not, indeed, entirely without some such additio,
since there is more or less of an aromatic principle in wheat,
Indian corn, and ail other grains. Nevertiheless, it is not sufficient
in quantity to supply the place of the stronger spices, a taste for
which is a part of a fowi’s inherited constitution. A moderate
quantity of cayenne, added to the ground grain, will always be
found productive of health and thrift in poultry....3 B. BM.
For INVISIBLE Inks, see No. 3 of Volume 30......Gotham.—To
MAKE APPLE BUTTER, see No. 2 of Volume 30..... Trish.—Yes.,,.

Raphael, S. R., Nail Feeder, Mrs. Knight, Paloma, A. L. B.,
Snow Flake, G. A. H., True Economy, Forgetful, Au Eight Years’
Reader, Constant Reader, Maude, G. H. §., Tompkins, M. D.,
Vanity, N. E. F. Your letters have been received, and will be
answered as soon as possible,

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT.

W. CL. W.—YELLOW FEVER.—As stated in the number to which
you refer, yellow fever prevails chiefly in Southern cities. It
generally makes its appearance in the latter part of summer,
and disappears upon the approach of frosty weather. The first
symptom is achill more or less severe, succeeded by fever and
sometimes delirium. Then follows pain in the head. The most
striking symptoms are nausea and vomiting. The latter inex
treme cases is very persistent, and the yellowish or greenish mat-
ters first thrown up give place toa thin, black fluid, having a
sediment looking like coftee-grounds. Thisis called the “black
vomit,” and ends in death. The treatmeat of yellow fever is
various, according to the theories of ie attendant physicians:
Some prescribe liberal doses of calomel, while others use only
medicine enough to move the bowels, applying cups to the back
of the head or over the stomach, according to circumstances,
Pamphiets without number have been written on the subject of
per fever, the cause and its cure. Suftice it to say that clean-
abe temperance, and cheerfulness will aid in warding off the

isease.

J.J. Kanda @.C.L., H. R. Q.—Only a regular physician can aid
you. If one fails try another.

Maximilian.—Yes; you will injure your health irreparably.

Harry B.—Bathe in cold water, night and morning, and
wear a suspensary bandage.

A Constant Reader.—ERYSIPELAS.—AS a local application s)ip-
pery elm has been found efficacious. Make a muciiage of it and
apply it warm on cloths to the face. Sometimes common flour,
dusted on the inflamed parts, will afford relief.

W. W. M.—Take it to a druggist’s.

H, Williams and N. L. F.—l. Warts.—Lunar caustic will re-
move warts, but be careful not to touch the skin withit. An-
other remedy is chromic acid. A drop is usually sufficient to re-
move the excrescence. Becautiousinusingit. 2. HEARTBURN.—
Half a teaspoonful of bi-carbonate of soda in half a tumbler of
water will generally afford relief. ltisasymptom of dys-

pepsia. '

Thomas McG.—Address ‘‘Medical Department,” N. Y. WEEKLY.

Engineer Phil.—We know nothing concerning him or his cure.
See No. 32 of volume 30.

F. C. E.—Bathe your eyes night and morning in warm milk and
eel and lead a regular life—one free from excesses or all
kinds.

A. Sufferer.—You need the aid of a doctor who can give you his
personal attention.

Joseph A., Darrell, Meta, T. B. Jr., Telegraph, Silly Jack,
James C, C., J. H. C., A Constant Reader, W. R. G., C. W. J., Geo.
W. Zebedee Ring, J. E. Your letters have been received, and
will be answered as soon as possible.

————_-r0~

The Great Stallion.

——_—,

While at Tarner’s, Orange Co., N. Y. last week, having
acouple of hours to spareI madea flying visit to the
celebrated Taylor stock farm, to see the far-famed stallion
Florida, I sawhim in harness, coming in from his
morning exercise. Col. Taylor was kind enough to ask
me te jump in and take aride behind him, when he cut
him loose at his lightning speed, I must say that he is
one of the most elegant-gaited and speedy horses I ever
saw, which accountsfor the wonderful action and prom-
ise of his colts, the more promising of which are those
owned by Judge Fullerton, Mr. England of the Sun,
Mayor Traphagen of Jersey City, and others who seem to
be able toappreciate and seeure such choice and valua-
blestock. Ialso saw a number of brood mares to be
bred to Florida (with some ofthe finest sucklings by
Florida that lever had the pleasure of seeing); among
them the celebrated mares Morning Glory, Rose, by Ham-
bletonian; Old Topsey; Mary Knapp, half-sister to Gold-
smith Maid; Dudley mare, by\Gold Dust; Dutchess;
Mape’s mare, the dam of Hartfort; Hambletonian, and a
number of others equally celebrated. To wind up, though
last not least, was the hearty reception I received. from
our hospitable friend, Col. Taylor, H. We BR.

 

 

 

 

 
 

ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

Se ”
y I~ DEX o>
e
a A PLAINT ly-headed Stapletons, every one of whem she fondly de- | surfaces of these different worlds with different velocities, Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely

ee

BY NELLY MARSHALL,

O, Hope! O, Faith! O, World!
By ye Lam undone!

I gave ye all my love,
And grief instead have won!

I think my heart will break
With its wild weight of woe!
O, had he been faithful
No tears of mine would flow!

But weary and forforn,

Thro’ day and night I weep—
Day drives not care away,

And night-time brings no sleep.

Ah, unto faithless hearts
Why do I madly cling,
When one and all to me
Doth wealth of sorrow bring?

My soul, my heart are weak;

O, would that they were strong!
Would I could exile love,

Whose presence does me wrong!

Would I could somewhere find
The lotus-cup of calm,
Whose taste to bruised hearts
Doth yield autalgic balm! °

Nepenthe of the soul!

O, whither hast thou fiown?
While in sorrow’s shackles

My mad heart maketh moan!

O, Hope! O, Love! O, Trust!
By ye I am undone!

My soul sets in a night
Which knows no rising sun!

AUNT PEGGY'S HELP.

BY HELENA DIXON.

 

 

 

Beechwood was the name given by Aunt Peggy Staple-
ton to the low-lying farm, which for generations had been
the home of the Stapleton family.

The farm now belonged to Peggy, an unmarried, strong-
minded lady, whose age might have been anywhere be-
tween forty and sixty for all clue to it which @ Stranger
could get from theclosestscrutiny of the coal-black hair and

. eyes, well-preserved teetin and skin and plump little body,

which seemed to be ever on the move. _For Aunt Peggy
never lacked for something to do, thoufn she lived entire-
jy alone in the ‘great lonesome house, save when her
nephew, Clarence Stapleton, came down to spend a hight
as a holiday from his bachelor quarters at the Dayton Col-
lege. Seldom a week passed but he made a visit, for, as
Aunt Peggy expressed it, “Clarence wagsa great home
body.”

Clarence was the last of the Stapletons, and as every-
body thought, would be the heir to Beechwood. And so
the old lady fully intended he should be, until she chanced
upon the, to her, startling discovery, that he was in love
with and intended to marry ‘‘a snip of a city girl, with
more airs than sense;’? and then the old lady declared
that the ‘home of the Stapletous” should go to strangers
sooner than any idle city minx should come there to
queen if rightin sight of the little hillocks under the
beeches, where so many of the stauch old Stapleton stock
were sleeping, and where she expected her own dust
would mingle with theirs,

“Thav’s what comes of giving him a college education
instead of letting him learn his arithmetic and spelling
book at the district school, as the rest of us did. I've
heard dear fatlier say many’s the time that the more high
learning a man got into his head the less room there was
ieft for common sense, aud this love affair goes to show
that every particle of the mother wit that belongs as
natural to a Stapleton as the grass does to summer has

.been crowded out of Ciarence’s head by Latin and Greek

and other outlandish stuff. But thank fortune a fall-
blooded Stapleton is mistress here yet, and Dll look out
that no bedecked and bedizened city woman ever trails
her skirts of authority over Beechwood.”

And having thus delivered herself to a sympathizing
neighbor, Aunt Peggy went off after the most approved
fashion into a violent fit of hysterics.

The next day she was confined to her bed with rheuma-
tism, and Clarence, like the dutiful nephew he was, came
home at once to see what he could do for her.

“Ill be better by and by. Don’t worry yourself,’ said

Aunt Peggy, with something like irony in her tones.

Then turning her face to the wall she muttered:

“J’m not going to die yet, and when Idol shall leave
in black and white whether a worker ora drone shall
be mistress here, so don’t be thinking about your wed-
ding suit or your poor Aunt’ Peggy’s gravestone either,’’

“Die! Aunt Peggy,’’ said the young man jocosely.
“Why nobody thinks of such a thing. You'll be around
the house as brisk as a Kitten before to-morrow morning,
But what would you like to have? ShallI make youa
cup of tea??? ”

“Hear that now! As though any man could make tea
fit for anybody to drink. Anudasto getting up with my
lame back itshows how much you know about the fe-
male constitution. Ishalilie here a month Iknow I
shall, and if you want to do anything for me go hunt me
up a girl—one that can take care of{me and give me
something besides slops to eat, such stuff as that creature
gave me when I had my last bad spell. And I don’t want
to get up to find the house all upside down either. Geta
girl that knows how to work and isn’t too lazy to do it,
and—wait a minute, you needn’t go off like that and not
half understand your errand. Idon’t want an Irish girl
—they’re always humming away ata love song—nora
Duteh or a Welsh one, their gibberish makes me nervous
nor I don’t wantagirl as homely as a hedge fence. I
like good-looking people around me, especially when I'm
sick. There, now go."?

Clarence departed with a rueful look on his fine, manly
face. Where was he to find agirl who would meetall
his aunt’s requirements?

Suddenly, ashe descended the stairs, a bright idea
seemed to take possession of iis mind, for his countenance
lighted up, and seizing his hat he rushed out to the
stable.

After an absence of several hours he re-entered his
aunt’s room and informed her that the help had come
and would soon be up to see her, and, he added, that as
she no longer required his services he would go back to
Dayton, bul would run down every day or two to see how
she was getting along.

Domestic matters went onswimmingly at Beechwood.
Uuder the help’s skillful fingers everything in the house
and especially in the sick room retained its olden air of
comfort, with asomething of grace and refinement added.

Far from being homely Aunt Peggy declared to herself
and te Clarence whenever he would listen to her that the
girl was ‘‘as handsome as a picture.”?

Aunt Peggy never grew tired of having her sprightly
little maid of all work near ler. When slie did not re-
quire her services as nurse she would have her bring a
book and read to her, orshe would have her take her
sewing and, making her sit just before her where she
could watch the play ofthe nimble fingers, Aunt Peggy
would drop away to sleep to dream of all the Stapletons
whose somber portraits looked at her from the walls,
and of Clarence and theodious city girl, and of Mary
Dormer, the belp. Awakening suddenly from one of
these dreams she turned her eyes to where the girl was
sitting. -

“Mary, I want to dress and go down stairs. Iam well
enough, I think.”

Wien Aunt Peggy, assisted by Mary, had made the
tour of the louse, she returned to herroom and sank
wearily on the bed.

“Mary, you are a charming little housekeeper, and fit to
be the wife of a priuce. How do you like my nephew,
Clarence?’ ;

Mary’s head drooped until the brown curls which cov-
ered it nearly concealed the crimsoning face. But she
made no reply. ~ Pe

«Say, child, how would you like Clarence for a hus-
band?”

“TI—he—I have seen him so seldom since I have been
here ‘? said Mary, blushing and stammering.

“| know It,’? jerked out Aunt Peggy. ‘‘He seems to
shun you as though you were a plague. The simpleton is
bewitched after a girl in the city—handsome they say she
is, but good for nothing but to be looked at, 1 dare say.
Just so sure as he marries her he is a beggar. Suppose
you try to win him, Mary? Idon’t see how he could re-
sist.’?

“That would be hardly maidenly, would it??? and Mary
raised her blue eyes wistfully to her companion’s face.

*Ouder the circumstances it would be more than maid-
enly. it would be angelic!” said Aunt Peggy, with spirit.
“You would be saving him not only from beggary but
from the toils of that designing Mary Grantville.” a.

Aunt Peggy was soon able to be about the house again,
but still she would not have Mary go. Clarence came
home oftener than usual, nearly every day in fact, and the
old lady saw witli great satisfaction, though she pretended
not to notice, that Mary was the attraction, and Clarence
seemed very anxious not to iet his aunt witness the many
tete-a-tetes he had with Mary in the back porch, and Aunt
Peggy, who saw itall, laughed to herseif to think how
nicely her little plot was working. So she was not much
surprised when, one evening, Clarence led Mary before
her, and in his frank, blunt way, told her that they wanted

to get married some day, and asked for her sanction.
Aunt Peggy gave it with her blessing added, and then
Mary fell on her Knees, and burying her face in the old
Jady’s lap, began to murmur something about how wicked
she had been in deceiving so good a friend, not a word of
wiich the old lady could comprehend. So Clarence blurted
forth with:

“She wants totell you that she is not simply Mary
Dormer, but that, with Grantville added.”

instinctively Aunt Peggy drew dack, but only for a mo-
ment. Then she laid a hand on each of the still Kneeling
girl’s shoulders, and smiled.

“Well, 1 have nothing to complain of after all, though
you did get the start of me, and that, too, when I thought
1 was helping to outwit my long-headed nephew here,

who by his shrewdness has proved himself a Stapleton
all over.’?

Aunt Peggy lived to lavish caresses on half-a-dozen cur-

 

 

giared would grow up an honor tothe name. And she
never had reason to complain that the future mistress of
Beechwood had been reared in the city.

Ot
A WoMAN who has been strongly tempted, and has
resisted temptation, is more to be commended than
she who has never come in contact with attractive
vice. This proposition is well illustrated in the fas-
cinaling story entitled ‘‘A WOMAN’s TEMPTATION,”
the openiug chapters of which are given on the first

page of this number of the NEw YORK WEEKLY.
>

THE

Wonders of Nature.

By Prof. M. Rudolph.
WHAT IS THE MOON ?

There are more asking this question, mentally, than
would be willing to acknowledge it. With all the know-
ledge of professional business, there is often a most
lamentable ignorance of the most common phenomena of
the natural world. But Why should men go through the
world, and remain almost as ignorant of the wonders
above and around them as dumb catthe? How much more
would they enjoy nature if better acquainted with it.
Night is invested with peculiar charms to the student of
science, even though he be but a noviceinit. Even a
thoughtful savage must be impressed by ‘the Moon walk-
ing in its briguiness,”? and majestically marching in silent
grandeur among the Stars; and her frequent and mys-
terious Changes Of place and form, must fill his mind with
solemn awe. We need not then wonder that her matchi-
less beauty and valuable service as Queen of Night, have
so often inspired devotion in untutored minds, and led
them to render her divine honors.

An effort to learn more of the mysteries of this wonder-
ful object will be amply repaid, :

At the outsel, we must understand, that the Moon,
though giving us so much light, is, nevertheless, a dark
body, like our earth. Itis probably composed of materials
sucli as go fo make up our globe, all of them non-lumin-
ous, aud affording not a single ray of light.

How then does she appear so beautifully bright? Sim-
ply by reflecting the light falling on her surface from the
sun. Like our own giabe, she is always warmed and
lighted by the great solar orb, and appears to us full, or,
in crescent form, according as her illumined side is
Wholly, or, in part, turned toward us. By moving a sphere
horizontally around a stationary lamp, au observer, at
the distance of a few feet, will see all the phases of the
Moon, faintly visibie on the surface of the sphere. By a
somewhat similar revolution of the Moon around the
Barth, the lunar changes are produced, the Sun always
lighting one half the Moon’s surface, but the entire half
presented tous only when the Moon is directly opposite
the Sun, when she appears full to us.

WHENCE CAME THE MOON?

It has been supposed by some that the Moon was onee a
solid comet, aud, while wandering through space, came
so near the Earth that it was seized by his superior at-
tractive power and thrown out of ils path, and hes been
ever since held by the Earth in his giant grasp, and com-
pelled to do him service as a revolving satellite. This,
however, Can never be demonstrated. Another theory to
which we shall hereafter more fully refer, is thatthe Moon
was formed, as was the Earth, from nebulous, or very thin
matter, diffused through space, and condensed into solid
form about the same time tliat our globe was molded into
its present shape, If the theory of its cometic origin be
true, we may, at some day, arrest another comet, and our
world be favored with two, oreven more Moons, as are
some of our sister worlds. Or, should a larger body than
the Earth pass near the -Moon, it might seize upon her
and carry our beautiful Queen of Night away from us into
the unknown abysses of space, never more to return to
us. But all this is highly improbable, and our fears may
be regarded as groundless im view of tlre divine deciara-
tion, “‘He hath appointed the Moon for Seasons;’’ and
we inay Safely assuine thatshe is thus “appointed” at
least, as loug as the race of man needs her service. —

IS THE MOON INHABITED?

Reasoning from what we know of the necessities of
animal life, we shouid unhesitatingly angwer, No. There
is no atmosphere on the Moon, aud if no air there can
be no clouds, and therefore no rain; andif no rail, no
vegetation, and if ne vegetation, nothing to support ani-
mal life. But how do we kuow thatthere is no atmos-
phere on the Moon? Thus: When the Sun, Moon or Stars
rige or set, we always see a perfect image of them while
they are actually below the horizon, and, of course, out of
sight, Thus, when the Sun is seen resting his lower edge
on the horizon, itis not the Sun ttsel’ we see, but only
IS LAR. Fre same ig {rue of ithe Moon and all the

Stars, This remarkable fac ; le refractive

power Of, the atmosphere by which the Pape oe Pe aetive |
bent out of their course the moment they enter it, and in

this way images of all the heavenly bodies are presented

to us before they rise, aud remain with us after they have
set. .

Now, if the Moon had an atmosphere, we should wit-

ness the same phenomenon there. Whena Star disap-

peared behind the Moon it would not pass instantly out

of sight, but its image would linger, as in our atmosphere;

but, instead of this, we invariably fiuu an instantaneous

eclipse of the Star, and no appearance whiatever of the

lingering image, and hence we are compelled to infer that

there is no atmosphere on the Moon, and must accept all

the conclusions resulting from it.

True, there may be animals entirely different in consti-

tution from those of our globe, but of this we have no

evidence, as the most powerful telescopes cannot inform us

respecting such small objects. The general aspect of the

Moon is unfavorable to the supposition that itis now inhab-

ited. As seen with our largest instruments, its surface

is exceedingly broken, as if it had been subject to far

more violent volcanic action than our globe. In propor-

tton to its size, the mountains are much higher than those
of the Earth, some reaching an elevation of 23,000 feet,

nearly as high as the Himalayan range. Frightful precipices

abound, one, at least, rising perpendicularly 16,000 feet.

There are also humerous crater-like mountains, having
concentric rings—rings within rings—having a diameter
of more than fifty miles. In the centers of these immense

craters are often distinctly seen mountains of great height
—mountains within mountains—seemingly formed by the

volcanic matter formerly thrown out, and which fell back
into these vast craters. Someof these are greatly de-
pressed below the general surface, often sinking as low
as 4,000 feet. These depressions are the dark parts of the
lunar gurface so distinctly seen by us, and not seas and

oceans, as formerly supposed, while the brighter portions

are the more elevated.

It has generally been admitted that volcanic action has
long since ceased on the Moon. Some recent observations,
however, on @ particular crater seem to have revealed
some change of aspect, and hence it has been thought
that that particular volcauo may possibly be in a state of
eruption, As we have neverseen but one side of the
Moon, and never shall see the other, it is impossible for
us ever to kuow whiat is transpiring on the opposite side.

This one-sided view of the Moon is owing to the fact
that it revolves on its axis in exactly the same time that
it revolves a.ound the earth. This will be understood by
revolving a ball once on its axis while it moves once
around a fixed point.

DISTANCE AND MAGNITUDE OF THE MOON.

The Moon, though apparently as large as the Sun, is,
in reality, the smallest heavenly body visible to the un-
aided eye. Her diameter is 2,164 miles. ;

As spheres are to each otlier as the cubes of their diam-
eters, it follows that the Moon is only one oe the
size of the Earth, the Earth’s mean diameter being 7,912
miles.

Seventy millions of such globes as the Moon would be
requisite to make one pone te the Sun.

The reason why the Moon appears as large as the Sun,
is because of its nearness, its distance being only 240,000
miles, while the sun is about 92,000,000 miles. Tine Moon
then is by far the nearest of all the heavenly bodies. Her
distance, however, is not always the same, but changes,
80 that at times it is thirty thousand miles less distant
than at others.

Were there a railroad to the Moon, it would require. five
hundred days to Make a journey there, traveling night
and day without stoppages, at the rate of tweuty miles an
hour,

In consequence of the Moon being only one forty-ninth
the bulk of the Earth and about eighty times lighter in
proportion, bodies on her equator would weigh much
less than on the surface of the earth, because there is less
matter acting on these bodies to draw them to the center
of the Moon. For example, a man on the Earth weighing
125 pounds, on the Moon would weigh only 20 pounds, so
that if his strength remained the same, he wouldbe able to
leap will ease over the tops of the tallest trees of the forest.
On the other hand,ifa man weighing 200 pounds were trans-
ferred to the Sun, he would weigh 5,580 pounds, andif lils
strength remained only the same, he would be chained
down to tle surface in utter helplessness, as shown in
another article. Were this same man, weighing 200
pounds on the earth, placed on some of the other Suns,
which are ordinarily called Stars, he would weigh more
tllan one hundred thousand pounds. If he were placed
on some of the Asteroids—the smallest globes of our own
family of worlds—this same man of 200 pounds would not
weigh more than two or three pounds. All this wiil be
understood when we remember the universal law, that all
matter attracts other matter in proportion to its quantity,
and further, that ali matter is attracted to the center of a
globe, where attraction virtually ceases, and the body has
no weight, because it is attracted equally in all directions,
Hence, were the earth a hollow sphere, a body placed in
its center would remain perfectly at rest, supported upon
nothing, but stationary in the center of that empty space.

Tt will then be seen, that as the Earth’s diameter is, say
8,000 miles, there are 4,000 miles of matter drawing a body
on its surface to its center; while, as the Sun’s diameter
is, say 8 800,00 miles, there are 440,600 miles acting ona
body lying on its surface and drawing it to its center.
And, as some of the Asteroids are only about forty miles

 

 

iug bodies on their surface,
From this it will be clear why bodies do not have the

 

same weight on different worlds.
So also fromthe same Cause, bodies would fall to the

 

PPlaced so near us, Can move harmiessly Ov
a, SK and ye

in diameter, there are only twenty miles of matter attract- |

 

7. @., because attracted by different forces. For instance:
a pebbie that would fall to the Ear-h about sixteen feet in
asecond would fall to the Sun about 440 feet in the same
time; while the same pebble would [all to the surface of
an Asteroid about as fust as a feather wou!d to the surface
of our own globe,

MOTION OF MOON AROUND THE EARTH.

-The Moon revolves around the Earth from west to east
in 27 days, 7 hours and 43 minutes. This is called a sid-
ereal month, because she then re‘urns to the same point
among the Stars.

Bui while the Moon hag been completing one such revo-
lution around the Earth, the Eartnitself has been moving
through space in the same direction—from west to east—
and therefore the Moon must aivance about two days
longer in her orbit, or path, in order to appear to us to
have completed a revolution, This is called a lunar month
or, formerly, nwonth, from which comes the word now
used—month,

This lunar moonth, or month, |s 29 days, 12 hours, and
44 minutes long. F

As the Moon is advancing, daily, from west to east, in
her path around the Earth, about thirteen degrees, it fol-
lows that the Earth must make more than one complete
revolution on its axis, in orderto bring the same spot
directly under the: Moon. Hence the Moon rises later
each day about fifty minutes, ashe Harth must turn on
its axis that much longer to have the Moon directly over
any particular place of the eartl.

THE HARVEST MOON,

There iga remarkable exception to this daily later rising
of the Moon, which occurs durivg the autumn, when it
rises Ouly about twenty minutes later for several days.
This would seem to be a special and merciful provision of
a kind Providence for the purpose of lengthening the day
at a period when time is often exceedingly valuable to the
husbandinan, thus permitting him to gather the fruits of
his year’s toil, and while exempt from the scorching heat
of the Sun.

LUNAR INFLUENCES.

It is very generally supposed that the Moon exerts a
great influence upon auimals and plants, as also upon
food when prepared at particular phases of this body.
Thus, many imagine that trees must be felled, seed plant-
ed, avimals slaughtered, and medicines administered at
the full, or at the waxing or waning of the Moon. Butali
this is mere superstition, and is wholly without support,
either from philosophy orfact. The same remark will
apply to the Moon’s influence upon the weather, long and
careful observation havipg proven that atmospheric
changes are wholly independent of iunar influence. The
Moon’s light upon the eyes of sieepers seems to produce
unfavorable effects in oriental nations. There is, how-
ever, a most powerful and beneficent influence exerted by
the Moon in producing the daily tides. The Sun raises a
tidal wave, also, but, on account of his distance, it is only
about one-third that of the Moon, so that the Moon is the
chief agent in producing these most wonderful ebbings
aud flowings of the great world of waters. But this is too
important, and too beneficent an arrangemeut of our mer-
ciful aud all-wise and all-powerful Creator, to pass over
slightly, and we must make it the subject of a special
article hereafter. %

EARTH LIGHT.

When the new Moon is seen in a clear sky, 2 dim, glob-
ular light is observed resting in the crescent or bowl of
the Moon, and is generally termed “the old Moon in the
new Moon’s arms.’? This was long supposed to be the
native light of the Moon, but it is now known to be the
reflected light of the Earth,

To understand this, it must be borne in mind that our
world appears in the Moou’s sky, just aS does the Moon to
us, but with this differeuce—the Earth presents to the Ju-
narianus (Supposing for the moment that the Moon is in-
habited) a glorious orb about thirteen times larger than
the Moon appears tous. This globe, therefore, is a most
resplendent object in the lunar sky, and affords about
thirteen times as much light as does the Meon tous. Itis
this light of the Earth received from the Sun that we see
faintly outlining the Moon’s form to us—“a reflection of a
reflection” giving us some idea of the .comparative
ag of the direct and reflected rays as received on the

oon.

It isamong the possibilities, that the Moon may at
some time have an atmosphere by seizing some wander-
ing gaseous comet, composed of the proper elements,
aud holding it ever after as a part of its own mitter.
Should such a gaseous body be thus snatched from its
orbit as it dashed by with lightning speed, it would im-
mediately envelope the whole surface of the Moonas does
our atmosphere the Earth, and would probably soon effect
important changes over tlie entive lunar surface. It is
possible that the atmosphere of our own globe was thus
furnished by some one, or more of those fugitive worlds,
while rushing wildly through space.

_ But this we shall never be able to prove. This, then,
is our beautiful Queen of Night. How much of human
enjoyment is due to her presence. How cheerless would
be the long winter nights if left without her presence.
And how : th of the inhabitants of
Earth, were the waters of the Vast oceans no longer puri-
fied by her disturbing influence!” anq does it not exiibit
the most wonderful wisdom and power that such a huge
body, weighing 80 many MmilliONg’on miilions of cous aud

ss heazas,
day : = alter year,

“a:
without falling to Earth and crastiing and shattering our
thin, egg-shell of a crust, and letting out the hissing,
raging molten mass beneath, in one universal deluge of
liquid fire?
What but Omnipotence can do all this? What but in-
finite Love and Beneficence WOULD do it, and daily make
that a charm, a fascination, a delight, which could and
would in an instant, without His gracious interference,
become a direful and most awful curse!
Let us be grateful that we are not left to be the sport of
a blind and fickle chance, but that Jehovah reigneth, not
only in Heaven, but as the All-wise and Merciful Disposer
of events below, and that He regards with profound in-
terest, the minutest events in the history of each one of
His intelligent creatures of Earth. f
“WHAT ARE THE STARS?!’ will be considered in our
next article. :

—_—_—_—_>+ 0 «—_____——
THINGS GENERALLY.

BY MAX ADELER.

WHY SMOOT WAS OUT.

— The other day a man called at Smoot’s, and when
Mrs. Smoot ¢ame to the door, he said: i
“7 want to see Smoot a minute about something partic-
ular. Jus’ you tell him I’m here.’
Mrs. S.—"‘I'm very sorry to say, sir, that Mr. Smoot—"
Slranger.—-“Oh, notin, hey? Well, that’s too bad. I
came all the way over from Wilmington on purpose to see
him. Hadan appointment with him. He was over there
about two months ago, and we had a kinder pow-wow
about something, and he told me to call long about this
time Lo settle it.”? é

Mrs. S.— “I you are a friend of his you will regret
to :

 

Stranger.—"Oh, 1’m not much of a friend—merely met
him oncet or twicet down at Bunn’s livery stable, and
sorter took a fancy to him. Heisa good feller *bout some
things, but he+ragged too much, and | come yer to-day to
take some Of the stiffenin’ outofhim. We've a little bet,
and he said if l’'d call sometime he’d put up the money
and settle the question. When’ll he be in ?”?

Mrs. S.—*“‘I Gon’t know to what you refer. Mr. Smoot
said nothing about anything of the kind to me, anad——”?

Stranger.—‘‘Of course! of course! I know well enough
he didn’t. He didn’t want you to know aboutit. Him
and me set it up confidential betwixt ourseives. The very
last words he said to me was, ‘Don’t let the old woman
hear ’bout it; she’ll jaw me to death,’ and so I ain’t goin’
into particulars untill see him. We'll square it up off
somewheres it private.’

Mrs. S.—'*You don’t seem to understand that it is too
late for anything of that kind—that Mr. Smoot is"

Stranger.—‘‘Oh, better late than never. Any time ’ll
suit me. If he don’t come in till after dark we'll go down
to the tavern. That’!l do as wellas anywheres. I’m not
going home till see him. Now I’m here I might as well
finish the business and have it off my mind. Bein ina
minute, Lexpect. Ill jus’ take a seat and wait,’

Mrs. S.—“‘Mr. Smoot will not bein in a minute,’?

Stranger.—** Won't, hey ? Well, Pll wait an hour then.”

Mrs. S.—Mr. Smoot will not be here at all to-day.”

Stranger.—Gone up to the city? Weil, that’s playing
it pretty low down on me; because he fixed the time him-
self, and I took a good deal of trouble to accommodate
him. lhate a man to makean engagement and then go
back on it.” : \

Mrs. S.—“‘He is not to blame.”!

Stranger.— “Well, I don’t see it. That’s not my view.
Here’s a man fixes 4 day and then he goes away and dis-
appoints another man.”?

Mrs. S.—‘‘Mr. Smoot has been dead for three weeks.’?

Stranger.—"Whi-wh-wh-what? D-d-d-dead ?”

Mrs. S.— ‘Mr. Smoot was buried on the 15th.’”

Stranger.—‘‘Well, that beats me! Dead! Smoot dead!
Why, that’s too awful bad. You know him and me ar-
ranged it that my rooster was to fight his’n, and I’ve got
that chicken in my pocket with his comb cut, his spurs
sharpened, and all ready. He'd alicked Smoot’s chicken
so’s he couldn’t stand, and now Smoot’s dead! Too bad!
too bad! Howsomedever maybe you'll run out his rooster
and less have a round ortwo betwixt ’em here on the
pavement, It would satisfy my mind and make me feel
pleasanter about him now he’s gone. I’ll give you the
stakes, anyhow.”’

Then Mrs. Smoot shut the door in his face, and the Wil-
mington man walked off muttering to himself that he
believed Smoot died to sbirk that encounter with his
rooster.

IT WASN’T tHE RIGHT MAN.

— Over in Wilmingtonone of the churciiés recently
called a clergyman named Rev. Joseph Striker. In that
city, by a most unfortunatecoincidence, there also resides
a prominent prize fighter named Joseph Striker, and ru-
mors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph
was about to engage in acontest with a Jersey pugilist
for the championship. Our sheriff considered it his duty
to warn Joseph against the pro infraction of the
laws, and so tre determined to call upon the professor of
the art of self-defense. Unhappily in inquiring the way
to the pugilist’s house somebody misunderstood the sheriff
and sent him to the residence of the Rev. Mr. Striker, of
whom he had never heard. When Mr. Striker entered
the rn in answer to the summons, the sheriff said to

 

him, familiarly: ‘
‘Hello, Joel How are your”?

 

 

said:

“Good morning.”

“Joe,’? said the sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the
arm of the chair, ‘‘l came round here to see you about
that mill with Paisey Dingus, that they're all talking
about, I want you to understand that it can’t come olf
anywhere’s around here, You know well enough it’s
against the law, and I ain’tagoing to haveit,” —

“Mill! Mill, sir? What on earth do you mean?” asked
Mr. Striker, in astonishment. “I do not own any mill,
sir. Against the law! I do not understand you, sir.”!

“Now see here, Joe,’’ said the sheriff, biting off a piece
of tobacco and looking very wise,’’ that’ won't go
down with me. It’s pretty thin, you know. I know well
enough that you've put up $1,500 on that little affuir, and
that you’ve got the whole thing fixed with Bill Martin for
referee. I Know you’re going down to Pea Patch Island
to haye it out, and I’m not going to allowit. I'll arrest
you as sure as a gun if you try it on, now mind me.”

“Really, sir,’? said Mr, Striker, ‘there must be some
mistake about——”?

“O, no there isn’t; your name’s Joe Striker, isn’t it?”
asked the sheriff.

“My name is Joseph Striker, certainty."? '

“I knew it,’ said the sheriff, spitting on the carpet,
and you see l’ve got this thing dead to rights. It shan’t
come off; and I’m doing you a favor in blocking the game,
because Patsey’d curl you all up and sicken you anyway
if I let you meet him. I know he’s the best man, and
you'd just lose your money and get all bunged up besides;
so you take my advice, now, and quit. You'll be sorry it
you don’t,’? . ;

“Ido not know what you are referring to,” sald Mr.
Striker. ‘Your remarks are incomprehensible to me, but
your tone is very offensive, and ifyou have any business
with me I’d thank you to state it at once.’?

“Joe,” said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign
smile, “you play it mighty well. Anybody‘d think you
were. innocent asalamb. But it won’t work, Joseph—it
won’t work, Itell you. I’ve got a duty to perform, and
I’m going to do it, and I pledge you my word if you and
Dingus don’t knock off now, I'll grab you and send you
up for ten years as sure as death. I’m in earnest
about it.” ;

“What do you mean, sir?’ asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.

“O, don’t go to putting on auy airs about it. Don’t you
(ry any strutting before me,” said\the sheriff, “or I'll put
you under bail this very afternoon. Let's see, how long
were you in jail last time? Two. years, wasn’t it? Well,
you go fighting with Dingus and you'll get ten years,
sure,

“You are certainly crazy!’ exclaimed Mr. Striker.

“T don’t see what you want to slay at that business for,
anyhow,” said the sheriff. ‘Here you are in asnug home
where you might live in peace and Keep respectable. But
no, you must associate with low characters, and go to
stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring to get
your nose bloodied, and your head swelled, and your body
hammered to a jelly, and all for what?) Why, for a cham-
pionship! It’s ridiculous. What good’ll it do you if you
are champiou? Why don’t you try to be honest and
decent, and let prize fighting alone ?””
~ “This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever
listened to,” said Mr, Striker.
for a——"’

“I take you for Joe Striker, and if you keep on, I’!l take
you to jail!’ said the sheriff, with emphasis. “Now, you
tell me who’s got those stakes, and who’s your trainer,
and I’: pat an end to the whole thing.”

“Youseem to imagine that I am a pugilist,’’ said Mr.
Striker. “Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergy-
man.

“Joe, said the sheriff, shaking his head, “it’s too bad
for you to lie that way—too bad indeed.”

“Bat lama clergyman, sir—pastor of the church of St.
Sepulchre. Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed
to me.

“You don’t really mean to say that you’re a preacher
pence Joseph Striker?’ exclaimed the sheriff, looking
scared.

“Oertainly lam. Come up stairs, and Pll show you a
barrelful of my sermons.”

“Well, if this don’t beat the very old Nebuchadnezzar!”
said the sheriff; “thisis just awful! Why, thunder and
lightning! I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter!
I don’t know howl ever—— A,preacter! Insufferable
Abraham! what an ass I’ye made of myself! I don’t know
how to apologize, but if you want to kick me down the
front steps, just kick away; I’ll bear it like an angel!’?

Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker
went up stairs to finish his Sunday sermon. ‘The sheriff
talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on.

BUTTERWICK’S WEAKNESS.

— Deacon Grimes called the other day upon Mrs. But-
terwick to ask for a subscription to the Missionary society.
The following conversation took place:

“Your husband is a Presbyterian, I believe, Mrs. Butter-
wick 9”? said the deacon.

“No,” replied Mrs. B., ‘he belongs to pretty near every-
thing else on earth bat church. That’s what I say to him,
that while he is joining so much he'd better join something
decent, that'll do him seme good, But he says he has no

“You evidently take me

 

tume. He belongs to about forty-six secret societies of

 

renee

 

 

a nn

“@ way from here, you scoundrel! Ill have you hung
for murdering me! What Avon mean, anyhow ??
Before Bill could reply the clock struck eight; and

and come home shouting at his family at eight o’clock in
the morning. Then Bill iusisted it was only two o’clock,
aud the policeman said he was right, Qooley began then
to grasp the situation, and he was just about to swear at
the clock when it struck fifreen. Then he (old Bill to stop
that clock or he would go crazy, and when Bill stopped
it, it struck twenty-six. This excited Cooley so much that
le seized a chair and flung it at the timepiece, whereupon
it promptly struck two hundred and thirty-four. Then
Bill threw it into the street, where it struck straight ahead
until five o’clock, while the Cooleys and Bill all went to
bed. Mr. Cooley purchased a chronometer on the follows
ing Saturday, and forbade anybody to bring a striking
clock anywhere near the house. :

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

THE PURCHASING AGENCY CATALOGUE.—Owing to many
changes and reductions in prices, we have been forced to defer
the publication of our New Purchasing Aaa Catalogue until
the present time, All orders now received will be filled at once,
Tt will be sent to any address, pre-paid, on receipt of ten cents.

 

 

“Etta.”—The grenadine suits this season are particu:
larly pretly, and can be bought for any price ranging
from $35 to $100. The cheaper suits, say those cosiing
from $35 to $50, are made ofa good quality of material
over a silK finished fabric or grenadine liniug, made ex-
pressly for the purpose. The garments can be as elab-
orately made and trimmed as desirable and some of them
made over this luster are of handsome grenadine, costing
about $1,25 a yard, and trimmed with French lace, mak-
ing the suit cost about $65 or $75, while the same outside
material made over silk would amount to at least $100.
Shirring is now used considerably for grenadine, the
overskirt and basque being entirely composed of shirrs,
which may be perpendicular, diagonal or straight across
or around thé garment. Satin striped grenadine cosis
from 85 cents to 75 cents per yard, Yes, we will make
the purchase for you. In sending your order give meas-
ure of bust. waist, slééve and skirt. Send check of the
amount you-wish to invest in the suit, aud we will do the
very best we can for you.

“Mrs. 8. F. C."—The articles ordered were promptly
sent. Cost of opera glasses from $5 to $50.. You neglect-
ed to mention whether you wanted the French merino
dress for boy or girl. A pretty toilet set can be bought
for $2 or $3, or & neat picture might be more acceptable.
If your friend is housekeeping you can give her any
article of table furniture or a parlor ornament, useful as
well as pretty.

“Little Girl.’’—The trouble is, dear child, your mother
is too indulgent, and you have too many suits for a miss
of your age. You really need no more for the summer,
so we will not advise you this season, but if you write
again to us in the fall, -we will tell you what you need.

“Mrs. Landon.”’—We are glad you liked the serpentine
corset clasps.. They are certainly the very best for fleshy
ladies, or those in your condition, Still we cannot advise
you to lace them tight, for they are exceedly pliable, and
when the corsets are drawn in tight at the waist the full-
ness of the body must have some escape, and the springs
will bend to the greatest weight. For the benefit of those
who have asked the question we again give the price cf
clasps—25 centsa pair—and ‘Mrs, C. H. B.”? and Lucy
will do well to give them a trial. .

“Mrs. Hamilton.’’—You are right when you say it is no

use to get expensive trunks for traveling purposes. All
you want is sometiling very strong. We know of a lady
who took a day’s journey witha handsome $50 leather
trunk, and found upon reaching her destination a large
hele in the leather cover. Wecan get you good, durable
traveling trunks to cost from $15 to $25 in any and all
sizes. .
“Chas. Thomas.’’—The heavy flannel such as you desire
can be bought for $3.50 a yard. Yes. Wecan get it for
you, together with atiy other article you may choose to
order through the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency.

“Young Wife.’—The rubber cloth or sheeting is just
what you need to protect your bedding from staius, Itis
an absolute necessity in many cases where there are
young infants. It comes over a yard wide, and costs $1.50
ayard. Yes, oue yard will be quite enough for you. The
rubber diapers cost $1.25. No, do not use them con-
stantly, they are too heating, but when you take baby out
for a walk or ride they will prove invaiuable as dress pro-
tectors.

‘Mrs. H. B., Pleasant Hill."—As you are short and
thick-set, you need something to increase the appearance
of height. Trim the bottom of your skirt with one rather
deep flounce headed by a {oid of the material. Any of the
long, rather plain polonaises will answer your purpose;
trim with a large cord and bias fold. You can judge from
the illustrations in the summer catalogue of patterns
how the garments look when made up and trimmed.

“Mrs, Reed, Vermont.’’—You would do weil to get your
shoes through the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Ageucy. Sucl shoes as you describe cost $4 here, and
when you are buying for suet a large family even tile

 

various kinds. He's the awfullest man ae enohk things
er them. Ths

cAura UUIiar Ou a pair is quite an object, for it must takea

Sail

 

you ever Saw, and all the Ume ran

‘ “YOURa LO” , a e
dey night le Mt the Odd Fellows, Wednesday is his Read
Man night, Thorsday is his temperance lodge, Friday he

gives up to the Patriotic Sons of America, Saturday he

goes fyoling along with the Knights ef Pythias, and all
day S@nday he is visiting the sick and the widows and or-
phutgs of the dead members. . If there were sixty days in
the Seek I believe Butterwick would have some lodge to
attend to every night, ;

“Mr. Grimes, that man actually says he knows ninety-
three grips and over two hundred pass-words. And he’s
awful mysterious about them. The other day I saw him
slinging his arms about kinder queer at breakfast, and
presently he stops and says: ‘Thunder, I forgot where I
was! Mary Jane, you saw that? It was a grand hailing
sign! Swear you'll never reveal it!) And you know he'll
wake up at nights and ask me if I hear@ him talking in
his sleep, and if I say ‘yes,’ he’lllook scared to death,
and get out his pistol, aud say he’ll blow my brains out if
lever repeat one of those pass-words. And he is all the
time practicing grips on me, but he won’t even tell me
what any of them are, aithough he knows I’m just
dying with curiosity. He says he knows more secrets
than any other man in the whole State, and he says that
if he was to tell one of them those Knights and Patriotic
Sons, and the rest of them would put him into a vault
and seal him up alive, or tear him to pieces with red-hot
pincers. Says they’d hustle him into eternity quicker’n a
wink. Worries me nearly to death. S’pose’n he was to
become temporarily insane and gush it ail out, what’d be-
come of me and the children?

“He’s so careless, too. Isee him giving that grand
hailing sign to the slopman yesterday, and the slopman
asked Bridget if Mr. Butterwick had St. Vitus’s dance
very bad; and I know when he tried one of those grips
on the man that came to tune the piano the man said if
he squeezed his hand that hard again he’d give Mr. But-
terwick a bloody nose.

‘And as for processions! Well, it seems to me that
when Butterwick ain't at a lodge he is marching ina
procession. Always some funeral or celebration or some-
thing, and he turns out and goes skipping around through
the streets dressed in a cocked-hat and a sword, and look-
ing flerce enough to frighten anybody out of their wits.
And he told me that sometimes he gets all these grips
mixed, and he’ll give a Mason the Odd Fellows’ grip, ora
Red Man the Knights of Pythias’ grip, and he’ll come
home white as a sheet and'tell me not to be surprised if
he is kidnapped and made way with before morning. And
he’ll kiss the children good-by, and make his last little
arrangements so’s everything’ll be straight when he’s
gone; and then the children and me'll cry and he will
lock solemn, and go to bed to rest before he meets his
doom, Bul nothing ever came of it. They never touched
him.

“You just ought to see the letters that come here direct-
ed to him. ‘E. Butterwick,’ and then a whole alphabet of
letters strung after hisuame. He’s a Right Worshipful
Grand Master, and a Sir Knight, and an eminent Passed
Grand Sachem, and a High and Mighty Heptasoph, and
acChief Magnificent Reverend Druidied Priest, and a
whole lot more such things as that, enough to take your
breath away; and with it all he’s no more stuck up than
you are. Just as humble asa lamb. And he says he can reel
out more stuff that they say at their ceremonies than’d
filla small library; and he has about sixty sheepskin
aprons, with ali kinds of pictures on them, that he wears
when he’s on duty. So he has no time to tend to chureh,
and no money for the heathen. Hespent his last doliar
Saturday paying up his back dues to the Knights of
Pythias, and he says if he can’t settle with the Druids by
“Thursday they'll cut him off and chuck him out. I don’t
know what happens to a man when the Druids shut down
on him, but Butterwick hints that it’s not much better
than sudden death. Perhaps you’re a Druid? No? Well,
you call and see Butterwick and he’ll explain it to you;
and meantime those heathen’ll have to shuffle along the
best way they can. Maybe if you was to write to them
how Butterwick is fixed they might consider that suffic-
ient. Good morning. Remember me to Mrs. Grimes.’’

Then the deacon withdrew and went around to visit a
less mysterious family.

AN UNRELIABLE TIMEPIECE.

— One nigit, last December, Mr. Cooley’s clock sud-
denly got out of order, and at midnight it struck six.
Coeley happened to be awake, and when he heard it he
jumped from bed, and, after routing out Mrs. Cooley, he
dressed himself. Then he was surprised to find that the
servant girl was not up, and he waked her and told her
to make the best time she could and hurry up breakfast.
Then the whole family came down stairs wondering how
it was they felt sosleepy. But they lighted the gas and
bustled about as usual, prepariug for the day’s work.
Cooley’s brother Bill ad been out toa party, and about
half-past twelve he came home. When he saw the light
in the house he suspected at once that it had been entered
by burglars. So he crept up to the door and listened. He
could distinetly hear the robbers moving about inside,
and he concluded that he would get a gang of policemen
and eapture them. While he was gone on his errand the
ciock struck seven, and Mrs. Cooley said she thought it
was queer that it was still so dark out of doors.

Pretty soon Bill returned with three officers, and they
determined to act promptly and decisively. Bili unlocked
the front door, and as he did so a policeman fired his re-
volver at aburglar he saw going through a door at the
other end of the hall, Then the whole party opened on
tire robber, and he dropped, howling; and the other rob-
vers in the back room began to scream. Then Bill rushed
up and saw it was Qooley, and he ascertained that the
yells came from Mrs. Cooley and the hired girl. Cooley

 

¥

was shotin the leg. When his brother Bill recognized
him he began to apologize, but Cooley said:

good shoés.
lo $5 a pair. :

“Julia Alexander,’? wants to know if there is anything
to clean children’s white kid shoes. Yes. The rubber
sponge will clean both kid gloves and shoes splendidly;
price per Gake 25 cents. This little article is very valuabie
in a family where light kid gloves are worn, for it removes

removes pencil-marks from paper. We answer all letters
as promptly as possible. Your other inquiry certainly did
not reach us.

“Ella M. P.!.—Make your grenadine overskirt after pat-
tern No. 3,780, price 20 cents. This has a very preity
shirred front, aud is particularly adapted to such fabrics,
but may be also used for heavier goods with effect. A’
new basque pattern with shirred garniture will. go with
the above skirt pattern—it is No. 3,950, price 20 ceuts,

“Ida L. H.”—Comb your back hair low down on your

neck, tie it close to the head, braid in one large plait, and
coil around the head. Crimp your front hair, and let it
wave low down over your forehead, and you will be just
in the latest style. ‘“‘Pretty?? Yes, when you get used
to it, but very plain-looking after the elaborate coronets,
etc., worn last season. If you want something neat and
handsome, get a Broche shawl with cashmere center,
with figures or designs after the real camel’s hair shawl
patterns. You can get them to cost from $25 to $75;
striped shawls range from $5 to $10. Shawis last so
long it is weil to get a good one when you buy.
‘*Miss Nitta,’—An exquisitely beautiful breakfast dress
of white French nainsook, had the front, or tablier;
formed wholly of wide puffs of muslin, intersected by
wide bands of muslin Hamburg embroidery, in a very
rich pattern, of point lace wheels, The back of the skirt,
en demi-train, was finished with an extension flounce,
edged with a plain ruffle, fluted. The half-fitting sacque
had a fluted ruffle around the bottom and on the sieeves;
and up each side of the front a band of the Hamburg em-
broidery. Morning dresses have now the sacque and
skirt, with no overskirt.

“Grace Heathcate,’’ “May,” ‘Dora’ and ‘Mrs. Lewis.’?
—In our reply to “Ella M. P.’? we mention overskirt and
basque, suitable for either grenadine, moiiair, or debege.
A stylish suit may be made after the following patterns.
Skirt No. 3,966; price, 35 cents. It is fitted to the figure
in front and at the sides, and plaited in the back. The
overdress is simple’ and elegant. The front is cut in
sacque shape, somewhat fitted by a dart taken under the
arm, and a gore on the sacque portion, makes a very wide
front, which is shirred to form a ruffle, where it is lapped
over the back skirt, which is cut long, and its sides are
shirred atthe seamings. A belt is worn with this gar-
ment. The neck was a standing coliar, with side plaitings
and pipings outside of it. The bottom of the polonaise
can be trimmed with box-plaitings, the cuffs too, may be
adorned to correspond.
30 cents. :

“May.’.—Can comb her hair off her face, and braid it
in large plait, and coil about the back of her head. No.
3,819; price 25 cents, will make a very neat, pretty morn-
ing dress, fitted to the form. You should send name, ad-
dress in full, and six cents for a catalogue of summer
patterns, then you can select for yourself, and you may be
better pleased than if we shouid choose for you. We Can-
not answer any letter in this departmeut of the NEw YORK
WEEELY in Jess than three weeks after it is received, and
sometimes the delay is longer, for ‘first come, first
served,’”? and many times we cannot answer more than
one third of the letters we have on hand,

Jessie.’—Get Java canvas, cut it the size you want your
Mats, take worsted in various colors, or the carpet
threads, and work in cross stitch, so as to coyér tle
foundation. We cannot spare space to describe patterns,
but if you have any taste for such work, you can design
figures as vou go along. A polonaise pattern with plata
skirt, which can be worn either open or closed in front,
with buttons and button holes, is No. 3,306, price 35
cents.

“Mrs. Lester."—For summer use, pique is again pre-
sented for suffrage of the appreciative; and assuredly for
Wear and tear, and laundrying, thereis no material
which has more fully, or for a longer time, defended its
claim to notice. In the patterns ofits texture, this sea-
son presents nothing new, The most popular pique is
the simple reps, or that woven in imitation ofa large
cord in the woof. For fancied effects, we find this doited
over thickly with embroidered sprigs; while tor trim-
nling, there are embroidered bands and flouncing—the
embroidery appearing in white, black, brown, and Tur-
key red. Very elaborate effects on pique, not only for
children, but tor women are wrought in soutaching, or
braid embroidery, in combination with Hamburg inser-
tions, edgings, and flouncings. These suits are very rich,
and commandin many instances the price asked for
costly silk robes, but they can be made both pretty and
inexpensive. With the piques, embroidered in color,
ribbons to correspond will be worn for the sash, front
and sleeve bows, and knots for the hair. These dresses
will be among the attractive features of the croquet-
grounds of our summer resorts.
~ “Anxious Foreigner.’"—We can get any and all of the
fashion plates for you, either the imported or domestic.
Send your order direct to the NEw YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency, and it will be promptly attended to.

“Annette.,’’—Two and three buttoned gloves are worn
for calling, and can be foundin all the new gray and
brown shades, to match the costumes now worn. Cream-
colored kid gloves are worn for the theaterand opera:
primrose, straw, flesh and salmon colors for receptions
and formal galls. The white gloves are reserved tor
brides and purely white toilets, Plain untrimmed gloves,
without orpamentai stitching and long enough to require

 

three or four buttons, are considered in best taste.

 

Cooley said it was an outrage for him to stay outall night »

Hie NEW pork St Satoh Fees We SB,

from the kid all the soiled spots just the same asrubber ©

The pattern is No. 3, 924; price, ©

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~
7

n—_,~—E,

- > Sell AM .

a

 

a

 

 

anaes “wae”
une nll

ikaw"

Serena RrEMN EH

 

 

4,

"age

 

}
I