<=> Will News Agents Please Exhibit This Paper to All Admirers of Mrs. May Agnes Flemine’s Stories >~ : —- ae ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1871, BY. STREET & SMITH, IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON, D. C. 2a ammeter “Vou. XXVIL FRANCIS S. STREET, FRANCIS S, SMITH, } Proprietors, yeLRMS { Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars, NO. 3. — Author of “THE HEIRESS OF GLEN GOWER,” “ESTELLE'S HUSBAND,” “MAG- DALEN’S VOW,” “LADY EVELYN,” ‘“BARONET’S BRIDE,” eto, pace i i H CHAPTER I. DUKE MASON’S ADVENTURE. Duke Mason had lost his way. There could be nodoubt about it. As he paused in per- plexity apd gazed around him, five struck sharply fiom the distant Speckhaven churches, clearly heard through the still frosty air, and at 5:10 the express train from Lon- don left Speckhaven station. Only ten minutes to spare, and completely lost and bewildered, astrangerin Lin- colnshire, and with not a notion of whereabouts he might be now. Mr. Mason paused with a face of disgust at his own stupidity, and looked about him. Westward lay the fens and marshes melting drearily away into the low gray sky, eastward spread the wide sea, a bleak blast sweeping icily up, With all the chill of the German Ocean in its breath, aNd north and south, the dismal waste land stretched away treeless, houseless, unspeakably forlorn and deserted. The month was March, the day the 25th. Was Duke Mason likely to forget the date of that memorable day, When he lost his way, and the romance of his life began ? For seven and twenty years his life had gone on, as flat, as dull, as uneventful as those flat marshes, that lay on every side of him as gray and colorless as yonder cold gray sea, and on this twenty-fifth of March, wending his way at his leisure, to catch the express train for London, and mistaking the road, an adventure so singular and romantic befell him, as to almost atone for those hopeless- ly stupid and respectable seven and twenty years. The short March day was darkening already. The yel- low wintry sun had dropped out of sight down there be- hind the fens and sand hills, sky and sea were both of the same cold gray, except where one long yellow line west- ward marked the somber sunset. “It reminds one of Byron’s poetry,” thought Mr. Mason, who being an artist in a very small way, had an eye for atmospheric effects; ‘‘lead-colored sea, melting into lead-colored sky—dull yellow glimmer westward. Flat marshes, and wet fens, sea-fog creeping up, and soli- tary individual in foreground, gazing moodily at the creeping gloom. I’ve seen worse things on the line, in the academy, and hundreds of people agape with admira- tion, only unhappily this sort of thing is much more at- tractive in Oil or water colors, than in reality, at five o’tlock of a cold March e@ening, without a house ora soul near, and just too late for the train. I wonder Wherelam. I'lltry ona little way, and find out if I can, without going round to the town.” Mr. Mason gave up contemplating the general Byronic aspect of the scene, and went forward on his lonely road. He was mounting the rising ground now, and in ten min- utes more stopped again and Knew exactly where he was. “The Grange, by all that’s mysterious!” he exclaimed aloud; ‘‘and five miles from the station if an inch. What an ass I must have been, to be sure, to take the wrong turning, when I’ve been along here fifty times during the last fortnight.’ It looked like the end of the world. A high stone wall rose up abruptly, barring all furthur progress—two mas- sive stone gates frowned darkly on all observers. With- in rose the waving trees of a park, and in their midst you caught sight of tall chimneys and the peaked gables of a red brick mansion. Duke Mason had come upon the Grange in the spectral HHT i bo Nl in ss NR A | Two hundred odd years ago, before this gray March j gloaming, in the days when gentlemen wore velvet doub- lets and slim rapiers, and pinked their neighbors under the fifth rib for very little provocation, there dwelt in yonder silent mansion, a fierce old warrior, who had brought home to the Grange a pale, pensive young bride, as fair as a lilyand almost as drooping. Inside those walls the honeymoon had been spent, and then Sir Malise went forth to fight for his king, and the pale bride was left alone. And then, the legend ran, of a fair-haired, handsome cayalier, who made his way through the pon- derous doors, of a servant’s betrayal. of a fiery husband returning, full of jealous wrath, of a duel to the death in one of those oaken rooms, and of the handsome cavalier falling with a sword thrust through the heart at the fran- tic lady’s feet—of a mad woman shut up to shriek her miserable life away in those same dismal rooms, and of a stern old general who fell at the head of hismen. And the fair-haired cavalier, and the lady with the wild stream- ing hair and woful face, Aawnted (said the legend) Lyn- ditt Grange to thepresent day. No one lived in the place long, for certain, whether it was the ghosts, or the damp, or the loneliness that drove them away, and things gra- dually fell to decay, and the Lyndith family left the Grange to the rats and the speectres, and its own bad name for many and many along year. But two years before this especial eyening upon which Mr. Mason stands and scrutinizes it, the neighboring town of Speckhayen was thrown into commotion by the news that the Grange was occupied at last. Furniture had come down from London—two servants —a hard-featured old woman, and a stolid boy, had pur- chased things in the town and brought them to the Grange. And in the silvery dusk of a May evening a tall gentleman ‘ —dark and grim—had been driven with a slender lady, closely vailed, to the haunted house froin the Speckhaven station. After that, for three or four weeks, no more was known of those mysterious people or their doings. They were still at the Grange, but no one visited them; their very twilight of the March day, and the Grange wasthat most awful habitation ‘‘a haunted house.’’ It was a weird scene and hour. He was perhaps as matter-of-fact and unimaginative a young man as you will easily find, but Duke’s skin turned to ‘goose flesh’’ as he stood and thought of the azoful stories he had heard of yonder solitary mansion among the trees. It was so deathfully stiil—it was like the enchanted castle of the Sleeping Beauty, only far more. grim, else the handsome young prince had never summoned up courage to enter; it was likea huge mausoleum; no smoke curled up from the great twisted chimneys, no dog barked, no sound but the moaning of the wind among the trees, broke the ghastly silence. “And yet people eat, and drink, and sleep there,” mused Mr. Mason; “and it’s more dismal and more dead than the tomb of the Pharaohs. And they say there’s a lady shut up there as lovely as all the houris of Mahomet’s paradise. If a fellow could only get in there now, and see for himseif.’’ The young man looked wistfully at the frowning gates, at the solid masonry, as he had many atime looked and longed before. You have read how African travelers brave burning winds, sandy deserts, fever and plague, to return to that fatal and fascinating land once they have seen it. Some such irresistible witchery did this lonely, haunted house hold over this very commonplace young man from London. ; Day after day he had come thither and sketched the grim stone walls, the massive gates, the tossing trees, and the peaked gables, but no sign of life had he ever seen, no glimpse of the Sleeping Beauty, hidden away in its desolate walls, had he ever obtained. The place was known as Lyndith Grange; and like sweet Thomas Hood’s Haunted House, lay “Under some prodigious ban of excommunication,” names were unknown, the great gates were always locked and bolted, and the hard-featured old woman and stolid boy kept their master’s segrets well and told no tales. One stormy June night, as Dr. Worth sat in his parlor, in the bosom of his family, slippered and dressing-gowhed, thanking his gods that the work of that day was ended, there came such a thundering knock atthe front door, and directly after such a peal at the office bell as made the chief physician of Speckhaven spring to his feet and grind something suspiciously like an oath between his teeth “It’s a lady took sudden and uncommon bad,” his ser- vant announced, ‘‘which the gentleman says his carriage is at the door, and you’re to come immediate, if you please, sir.’’ Dr. Worth groaned, the rain was pouring, the night was dark as the regions of Pluto, and his ten o’clock glass of punch stood there untasted, and his bed all ready. In five minutes, coated and hatted. he joined the gentleman waiting in the passage. He had declined to enter. “I took a sharp look at the fellow, sir,’ Dr. Worth al- ways said when relating this marvelous story, and it was a story he was very fond, indeed, of relating. “I hada sort of presentiment, if you’ll believe me, even then, that there was something wrong about this sudden call. None of my lady patients were likely to be ‘took sudden and uncommon bad.’ You see that account could only apply to one interesting class of patients, and I scrutinized my gentleman keenly as he stood in the passage. But his broad-brimmed hat was slouched over his nose, and his overcoat collar so turned up that I could see nothing but a luxuriant crop of black whiskers and a cruelly aquiline nose.’ ‘“‘Who’s the lady, sir??? brusquely demanded Dr. Worth. “No patient of mine, 7 know. And what’s the matter?’ “For Heaven’s sake, don’t stop to talk now!’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘‘We’ve five miles to go and the road is beastly. I'll tell yon as we drive along.’? “ee : **Lock the gate on the outside, Joseph, and take the key along.’’ Aa ' Sar, ~ 7 to onion —— e “ Wat = \\ \ XN N\\ \\ 4 } f The doctor hastened after him to the carriage—a hand- some landeau and pair—and the driver whirled them off directly. Only once during that night drive, through the pouring rain and inky darkness, did the stranger open his lips. “We are going to Lyndith Grange; and the case is what you medical men call an interesting one, I believe. I have only one request to make; that is, that you will talk of this matter as little as possible. I will double, treble, quad- ruple your fee.’’ And then silence fell. “And you might have knocked me down, without a fea- ther when I heard our destination,’ says Doctor Worth, when he tells the story, and hetells it to this day with the greatest gusto. ‘I was to visit theHaunted Grange, see the mysterious lady, and get my fee quadrupled. Not speak of it, indeed—I who never had an adventure in my life. It was teeming, a clear case of cats and dogs, but what would a water-spout have mattered now ?” They reached the Grange—the ponderous gates flew open—they whirled upa long avenue and stopped. A minute later and the doctor, at the heels of his leader, was traversing draughty corridors and endless suits of dreary rooms. At the door of an apartment, in a long, chill hall, the mysterious gentleman halted. “Your patient is. here, doctor,’? he said, impressively. “Use all your skill to-night. Remember, the lady must be saved!” And then he held the door open for the doctor to enter, closing it immediately, and Doctor Worth found himself in a.vast room, all oak flooring, oak panneling, massive old furniture, and a huge curtained bed in the center of the room, big enough and gloomy enough for a sarcop- hagus. A wood fire burned in one of the tiled fireplaces— a couple of wax candles made specks of light in the dark- ness, and the hard-featured old woman sat in a chair, sewing on little garments by the wan light. At half-past ten Doctor Worth entered that room. At half past two he left it. The old woman held a female in- fant, this time in her arms, and during all those hours the Speckhaven doctor had never once seen the face of his patient. The heavy silken curtains shaded her in deepest gloom,.and her face had been persistently turned from him and buried in the pillows. She seemed very young—on the delicate left hand a wedding ring shone, masses of golden hair fell like a vail over her—the voice in which once or twice she answered him was sweet and fresh—beyond that all was guesswork. The man; still hatted and overcoated, was pacing up and down thelong hall when the doctor came forth. ‘“‘Well??? he asked, in a voice of suppressed intensity. ‘“‘Well,’? replied Doctor Worth, rather shortly, ‘‘it is well. The lady’s ‘as well as can be expected,’ and the baby’s about the size of a full-grown wax doll.”’ ‘“‘And she is sure to live ?’’ “That depends upon which ‘she’ you mean. both shes. If you mean the lady——” “The lady, of course!’’ said the gentleman, angrily and haughtily. “The lady’s all right, then, with common care, but I wouldn’t like to stake my reputation upon the baby’s ex- istence. Still, as it’s a girl, and taking the natural obsti- nacy and contrariness of the sex into consideration, I daresay it will insist upon living also, in spite of nature and its present Lilliputian proportions. I’ll return to- morrow, of course, and——”’ “And, with all deference to you, sir, you’ll do nothing of the sort. You'll return no more. Here’s your fee—I think you'll find it ample. My man will drive you back to town, and the less you say of this night’s work the better.’ In another half hour the Speckhaven doctor wasagain in the bosom of his family, the richer by fifty guineas for his four hours’ work. And just two weeks later the mysterious inhabitants of the Grange vanished as suddenly and strangely as they had come, and the old house was given over again to the murdered cavalier and mad lady. For nearly two years, and then again, as unexpectedly They're LGA i i at Hh C y NEY) ’ V7 ANY) X My aH AN “ ie Lal * 4 as before, a tall gentleman came. down by the London train, bringing a slim, vailed lady and same two servants back. The gentleman left the lady and returned by the next train, and who they might be, and~ whether they were the same, and what they could mean by such unac- countable goings on, all was conjecture in the town of Speckhaven. This was two months before this twenty- fifth of March on which Duke Mason stands and gazes, and no one had penetrated the secret, or seen the lady yet. If he only could be the man. He had wished the same wish at least a score of times, and nothing had come of it. On this evening Destiny had made up her mind to let him have his way: As he stood there in the gloaming, he heard, for the first time, voices and footsteps within. His heart gave a leap. The footsteps were approaching, the voices drawing near, carriage-wheels ground over the graveled avenue. “You'll need to drive fast, Joseph,” said a woman’s voice. ‘You haven’t ten minutes to get to the station, and it’s as much as your place is worth to keep the master waiting.” ‘Don’t I know that—hang ’em!” responded a sulky voice; ‘‘a string 0’ oaths fit to sink a ship if a chap’s half- a-quarter 0’ a second behind time. I tell you what, Misses Grimshaw, the wages is good, I don’t deny, but Til be jiggered ifI can stand this life much longer. Newgate’s a pallis ’lonsid of it.” The sound of bolts withdrawing, of a key turning slowly in arusty lock, warned the listener they were about to ap- pear. Duke Mason darted behind one of the huge but- tresses—the falling darkness screening him as well. He could see quite plainly, himself unobserved. A heavy-featured groom drove out in a two-wheeled chaise, and an elderly, thin-faced woman stood. looking after him, and swinging a huge key. “Look here, Joseph,’ she said, “I wish you’d lock the gate, and take the key with you; I’ve the master’s dinner to get, and you know how particular he is, and it’s nigh on a quarter of a mile’s walk down here from the house, and it’s no good fetching me down again when you're com- ing back. Just lock the gate on the outside, Joseph, wili you, and take the key along.”’ She inserted the key on the outside, and hurried rapidly up the avenue out of the cold, shutting the gate before she went. Joseph looked stolidly at the closed gates. “T’ve left it unlocked afore, and no harm came of it, and I arn’t going to get down now. If there never was a lock on this old rat-trap, people would runa mile sooner than venture in, and wery right they is. I’ll be back in an hour, and arn’t goin’ to get out to do it, and save your old bones, Mother Grimshaw.” With which Joseph gathered up the reins, and gave the horse his head, and trotted off. Duke Mason emerged, his breath fairly taken away with Surprise and delight. At last! There stood the gates unlocked and unbolted, and the way to the hidden princess was clear. He drew the key from the key-hole, opened the massive gate cau- tiously, drew it after him again, and in the chill gray of the March evening stood within the grounds of the Haun- ted Grange. CHAPTER II. WHAT DUKE MASON SAW AND HEARD. A long avenue of firs, black against the evening sky, led up tothe house. Through the spectral trees the wind wailed in a very uncomfortable and ghastly way, consider- ing the evil reputation of the place, and I don’t think Mr. Mason would have been very much surprised, if the fair- haired cavalier, all gory and ghastly, had stepped out from beneath the somber shadows, and barred his way. Nothing ever did surprise Duke very greatly; for that matter, he might have been ascion of ail the Tudor Plan- taganets, so unaffectedly nonchalant was he. Grasping his walking stick a little tighter, Mr. Mason made his way up the gloomy avenue offirs. It was quite °° ai  ———e 7. ay a 5 regs OO Cost foe he vO ns on, oe = = paatenite =O Rte are cemscecme BE Osh gah 1M THE i cath @ark now,’and the very ‘‘blackness of darkness’ reign- ed in this most gloomy drive. There would be a moon pre- sently; pending its rising, the gloom of Tartarus reigned. It was just a quarter of a mile to the house. Five minutes sharp walking brought him to it, looming up a blacker, bulkier shadow among the shadows. A long, low, irregu- Jay mansion, much inclined to run to chimneys, and gables, and turrets, with small leaden casements, and two lamps burning over the portico entrance. If it had been broad day, and he could have deciphered anything through the ivy, the intruder might have read how the house had been built bywone Sir Henny duyndith, in 1552, when good Queen. Bess, that. first assenfer of woman’s rights, had ruled merry England with an iron rod. The neglected grounds were entirely Overrun with tall ferns; the trees grew unpleasantly ¢lose to the small diamond pane casements. ; One gigantic elm spread its branches so near, that swinging himself into its lower arms, Mr. Mason could sit at his ease and stare through the only lighted windows in the whole long facade of the dreary mansion. Ajway in the rear another light glimmered from the kitchen regions, no doubt. Along the front, a red) glow shone. from the curtainless andopen casements, and more vividly interest- ed than he had ever been in the whole course of his life before, Duke Mason bent forward to listen and look. ‘If it were a stall in the third row of the Britannia, and I was waiting for the curtain to rise on a new drama of my own, I could not feel one whit more breathlessly ab- sorbed,” the young man thought. ‘I wonder what Rosanna would say if she could see me now; and I wonder how this lark of mine is going to end. Won't the fellow stare when he finds the key gone?’ The picture Mason saw was one that haunted him in his sleeping and waking dreams his life long. A long low reom, oak panneled, oak floored, with here and there rich rugs, covering its slippery blackness, faded tapestry on the walls, tapestry wrought centuries ago by many a fair Alice and Edith of the Lyndith race, massive furniture, rickety with time, a wood fire blazing cheerily on the hearth, the only cheery thing in the apartment, and a little cottage piano in a corner standing open, with music upon it, as if the performer had but lately left. The piano was the only modern innovation, The room took you back a couple of centuries, and the cavalier with his powdered love locks, his velvet doublet, his lace rufies, and deadly rapier, would haye looked a much more proper gentleman in yonder, than a young man of Mr. Mason's sortin a cutaway coat, mutton-chop whiskers and the baggy, cross-barred trousers, so dear to the mas- cu.ine British heart. “A very charming bit of still life, after Watteau,’’ thought the spectator; ‘‘a very pretty interior indeed. Now if the dramatis persone would but appear!?’ The thought had barely crossed his mind, when, as if it had evoked her, the door opened, and a young lady came in. Duke gave a gasp——. Here was the sleeping beauty, the hidden princess, the mysterious houri of the haunted house, herself. “And, by Jove! a beauty of the first water!’? thought Duke, with as near an approach to enthusiasm as was in his nature; ‘‘the best looking young woman I’ve seen this month of Sundays.”’ Mr. Mason was right—she was very preitty—very pretty indeed. A petite figure, slim, youthful, supple, two great dark eyes, that lit up her small face like dusk stars, a pro- fusion of waying yellow hair, that fell in a shining shower to her waist. It was before the days of gold powder and copper filings, so that abundant cloud of amber tresses Was doubtless the lady’s own, direct from a beneficent Providence, instead of a Parisian hairdresser. The large dark eyes, and the golden hair made such avery remark- able contrast that you quite forgot whether her nose were aquiline or Grecian, whether her forehead were high or low, her mouth a rosebud or otherwise. A dress of wine-colored silk trailed behind her, diamonds twinkled in her ears and on her hands, and in the fire- light she made a picture so dazzling that Duke gazed breathless, bewitched. She went up to the mantel, a tall structure of black marble, and leaning lightly against it, looked steadfastly into the red flame. Her clasped hands hung loosely be- fore her, the willowy figure drooped, the straight black brows were bent, the mouth compressed, the whole atti- tude, the whole expression full of weary, hopeless pain. “Can that be the heroine of Doctor Worth’s story ?’ Duke wondered, ‘She had a child, and this small beauty seems little better than a child herself. I shouldn’t take her to be seventeen. No, it’s quite impossible, it can’t be the same. She’s uncommonly pretty, and got up regard- less of expense, butshe’sin very bad humor all the same.”’ For nearly ten minutes the young lady stood, without moving, still gazing with knit brows into the leaping fire- light. Then with a long, heartsick sigh, she started, crossed the room once or twice, always lost in deep and painiful thought, then suddenly seated herself at the piano, and began to sing. She began very low and plaintively, but as She sung her voice rose, her black eyes kindled, a flush passed over the clear, dark pallor of her face. Her whole heart was in the song, ‘‘Roverto oft tt che adoro!” Lovingly, lingeringly, with a sort of impassionate intensi- ty, she dwelt on the name, on the caressing Italian words, “Roberto oh tu che adoro!” Then, more suddenly than she had sat down, she arose, her whole face working, and held out her arms with a suppressed sob. ‘Robert!’ she cried; ‘oh! my Robert! my Robert! come back’? Duke Mason thrille@ to the heart as he watched that passionate, despairing gesture—as he heard that wild ap- peal. It was the old commonplace story, then—so old, so commonplace, so unspeakably pathetic always—‘‘crossed in love,’? as the housemaids call it. This beautiful and mys- terious fairy princess, imprisoned here, had a lover in the background, just like ordinary young persons, and a flinty-hearted parent or guardian had shut her up here, pending such time as she should come to her senses. Just at that instant the rapid roll of wheels outside told Duke the chaise was returning. An instant later and the gates were flung wide open, and the chaise whirled rapid- ly up the drive to the house. ; “7 wonder what he thought when he found the Key gone!’ reflected Mr. Mason, with a chuckle. The chaise stopped before the portico entrance, and, by the light of the lamps, the watcher in the tree saw a tall man spring out, saya few words rapidly and authorita- tively, as one accustomed to command, and disappear into the house. The carriage was driven round to the rear, and silence fell upon Lyndith Grange. The young lady in the lighted room had heard, and seen too. When Duke looked again, her whole attitude had changed. She stood erect, her little figure seeming to di- late and grow tall, her head thrown back, her great eyes alight, her small hands tightly clenched. “Like alittle gamecock ruffling his feathers for the combat,’’ thought the watcher. “I wonder if this is Rob- ert now!. Notlikely though, or she wouldn’t look quite so belligerent.’? That moment the door was flung open and the gentle- man entered. A tall gentleman, elderly and stout, and florid and good-looking, with a great profusion of whis- kers and iron-gray hair. A gentleman as grim and stern as Lyndith Grange itself, who gave the young Jady a cool glance, a cool nod, and a cool greeting. “How do, Olivia? How-do you find yourself to-night? Any change for the better since Isaw you last, two weeks ago?’? He whirled up the easiest chair in the room before the fire as he spoke, stretched ont his long legs to the blaze, threw back his head, looked half coutemptuously, half compassionately at the rigid figure of thie girl. “Don’t stand there as stiff as though you were posing for one of Pygmalion’s statues, Olivia,” said the gentle- man; “and, for Heaven’s sake, don’t let-is have any high tragedy to-night. It’s all very well on the boards of Co- vent Garden, but in private life let us drop the tragic toga. Come up here, and let me see how you look, and tell me if you are tired of Lyndith Grange, and the rats, andthe ghosts, and the solitude, and if you are prepared to listen to reason, and return to town yet. Come!” She drew near obediently, leaning in her first attitude against the mantel, her large, starry eyes looking bigger and blacker than.ever with excitement and defiance. The flrelight shone upon them. both—a very striking picture; on the girl’s dark red dress, and loose golden hair, on the man’s black whiskers, and stern, powerful face. There Was a resemblance between them both that marked them of the same blood, and some of the man’s iron will flashed back at him out of. the girl’s impassioned. eyes. “T will never go back to town on your terms, Uncle Geoffery!’’ she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Never! never! I can liye here—I can die here, if you will, but 772 never yield! 1 only wish I couw?d die, but I live on, and on, with all that makes life worth living for gone,’”’? Her lips trembled, her-voice died away. The man looked at her witha sneering smile. “Which translated means Robert Lislé is gone, and af- ter him the deluge. I wonder you like to allude to him, my dear. Disgrace has rarely come to people of your blood, and such disgrace as you have brouglit upon us, rarely comes to any family. You will not yield. May I ask what you mean to do??? : “You shall hear, Uncle Geoffrey,”’ looking at him with a strange, wild light in her dark, dilated eyes..‘‘You know the Black Pool over yonder among the firs? Well, some- times when I remember all thatis past, of all that is com- ing, I just think I will go down there, and throw myself in and inake an end of. it,” The gentleman shrugged his shoulders, the sneering smile still on his face. “Indeed! That sensational ideal am quite sure passes away very quickly. And then?” The girl looked away from him into the fire: “You are harder than stone, harder than iron, Geoffrey Lyndith. You have neither heart hor couscience!?? “My, dear Olivia,’ Mr. Lyndith said, still smiling, “don't be violent, and @on’t resort to vituperation—it’s always &@ woman’s resource when worsted, and poor things row_easily they are worsted in any controversy Whatever. Yes, I daresay [seem hard to you, my poor Livey, but you must recollect we Lyndiths are a hard race, from old Sir Malise, who ran the young cavalier through the body, in this yery room, I believe. My late lamented brother, your father, was a hard man, and if you didn’t inherit a little of the traditional hardness, my love, you wonldn’t rebel and persist in rebellion in this obstinate fashion, And you know, my child, you. owe us some reparation for the disgrace of the past.” “Disgrace!” repeated the girl, with sullen anger; “you needn’t use that word quite so often, I think. I'll not marry Sir Vane Charteris, if that’s what you mean. il not! Dll die first!’ : Still Mr. Lyndith looked at her, as a man might look at & headstrong child, resisting with all its small might. “*You'll die first! My poor little romantic Livey! It's SO easy to say that—so very hard todo. The heroines of your favorite three yolume novels die upon the smallest provocation, Iam aware—drop quite naturally of heart- disease in the midst of a ball-room, or go off with a hectic flush upon their cheeks, and an unnatural luster in their eyes, when their Charleses or their Roberts desert them, But we don’t do that in every-day life, and you come of such an unromantically healthy and long-lived race, my Olivia—much more likely to finish with apoplexy or gout than poetic heart disease or decline. And I don’t think you'll kill yourself. Life is very sweet to young persons of nineteen, even though they have lost their Robert ” The girl started up, goaded to a sort of frenzy, ‘ “Uncle Geoffrey, do you want to drive Memad? Don’t go too far! I warn you, it isnot safe! Ah, Heaven have pity, for there is none on earth!’ he broke out into such a wild storm, of hysterical sob- bing that the man She addressed was really a little star- tled. Only a little, for he knew women yery well; and he Anew when the tears and the sobs come, they are by no means at their mostdangerous. When the .Jighthning blazes there is) some cause for alarm; when the rain pours the storm is pretty well spent. He sat and watched her asghe wept, her whole slight form shaken by her sobs—watehed her quite calmly, Duke Mason, on the outside, set his teeth, and clenched his fists, and felt a true born Briton’s/imstinct of hitting out from the shoulder strong within him. ‘What a comfort it would be to go in and polish off the scoundrel!’ thought Mr. Mason, ; Geoffrey Lyndith stretched out his hand and touched her. She shook it off as though it had been a viper. “Don’t touch mel’? she cried—‘“‘don’t speak to me! You have been the cruelest guardian, the most unfeeling uncle that ever lived. You say my father was a hard man. Perhaps so; but he never would have broken my heart and driven me to despair, a8 you haye done!” ‘Your father would have broken Robert Lisle’s head!’ retorted her uncle, coolly. ‘He would have shot him like a dog, as he was, and instead of bearing with your rebellious humors, as I have done, he would have made you marry Sir Vane Charteris months ago. Take care, Olivia, that you do not weary even my patience and:for- bearance! Take care I do notsorce you to obey!”’ * “You cannot!”? “That remains to be seen. What isto hinder. my fetch- ing Sir Vane and a clergyman down here, and marrying you outof hand?’ “No clergyman would perform such a marriage.’’ “The Reverend George Loftus would. He owes me his living, and he understands this case exactly, and knows Iam but obeying your late father’s instructions. I give you one more week, Olivia, If your reason has not re- turned by that time, we will try what a little wholesome coercion will do. Once married, these whims and yapors of yours willend. You will like Sir Vane—women al- ways like their husbands after marriage, you know, and I dare say you'll be a very sensible wile, as wives go, yet. I’m going down to dinner now.” He pulled out his watch. “Will you take my arm, Miss Lyndith?”’ “No, L want no dinner.’’ ‘As you please. Think matters over, my dear, and. for pity’s sake do try to be calm, and drop melodrama, Give ine your promise, and I will fetch you back to town to-morrow. We Lyndiths always keep our word.” He left the room as he spoke. The girl erossed to the window, wringing her hands in frantic, helptess, despair- ing appeal. “QOh!)) she eried, “is there no help in all Heaven and earth for me ??? She was standing close by one of the windows, and the passionate prayer was scarely uttered before it was an- swered. A man leaped out from the elm-tree—a man’s face look- ed af her through the glass—a man’s voice spoke. ‘Don’t be alarmed;’’ said the voice, asthe man pulled ofhishat. “Uhelp you, ifyou’ll only tell me hows’ CHAPTER II. MR. MASON ELOPES. The young girl recoiled, as she very well might, from:so unexpected an apparition, and gazed at the stranger with large, frightened eyes. “Don’t be alarmed, madame,’? Mr. Mason repeated, with the greatest respect; “I am friend, if you will permit me tosay so. An hour ago, chancing to pass your gates, and finding them, for a wonder, unlocked, curiosity prompted me toenter. I concealed myself in yonder tree— quite unpardonable on my part, I know; but again strong curiosity must plead my excuse. Andin that iree I must own J played eavyesdropper. I haye overheard @very word of your conversation with the gentleman who has just left this room. - It looks rather suspicious, apparently, I own, but_really the conversation, the whole occurrence has been®so strange, so out of the usual course, that singularity must plead my pardon. As I said before—now that I am here—ifi can be of the slightest use to yon, madame, pray command me.”? And Mr. Mason paused for breath. He was not long- winded, as a rule, didn’tin the least. shine in conversa- tion, and lo! here he was breaking forth an orator. Dire necessities demand stringent measures. Mr. Mason rose with the occasion, and was eloquent! The young lady listened and looked at him, still sur- prised, still doubtful. “Jam a stranger here,’?? pursued Duke. ‘I came from London two weeks ago, to visit an old friend residing in Speckhaven, To-night I was to have returned home, and thinking of something else, took the wrong turning atthe Cross-Roads, and feund myself here. lam an intruder, I know, and have no business whatever on the premises, but again\Erepeat—being here, if I can be of any ase to you—— \ Sie dreW near, her lips apart, hef eyes shining, er hands clasped. F “You willhelpme! L want to cscapé, here. Oh! surely you are not deceiving me! Yqu are not an emissary of Mr. Lyndith, or Sir Vane Charteris??? 4 “Madame, until within the last half-hour, I never knew those two gentleman were im existence. I will help you in any way you may please to name,”’ There was no doubting the sincerity of histone, Still the mysterious young lady gazed at him, as if to yead his heart in his face. Poor Duke! it wasn't at all a handsome face. His eyes were of the palest, most insipid sky-blue —his nose was a decided snub, his whiskers were sparse, and wont to crop up in a variety of pale yellow and dull red stubble, that surprised even himself. The most senti- mental school-girl could not forthe life of her make a hero of Marmaduke Mason, but the Silliest school-girl! of them all might have trusted him, as she. could have dared to trust fewof his sex. Lost dogs wagged their forlorn tails, and followed him home from the streets; children came to him, and demanded pennies with a con- fident assurance touching to see, ohea first, introduction. Men slapped him on the shouldér, and called him ‘“Ma- son, my boy!”? and ‘‘Dukey, ola fellow!” before they had been half an hour in his society. It was an honest face, and the clear eyes searching it, knew they might trust him. She leaned-forward to him through the half open window, The moon fYising) now gleamed forth from a bank of jagged clouds, and silyered the sweet pale face. ' “Will you help meto escape ?’?. she whispered, earnest- ly. ‘Iam a prisoner here—I have been for the Jast two months. My uncle. is my guardian, and he wants me to marry @2man J Rate—I WATE!’ she set her little teeth, and the big black eyes flashed. ‘‘I will run away to-night if you will help me.” ‘JT will help you. .Tell me what I am to do?’ “How did you say you gotin? The gates are always Jocked and bolted.’ “They were not this evening. ‘The servaut-who droye to the station; thought it too much trouble to descend, and lock them after him... It appears he is in the habit of leaving them unfastened, and no'‘harm has eyer come of it. Iywasin hiding—the moment he left, 1 drew the’ key from. the Jock—here it is—and came in. I don’t know what hesaid or did, I’m sure, when he came back and found it gone.’ “Then there is, nothing to prevent my escaping.” Oh; thank Heaven! I believe [should go mad if kept ‘another Week here. But it. issomuch to ask of you, a stranger} to do what I want.”’ ‘Not one whit too much. What am I to do??? The girl glanced anxiously over her shoulder. - | “If you are seen J don’t know what may happen. Mr. Lyndith is,—oh! an awiftl man! and he will return: here directly. He is going'to stay all night, and the doors and windows will be made fastin an hour. If I get away at all, it will be midnight fully,’ before I dare venture, And in the meanttme——” she looked at him more anx- iously. “Yes, Miss Lyndith. I beg your pardon, but I heard him call you'that, you know.”! “My name is, Oliyia: Lyndith. But between this and midnight,—and it is only seven o’clock now,—oh, Mr, —” “Mason, Miss Lyndith.” “Mr: Mason, how will you manage? These March nights are so cold, and five long, lonely, freezing hours! No, it is too much!’’ She clasped her hands and looked at him in despair. Duke smiled, “Please don't think of me, Miss Lyndith. I will wait with all the pleasure in life. I don’t mind it—upon my word and honor, I don’t! I like it—yes I do—it’s an ad- venture, you see, and I neyer had an adventure before in the whole course of my existence. I will go back to my friend, the-elm tree, and wait for midnightand you, May Task how you propose getting out?” “Through this window. “Oh, how kind—how good you are, Sir,,and Iam quite friendless and alone here. These windows are secured by bolts on the inside. I can easily draw them, lift the window and jump out. An@ you have the key of the gate, you say?" “Yes, madame. And then??? “Then—Mr. Mason, when does the earliest train from Speckhaven start for town?” “T really don’t know—that we must. ascertain at the station, before the people here get up, thatis certain. But it is clear five miles to Speckhaven—can you walk it?” “Mr. Mason, I could walk fifty miles, I think, to escape this dreadful house. . Oh, ifI can only reach London and start for Paris before they miss me here.” “For Raris?’? Mr. Mason exclaimed. ‘Is Robert in Paris, I wonder ?”’ he thought. “Yes; I have friends in Paris—my mother’s friends, who will protect me even against my guardian, I think. Hark! vb, Mr. Mason, go—quick, for pity’s sake. fy uncle is vere! She sprang back from the window. Duke made for his tree. Just as he regained his roost the door opened, and Mr. Lyndith, looking less grim and more humanized, as the most savage of men, I notice, are apt to do after din- ner, came in. The young lady had flung herself into his arm-chair be- fore the fire. She arose sullenly at his entrance. “Don’t disturb yourself, Olivia—don't, I beg—I am sorry you didn’t dine—Mrs. Grimshaw is an excellent caterer really. What—you’re not going so soon?’ “Your society is so pleasant, Mr. Lyndith, and your conversation so profitable, that it must seem strange to Please don't think of me, Tam a pr shite i ie ae ar, you, no doubt,” the girl said, bitterly. “I am going, nev- ertheless. Good-night,”’ “But, Olivia, wait a moment, 1 beg. Won't you give me some music, my dear, these March evenings are so confoundedly long, and the wind positively howls dismally enough to give a man the horrors?” “With a clear conscience like yours, Uncle» Geoffrey, I wonder such neryous notions trouble yous No; I shall giveyou ho music to-night.” : iw en, perhaps, you will give me an answer, Miss Lyn- ait? “To what, sir??? “Will you refurm with me toemorréw to London?’ “Yes, decidedly”? = ‘Ae the promised wife of Sir Vane Charteris?” “Wo? te i \ ‘Then you prefer remaining a prisoner indefinitely ?”’ ‘T prefer anything to marrying Sit Yane Charteris! Good-night, Uncle Geoffrey!” ' “aug “But, Olivia——% i eyes, and with the words she was gone, ‘ The man started up with an oath, ami made for the door, ; “Come back, Oliviwt’*-he erled. ‘dRhaye something to propose.’? : But only the ghastly echo ofhis own voice came back to him down the lonesome. gallery. Miss Lyndith’s taper gleamed already far above in the upper rooms, and the bleak draught whistled drearily up and down the black oak hall He closed the door, with a shudder, and began pacing moodily up and down the long firelit room. “Blast her obstinaey!? he muttered. “But I. might haye knowm-she was always a headstrong little devil. And she won’t forget that. fellow—dead or alive. In his grave under the stormy Atlantic, he is as much inmy way as he was three years ago herein England. The child is my last resource—she will.come to terms for its sake. Yes, I must give her.the chila—she will promise anything for that—anything. T’ll make her the offer to-morrow, and end this infernal busimess.. Once in possession of Vane Charteris, and your-airs and vapors will come to end, my lady.” , He resumed his chair, rang a hand bell, ordered wine and Segavs, in asavage tone, and stared moodily into the fire. These refreshments brought, he sat smoking for upward of an hour, then ordered candles, and departed. A minute lateMand his lightshone in an upper window— fifteen more, ang Mrs, Grimshaw and Joseph went their rounds fasteningup for the night. — - “Tt don't do no good a badgerin' of a chap now,” Joseph wag saying, in a voice of sulky injury; ‘‘it’s gone, and that’s all abouvit. Your barking won’t bring noth- inks. back, will it? I didn’t lose it, 1 tell you. I left itin the key. hole. I did, so help me, and when I came back it was Clean. gone. There! [ don’t know nothink more aboutit. We canbolt the gates, can’t we—who’s a com- ing to rob this hold Castle Dismal—and Ill gefé a key to- morrow ove peckhayen.”? And tlien the window Was closed with a bang, and se- cured, ahd the servants left the room, and only the smolderiig glow of the dying fire was left to console Mr, Mason on his perch in the tree. Joseph slouched down to the gate—returned, and the ast door slosed for the night. Twomorelights shone up above for half am hour longer, then all Lyndith Grange lay wrap)ed in the silenc@and darkness of death. It was y and elose upon ten o’clock. The cokd March moon, was sailing silyery Up the steep blue sky, and byits ivory light," Qoke looked af his watch. Ten! Two mor- tal hours yet wait, in cold and loneliness, and in a haunted ark! He muststay here till midnight—awful hour! pwhep, according tO all received traditions, the gory ghost #€ ihe mgirdered cavalier, and the shrieking lady, mig af be Jooked for if they intended to put in an ap- pearance at alk .- Duke didn’t believe in~ghosts, none of us do, in broad daylight, with the sum shining audthe world astir about us, but this was tae different, you see. I ‘Put younpell in his place’ up a tree, nota creature near, in a graveyard, say, ?10t reported to be haunted even, and see if every gleam of moonlight isn’t a ghost, and every sough of Wind the un2arthly rattle of skeletonebones, “Oh, LOGY’ groahed Mr, Mason, ‘to think that I, who never lost:a@m@pink Of s.ecep, Or @ meal’s victuals in my life, like most fellows, for any woman alive, should come to this fora youlg person I never laid eyes on until within the last two hours. To think, that I, who never was in love in my life, should be goingto elope at midnight now, Great powers! What wold Rosanna say if she could see me now ge at And Duk ted. Onebyone the minutes told off on his dial plate—siowly the crystal moon swam up the pur- ple sky, brightly burned the frosty stars, and slowly from head to foot the watcher grew benumbed. Most lagubrious, most unearthly, wailed and moaned the-wind through the trees; in the dead silence fhe could hear.the-dull roar of the surf six miles away, Would midnight—would Miss Lyndith, never come? : wi ; ei Yes. Athalf-past eleven exactlyhe heard the cautions withdrawal of the window bolts. With aninward thanks- giving, and all cramped and stiff, Duke got down fromthe ae oe Se Yes; there she stood, the moon- ight shining on her pale faces ‘ a cloak and hood, and 7 tioned him to silence, self Pareluhigiertaeh then was t five feet, bi tk she-ceul AGanglt . the afew hebvaina within hig arm—it wy; ceremony, no time for stan on with her dewn the avenue. They ne were secured by massive bolts. easily, and shestoodon the moontit highroad—yree, —~ “Thank Heaven!’ he heard her whisper, as she glanced back with a shudder at the gloonty pile, ‘Iwill never go back alive.” She took his ari again, ad Tey hastened rapidly on. Excitement lent them strength and speed—perhaps neither had ever walked in their lives as they did that night. They were dead silent by the way—both were breathless. To Duke it was like a-dream—this strange adyenture—this fairy igure on his arm—this weird mid- night runaway. “T shall awake presently to see Rosanna at my door or- dering me to get up to breakfast,’? he thought, ‘and find all this a dream.’? . He glanced down at his companiom How pale she was, how pale—her small face gleamed in the moonlight like snow, her black eyes looked spectral in the cold sitver rays. And’ how pretty, and hoW young—such a mere child, and-running away like this, friendless, and perse- cuted. Duke's heart filed with a great eompassion; it is so easy to compassionate pretty young girls! ‘Poor little thing! and I thought she was the lady of Dr. Worth’s story—so youthful, and’so pretty; and the old rascal called her Miss Lyndith.” Mr. Mason was quite shocked at himself for his late scandalous suspicions. “She’s so pretty that it’s a pleasure tolook at her. 1 wish, yes I do wish—that Z were Robert.” Which was the nearest approach to anything sentimen- tal that Duke had ever got, in his life. Ho wasn’t a wo- man hater; they were very usefulin their way, indispen- sable indeed, he was just enough to own, in several re- spécts, but he had a. conteniptfor them .as a whole, as weak, and inferjo? animals; as all, well-regulated male mitids must have. They reached the town as the Speckhayen clocks were striking the quarter after midnight. It lay still in the moonlight—solemnly stilli—white and cold; They hurried through its quiet streets, not meeting halta-dozen people until they had left it behind. The station stood, as itis in the nature of stations to stand, in a dreary tract of waste land, on the outskirts of the town. At halfpast twelve they reached it, One or two officials, with blue noses and sleepy eyes, stared at them stolidly. The next train for London was a slow train; and it would pass at 2:15. Nearly two hours to wait! She sank down in a seat exhausted—white asa spirit. Duke left her by the fire, and went! in search of refreshnients; but at that hourthere was nothing to be had. He returned to tell herso, with a disappointed face, and to his surprise she looked up at him with great tears shining in the dusk eyes, and took his hand in both her ewn. “How good you are!” shesaid. ‘How good! how good! How can I ever thank you, Mr. Mason ?” Mr. Mason had, like all his sex—devoid of little weak- nesses of any sort themselyes—a strong aversion to. scenes. Heturned very red, and drew his hand away, as if those soft fingers burned him—imuttered something in- coherent about ‘not mentioning it—taking a little nap in her chair before the train came,” ‘“‘Wait a minute,” she said; “we don’t know what may happen! Imay be followed, and brought back in spite of you; and some day I may need a kind friend’s help again. Take this ring; it is worth a great deal! Oh, you must— and keep it for my sake. ‘Give me your London address, now that we have time, and whether we get safe to Paris” or not. Some day I may seek your help again; andif I ever need you, you will come?” “J will come,’’ he said, simply. He gave her the address, No. 50 Half Moon Terrace, Bloomsbury, and she wrote it in a little pocketbook. The ring she had forced upon him blazed in’ his hand like a glowing coal. It was an opal, curiously Set in dead gold— most sinister and beautiful of stones, “Thank you, Mr. Mason,’’ she repeated, looking grate- fully up with those wonderfui black eyes. ‘‘I will never forget your Kindness while L live. And now I will try to rest until the train comes.” She sank down in’ her chair before the fire, shading her face with one hand, and Duke left her, and paced up and down the platform. How the moments lagged—it was worse than waiting in the tree. Once in motion, and Speckhaven in the distance, he could feel almost safe—not before, ‘Poor little thing!" he thought; ‘‘poor little pretty young lady! Whata brute thatuncle must be to persecute and imprison such a helpless, tender creature, and what a lucky fellow that Robert is!’ One! pealed from the station clock. An hour and fifteen minutes yet to wait, and every second precious. Half- past one!—two!—Duke’s heart was beating thick and fast with suspense. Fifteen minutes more!—he would go and see if she slept!—poor child. He turned to go—stopped short—his heart stopped too, for earriage wheels were flying through the silent streets, straight along to the station. Nearer—nearer! A sudden stop—a iman leaped out, and strode straight to the waiting room. He heard alow, wordless ‘cry within, that told himal. Then with clenched fists, and a ferocious feelingin his usuaily peace- ful breast, he made for the waiting room, and looming up black—sterun—grim—awful—he confronted Mr, Geoffrey Lyndith! “Good-night!’ Olfyia said, with a flash of her great black: BE NOT TOO SURE! M. A. KIDDER, BY MRS. Be. not too sure of anything In this wide world! We see as with the eyes of youth, We hear, yet hear not, of a truth— Fox this there is no mortal cure— \ “Be not too sure! We're hedged about on every side With things that seem. As real as the @arth we tread, Or as the blue skies overhead, And find, too late, they’!! not endure— Be not too sure! ‘There's nothing trac but Heaven,” they say. Then give us Heaven! Of earthly good a heawen below! And then, beyond this world of woe, Of that bright Heaven where all is pure, Let us be sure! O-4q Sybil’s Inheritance; OR, A WOMAN’S VOW. By Nellie Longstreet, Author of “MARKHAM’S SECRET.” (‘‘Sybil’s Inheritance” was commenced in No, 50. Back num- bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. | CHAPTER XII. The Earl of Delville! A strange halo surrounds such high sounding names, and it is difficult for the uninitiated public mind to realize the ability of their owners to the common miseries of humanity. Percy Delville had tastedthecup of agony to its very dregs, even as some seventeen or eighteen years before he had drank life’s sweetest draught, the joy of mutual love and confidence. The shock of Sybil’s presumed guilt had been terrible and lasting in its effects. The sudden revulsion from the bright happiness he had tasted—the yet dearer ties that appeared within his grasp, to the desolation of utter loneliness, the yet greater misery of betrayed trust, was more than a nature like his could endure without fearful suffering, He had loved Sybil as only strong and reticent natures can love. His whole soul was wrapped up ia her, and in a moment his idol was overthrown, and for many months his very reason tottered on its throne. A little more and the wealthy and honored Earl of Del- ville would have become a pitiable, irresponsible being; and even when the shattered powers regained their bal- ance and the strong mind reasserted itself, the withering effects of the storm were present still, and astern gloom, an impenetrable reserve, @ strict and little varied seclu- sion became the normal condition of the once joyous and brilliant husband of Sybilde Vere. Only to one person was that thick vail of cold gravity and icy dreariness ever lifted—only one had the power or the privilege to allude to the past, advise and animate for the present, or warn as to the future, of the blighted mau, and that was a fos- ter-brother of his own, Cyril Dornton, by name, who had been educated at the late earl’s expense, and gone through a college course with credit and honor; but, from the ef- fect of an early disappointment, and natural taste, had preferred a fellowship and quietude to the more active and alluring prospects which the Church held out to one en- tering it under such patronage. Lord Delyille was alone in his library at the moment when we introduce him again to the reader. “Introduce” is indeed no misappropriate term, for he was changed, far more changed than the lapse of years would warrant, since that wretched birthday of his infant child. His fine features are rigidly set in a hopeless gloom, his eyes have lost their fire, albeit the luster and intelli- gence are as rife as ever in their depths, and his abund- ant hair has very frequent and visible lines of gray in its masses. Still he was a handsome, high-bred looking man, though at least ten years older in appearance than years. He held a brief paper in hishand, on which his eyes were intent, when the door opened and Cyril Dornton en- tered the room. ‘Ha, Dornton! As usual, come in the very hour when I needed you,’’ exclaimed Lord Delville, extending his hand with a smile that was never seen on his lips éxcept forhis foster-brother. ‘It seems churlish to ask what brought you to-day, but yet the coincidence of your com- ing is remarkable, with this news that I have just re- ceived.’! ‘Perhaps I can imagine it,” returned Cyril. ‘Your heir, Godfrev Mordant, is dying, so the papers say.’? hen the rascally journalists have got hold of the news self. This telegram has but just arrived,”’ re- 1e earl, frowning. ly, Since the telegraph wires are generally free Peer ete the coroneted peer,” was ne cool reply... ‘But what says your telegram ?’? *{tis very brief. Look!” > . i ‘Cyril took the paper and read: : o- onl “FLORENCE, Feb., —. “Mr. Godfrey Mordant is dangerously ill, Should the lyilie wish to see him, or convey any kind of , he must not lose an nour. Meanwhile, he has has ever possessed a strange and mysterious power, which would alone make me pause and shrink from dis- ee ae its Ominous words. What do you say to it, yri ?? ‘Of Y were to give a delierate and cool opinion, my lord, I should simply say that it was the trick of an interested person. Remember that either your next heir, or any one who espoused the cause of the unfortunate countess, would be very likely to use such means, at a moment when your excited nerves were susceptible of every im- pression. I confess I should treat the whole thing as 2 most impertinent and Cruel hoax,?? “But if it were true—if it had any foundation, what them ?? asked the earl, hoarsely, “My dear Delyille, what foundation can it have? Your wife lies in the yault of your ancestors, and her babe by her side. What wrong, what risk Gan ensue from a sec- ond marriage, by way of keeping upthe lineal descent of your ancient title and wealth? It is but the shattered condition of your nerves that could invest such an anony- mons piece of Insolence With a shadow of importance.”’ _ “I dare say you are right. I suppose itis the only ra- tional yiew of the subject, answered theearl, with a forced smile; ‘and itis probable that had noteyery in- stinct revolted from another union 1 might have learned to cousider it so long since. However, if poor Godfrey is really in @ desperate condition itmight possibly induce me to alter my views, or, at any Yate, reconsider the sub- Ject. The son of Basil Mordant’s father shall peyer, if I can help it, occupy these old halls as amaster. And this leads to another point. What is to be done about the poor fellow? It is barbarous to leave him to die in a for- eign land.”? ‘Why should you not go to him at once ?” _“And meet Lady Talbot, and have old names and memo- ries bandied about, and sympathy expressed. aud all that idle- torture inflicted? Dornton, I cannot,’’ an- swered the earl, fiercely. “Then I must.?? “You, Dornton? what! leave your beloved retreat for along and fatiguing journey in this weather? Impossi- ble, Remember, unless you travel rapidly no chance of being in time can exist. I cannot hear of it. .I will send over Cousins; and Doctor Seiton can be bribed, Idare say, to go with him. That will be far more effectual help than either your presence or mine,’? answered Lord Delville, impatiently. to allow such a sacrifice." ‘Excuse me, my lord,’! said Dornton, firmly, ‘ I owe the leisure and the quiet to which you allude entirely to your father’s bounty, and I will, please Heaven, ever hold it at your service till my dying day. If you choose to send the old doctor with me, Iam perfectly willing to share in such an arrangement; but it would be simply barbarous to leave the heir of your name at the mercy of domestics and strangers, Iam ready to start to-night, if the doctor will be as prompt in his measures.” ‘‘T rather imagine he will require twenty-four hours to make his arrangements, though, so far as money can smooth the way, it will not be stinted,’’? replied the ear, ‘And yet I feel as if I were doing duties by proxy,’ he added, reluctantly. ‘Better than not doing them at all,’’ returned Dornton, cheerfully. ‘And even I, with all my sage counsels, am willing to confess that.if ever man had an excuse for hig morbid sensitiveness it is yourself. Rely on it, if zeal and Skill Can avail, we will save this poor fellow yet.” CHAPTER XIII, “TI am fortunate in finding you alone, faix Mildred,‘ said Darcy Clifford, in his softest tones, as he entered the music-room where Mildred was practising a new song, some fortnight after his arrival. ‘Kither by intention of some evil genius Lhaye never yet had the felicity of a private interview with you, my dear.” “I must request rather less familiarity in your address, Mr. Clifford,’’ said the girl, angrily. “I am quite aware you were a friend of my parents years before I wag born, but that does not induce me to tolerate such an absurd mixture of old-world gallantry and paternal freedom.” She resumed her song with a scornfal turn of the head that plainly indicated her intention to ignore her com- panion’s presence. j “I am flattered by the deep consideration you have been good enough to bestow on me and my manner,” returned Darcy, apparently unmoved, ‘‘and lam very fond of mu- sic; buat still I must beg for a few moments’ respite from sweet sounds in order to come to some better understand- ing with your charming self.”” . “J have no wish to be on any other ferms or to hold the slightest intercourse with you, Mr. Clifford,’? she replied, coldly, though the remembrance of ler mother’s words did induce her to pause amoment instead of turning al- together a deaf ear to hisrequest. ‘Pray be content with my mother’s society and friendship, which must be far more congenial to your ideas than my company.”’ “Perfectly wrong, fair damsel. In the first place] am four years younger than your mother in age, and certainly at least ten in every physical and mental resy-ct; and in the next, I have a decided previlection for your charmin g society, and intend to so arrai :e our intercourse for the future that it may be even mvre acreea! . if less amus- ing, than hitherto. Iconfess your: .ile va..riesand girl- ish caprices are yery droll in their variety, and rather pique me into an interest 1 should nct otherwise have felt, perhaps, for eyén the pretty, spoiled daughter of Lady de Vere, and heiress of her cousin, the fair and unhappy Countess of Delyilie.”’ “Did you Know Lady Delville?”” asked Mildred, inter- ested in spite of herself. 3 , _ “T hagl that honor,’? he replied, briefly; “buf the ques- tion just now is not of her, lovely and ill-fated as she Was, but of yourself. Mildred, you have been indulged and petted as the heiress of undoubted wealth, even more than as an acknowledged beauty. It seems harsh'to speak un- welcometruths to your ears, but you make it a hard ne- every care and attention that can be procured.” “Humph! I believe I can give a paraphrase of this terse news,” replied Cyril. ‘The papers say that Lady Talbot, the widow of the old baronet, you know, is in the same house, and paying every attention to the patient. T presume she did not like to annonnce the fact on the telegram.’’ : “She did wisely,?’ returned the earl. ‘That name, or any connected with the past, cannot be acceptable to me. But, Dornton, this news has disquieted me more than I could have believed any event could ever have power to doagain. If Godfrey dies, then Basil becomes my next heir, and his father and grandfather have ever béen at ir- reconcilable feud with my father and myself. It would nearly raise my father’s spirit from his grave to know that Delville was ever owned by that hated branch. It may seem {diocy, but this news has revived the past in such friglitful distinctness, that I seem to live it over again. Cyril, had she not proved-guilty, this could never have been. I should have had direct heirs to shut out these detested interlopers. Oh, Sybil, Sybil! He groaned in bitterness of spirit. “My dear lord, rouse yourself, The future, or at least the present, isin your own power. DoasI hayeso often urged—marry, and shut out all collateral heirs,*? A livid paleness overspread the earl’s face. “Cyril, you are the only human being who dare even fiint at such @ contingency; any other man would have been ordered from my sight who spoke of marriage to me. But to you, my faithful, true friend, I will open my inmost heart, and bare its feverish pulsations. Dornton, I would rather raze this old Castle of my ancestors to the ground than give it another mistress.; Have 1 not often told you that there are moments when torturing doubts of Sybil’s guilt hnunt my mind+when I begin to question that it was possible for one so pure and good and young, to fallinte such an abyss of ¢rime. Whien these refiec- tions arise, and memory pictures her guileless faceas it appeared to me at the altar, I cannot forgive myself for the -ernel slight I gave the dead by refusing to attend her Juneral, by denying the promptings of my heart ‘to im- press upon her cold brow the kiss of forgiveness and re- conciliation, as she lay robed for the grave. But my remorse disappears when I recall the proofs—the oyere whelming proofs of her deception—and [ feel my own weak folly in dreaming for an instant that she was in- nocent—"* “But in any case,’ interrupted Cyril, years—"! ; “Tn any case,’’ pursued the earl, “‘marriage is to me as complete an impossibility, as hateful, as dreaded a thing as the tortures of the Inquisition. No, Cyril. If Sybil were innocent—il by any wild chance, my senses could have-been deceived, then it is but a fitting tribute to her injured memory that I should remain a solitary, penitent, sorrowing man till I may rejoin herin the angel world. Tf} aS Tféel-1 know-—she must have been guilty of such foul wrong, then I dare not trust woman more, when one 80 ‘young and untutored and pure could do me such foul wrong.’ ; : “There may be—there is truth in what you say, my dear lord,’? resumed Oyril, after a deep pause of sympa- thy; ‘‘but yet, remember your whole duties are not to be centred in the unhappy countess. You owe it to your ancestors and yourself to avert the snecession of one whom you do not consider a fitting Lord of Delville, and there are many true and noble women who would gladly accept your hand, and make the rest of your life at least peaceful and calm. Believe me, itis your best, your only wise course to bury the unhappy past, over which nearly tweérty years have rolled, inthe oblivion with such a union alone Gan cast over your first unfortunate marriage. J have never shrunk from speaking to you even unwelcome truths, and 1 do not fear risking your displeasure now. My lord, be wise. Go into the world and seek a fitting bride.” For reply the earl drew from his breast @ small note- ease which clasped with a tiny spring, and, opening it, drew forth its contents. There was 4 lock of golden hair, a locket, in wuich was a beautifully painted miniature, and a slip of paper, which le slowly unfolded: “Listen, Cyril,” he said: - “Even you have scareely yet known the full extent of my credulous weakness. These relics of my idolised Sybil have never left my heart, even in the heat of my utmost frenzy at her perfidy; and see! J haye preserved with them a strange warning that reach- ed me through a mysterious channel some few days after the terrible events that followed its discovery. it runs thus: **7f the Earl of Delville ever ventures on a second marriage he will bring lasting misery and disgrace on his name. Lét the past be a sufficient warning to save him from farther rashness; or he will repent it to his dying hour. itis a friend, one’ who wishes only to save a noble line from shame, who sends him this counsel.’ “And have ren no clue, have you no suspicion as to the writer?’ asked Cyiil. ‘None. Ihave often studied every word, every letter, to detect Some writing familiar to me, and which could throw some light On the source of the solemn adjuration, but in vain. It may have been a trick, an’ idle amuse- “after three [TO BE CONTINUED.] cessity. Your father will not, your mother dare not, tell you the real state of matters, even though your whole fu- ture isatstake. It is a simple alternative that ilies before you—a marriage with me or poyerty and disgrace.” “Mr. Clifford, you are mad, insulting! I request you to leave this room instantly, or I must,’? exclaimed Mildred striving to preserve her haughty self-possession. “If you donot, shail at once take measures to secure myself from such ravings.” ¥ “What will you do, foolish girl?” he replied, calmly. “Appeal to your parents; they will tell you that they are powerless to protect you. Ring for your domestics and expose yourself to the scandal of the househeld, or close this interview Only to risk my resentment and its inevi- table renewal, Be at least rational enough to hear me Mildred, and then choose for yourself bétween a luxurious and indulged life, asthe wife ofa man who has at once sense to guide and power to protect you, or an obscure ruined, joyless existence.”? r “It cannot be. You are deceiving me—ihreatening what isimpossible. I know the terms of Lady Delville’s will. Ihave heard them a hundred times,’ she replied with quivering lips and flashing eyes. f “Probably, and so have I. Itis-patent to any one who chooses to read it,” he answered, coolly. “But there are two circumstances connected with it that you forget. One is that you cannot marry without your parents’ consent, on pain of losing your fortune, and the other, and far more fatal one, that their consent depends on my wish— my decision.*? “I do not believe it. What have youtodo with my choice—my will?’ she asked, haughtily. “A man whose name even I never heard till-a few short weeks since can- not be connected with my family, or have any authority a my actions, Itis a pitiful subterfuge to gain jour ends.”? “] forgive you these harmless insults,’ he said, with a provoking simile, ‘‘because I am sufficiently master of my- self to enter into yourideason the subject. Still, allow me to assure youthat you are entirely mistaken. A word from me would be the ruin of your parents and yourself, and that word will assuredly bespoken if you drive me too far,” ; ‘ ‘‘And you would of course claim my fortune as the price of this wonderful secret ?’’ she said, bitterly. ; *Scareely; though I doubtnot it would command no or- dinary reward,’’ he returned, calmly, ‘But that is not the question, Mildred; I do not wish any such painful al- ternative. You are beautiful, young, rich, a fitting bride for a man who has birth, knowledge of the world, and your whole future to offer in exchange. Imuch prefer this amicable solution of the difficulty; but if you refuse, I shall certainly gratify my resentment, if nct my cupidity, by using my power over you and your parents.’’ “And my brother,” she asked, sarcastically, ‘‘is he not included in the list?” “Perhaps. But the questionisnot of him; he has no power over your actions, and therefore does not come in my calculations. Do not waste time in foolish specula- tions, Mildred, but answer me as a rational, if wayward, being shouid, » Are you willing to comply with my terms??? “T must hear and understand them first,’’ she replied, sullenly. “They are very simple, I demand courtesy and fayor from you, as your acknowledged, if not accepted suitor. I promised your mother, as a peace-offering to her—what shall I say ?—vyanity—that Il would not insist on being publicly announced, as your betrothed husband till you had played out your girlish vole as the belle of the season this spring. But, onthe other hand, I insist on a full un- derstanding being established between us, Mildred. You can amuse yourself at your pleasure—I care not: but if you venture to break your chains, and accept any other admirer—were it aduke ora prince of the blood roya! himself—I will mar your whole future prospects, even if you and your mother were kneeling at my feet, and plead- ing as forlife itself. Do you comprehend this, Mildred ?”? “J understand your words, but I cannot, comprehend you,’’ she said, slowly, ‘Never mind, that is not of the slightest consequenee,’’ he replied, coolly. ‘The point is—will you agree tomy conditions ?” ‘T hate being fettered—publicly, helplessly fettered!’? she said, shuddering with very vexation as she turned from his basilisk glance, “There need be no publicity. Iam not at all exacting on that, point; Iam old enough to prefer the substance to the shadow—reality to appearances., Lask no visible privileges of a lover, only the certainty of becoming a husband,’? he. amswered, calmly; ‘‘and, mark, me, Mil- dred, that I must havel”’ She bowed her proud head asif a leadem weight were bending her to the dust. “If it is inevitable,’ she said, with a tonch ef defiance in her tone, ‘‘I must perforce submit; but, Mr. Clifford, I tell you, if 1 find you have deceived me—if Ican safely dare your power—lI will! Your own sense must tell you that you are no welcome match for me, and that no happiness can attend such a union!" “Oh, 1am notin the leastafraid; Irather admire such aspirit as yours, it suits me better than tame milk and ment, or written with yet worse vurvose: but tome Water, Better tame a huwthan try to put life-ina dove,” ‘“T am not come quite to so selfish a pass as . intitle . an fern on  Mee f ™ ada » shuddering. _ stranger, though all-ignorant of the nature or the depth ' hope that was dawning .in her mind, till a strange, new é 4 fo eres — ewer SERIE FE eT he said, langhingsareastically. ‘Then it isa compact, iny beautiful Medea ?—give me your band as its seal.” . He took her’ unwilling hand as he spoke, and pressed its white fingets to his lipsin spite of her angry resistance. “I perfectly trust you, nry fair bride,” he said, as she snatched away herhand. “There is no bond like neces- sity, and I do not fear that you will be simple enough to encounter utter ruin rather than a proud and luxurious life. Adieu!’ He bowed courteously as he retired, and in a moment more had left the room, while Mildred never eyen raised her head till the door closed behind him. Then she sprang up and paced the room hurriedly, clenching her small hands till the pain foreed her to relax the involuntary. grip. “Jt is false—it must be false!’? she exclaimed, in a low, muttering tone, ‘“‘How.can it be? I—the undoubted heiress of a proud fortune,-and, it might be, of an old name and title—I to beat the mercy of a man old enough to be my father—I, who” might—who will command the homage of dozens. Oh, il, if you were but near me! If L could but rest on you—your love, your offered hand!” she murmured, more softly; ‘but, to what avail, unless you are the undoubted heir of Delyille? That wretched man spoke truth. I dare not rebel against my parents’ actual will; but to see me a countess, the very title which the: Baroness de Vere thought a fitting addition to her own, must satisfy them. Yet mamma scoffed at the idea, and there was a miserable reality in what she looked as well assaid. And then the heiress of the De Veres mar- ried my father, a simple, gentleman, and after her acces- sion to the title, too. There is a mystery, a strange iiys- tery inthe whole affair, and I—I am to be its victim, I suppose; butif there is wit or will in woman I will baie them yet! I, Mildred Lestrange, to be a simple Mrs. Olif- ford, With an old iover of my mother’s, When an incipient earl is at my feet! Never—unless I am forced by the di- rest risk of losing all by refusing the. bitter draught— never!" ; Her tears were dried on her scorching cheeks, and, with a kind of defiance of her tormentor, she sat down again to the instrument, and began a dashing'air, which sound- ed with a kind of hollow brilliancy through the passages and rooms of the splendid suite. —... “Mademoiselle forgets the hour; it is nearly time to pre- pare for her ridéy"’ ‘Said the low voice of her small elfin page, who was her frequent attendant in her out-door expeditions. : /; And as he spoke he approached the piano, and, under pretext of arranging some music that, iad fallen from the board in her agitation, he whispered: “Mademoiselle may rely on me. I know far more than those who are older and wiser; and if any one can as- sist her utmost wishes and baffie her enemies, it is Victor Froissart.”’ Before Mildred had time to reply, or even to recover from her astonishment, he Wad vanished as noiselessly as mew Stee. Perhaps it was Monica, coming to ascertain the result of her momentous watch, and she paused to await the support of her calm experience ere she moved to the couch. The steps came nearer, the door opened softly, and—not Monica—but a young and strikingly handsome man entered the apartment. He stood for a moment contemplating the lovely young nurse and the motionless figure near which she stood, with a look that seemed fairly lost to everything but the bewildering contrast they afforded, and unconscious of the effect of his own sudden advent. Eunice’s first impulse lad been to utter the quick, sharp ery that the apparition brought to her lips, but the wo- manly instinct of tender care for her suffering charge pre- vailed over selfish alarm, and she placed one finger warn- ingly onher lips, while with the other hand she waved the intruder from the room with an air of dignified com- mand all foreign to her childlike simplicity of mien. Basil Mordant—for it was the patient's cousin who was the intruder in the sick-room—did not at once obey the unflattering gesture, though he paused still and motion- less as the most anxious Watcher could have desired, his glance alternating between the beautiful form of Runice ‘and the colorless, ashen face of the tenant of the shaded, hearse-like couch. Never indeed had Eunice looked more dazzlingly lovely than at that moment, when her soft cheeks were flushed by excitement, her eyes brilliant in their indignant .re- proof of the intrusion, her slight form endued for the time with a dignity that gave it all the distinction it needed to complete her charms, ; And poor Godfrey, wan, sunken, inanimate, lay on his pillow as if only waiting to exchange it for his last rest- ing-place. Could there be a more forcible contrast be- tween the most animated and attractive life and the stricken, corpse-like candidate for the still repose of the grave? ; ‘‘Hush,’? she said, in tones like the sighing of the sum- mer breeze, “his life is at stake—please go.” And she laid her small white hand on the handle of the door, to which he had stolen, lest the slightest grating of the lock might wake the sufferer. ‘Let me watch by you. I willbestill as death. I am ne cousin—Basil," he said, almost as softly as her own voice. He quickly strengthened his request by advancing noiselessly into the apartment and placing himself on a chair, completely out of the inyalid’s view, thougn it commanded the whole room from its position. Eunice was utterly perplexed between the embarrassment of her situation and the paramount duty to the invalid; but her single-hearted innocence stood her in good stead, and she placed herself near to the bedside and utterly out of reach of word or gesture from the startling visitant. ln a few moments more she was utterly forgetful of his presence in the room, for the patient moved feebly on his pillows. His eyes opened and turned languidly on his fair young nurse. he had appeared, ‘ CHAPTER: XIV. “Eunice, you must give him the draught. Doctor Bayle says itis his only chance; and he will take it from no other hand,” said Sister Monica, in the calm tones which ever seemed to declare her immunity from human pas- sions, and hopes, and fears, even while, perhaps, calming the more feverish agitation of others. ‘ “Oh, dear lady! but if it should kill him, if he should die, J should feel as if I were his murderer,” said the shivering, girl, crouching down on her low seat, and nest- ling, as it were, in the soft folds of her companion’s robe for tection. “fhe should die for want of it, what then, Eunice?’ answered the sister, quietly—‘‘what then “I could feel as if it were Heaven’s will, and not have that dreadful self-reproach. I could never—never forgive myself if I didwhat killed him,’? she repeated, sobbing “Where am 1? Have I been dreaming ?” he said, feebly. “Yet have always had sucha vision as yoursell, sweet girl, in the midst of my troubled fancies.”’ “Hush!? she whispered, softly, while a smile of thrilling pleasure gave a sunlight to her face. “You have been ill, but itis over now. . You are better, thank Heaven! Be still one moment and I will fetch more experienced nurses than myself to satisfy you.” “No, no. Stay one moment,” he said, eagerly. — ‘Give me your hand to be sure it is not one of the fleeting phan- toms that wore your semblance in my dreams. I have been delirious have I not?” “You have had a fever. It is gone. You will soon gain strength, if you are quiet,” replied the girl, a bright, peautiful crimson mantling. her features. ‘‘Now let me go, please.” : a HAP She was just endeavoring to withdraw her hand from softly, like a weary, saddened child. The sister gazed tenderly at her, though she did not in- dulge the natural impulse, and draw the weeping, ¢x- hausted girl to her heart and soothe her with maternal caresses. ‘Poor child! Anddo you really feel such interest in this stranger?? she asked, parting the rich hair from Eunice’s pale face, and gazing in her large, tearful eyes, “How can I belp it? He has suffered so much; and then I could not but feel touched at his believing me to be some one he loves. It is such a desolate thing to be ill and suffering away from home and friends,’* she said, pit- eously, a pang of self-pity adding poignancy to the sym- pathy for her patient. “Alas! alas! so itis,’?. murmured the sister, . ‘ever the same woman's fate—to be won by devotion, by helpless- ness, by seeming love, and then be cast aside like a worth- less weed. Yet she is young, very young, to know such feelings, and she does not even comprehend herself.’ Then, aking audibly, though in the same subdued tone, she replied to her young companion: =~ ay “Eunice, you are right; but yet it should be a sympath apart from self that such a spectacle awakens. child, the clinging, but feeble clasp, and Basil had quickly risen and moyed a few steps nearer to her, as the door opened slightly, and Andrew’s withered visage peeped in on the scené. ond “Dear, dear! Well, he’s better or mad, I: suppose,”? said the old servant, shrugging his shotiders.’ “Miss Eunice, here's a doctor from England come to see the gentleman... I thought Doctor Bayle and, the sistér were here... . nal “Sister Monica ig in the next room. Please Call her, Andrew,” sald Eunice, anxiously, “and Doctor Bayle Will not be long. Ask Sister Moncia what to do, ‘I do not know what is safest.’ a ate Monica had not been sleeping, though her thoughts had been too engrossed by scenes and memories far, far back in the dim. vista of time to be fully alive to passing sounds, and when Andrew knocked at her door she started as if summoned by her death-knell. : “Oh, it was hard, bitter, cruel!’ were words escaping from her lips as the tap roused her from her deep thought, . and she sprang to the door with a look of Strange terror on her calm features. es JeanOd Jatoit ots “What isit? Is he dead?’ she asked, hoarsély. «No, not he; bub [think the sooner he does ‘one thing if you would not be the sport of ppch paring: emotion, learn to restrain your young, warm affection for others till you have tested their worthiness. But,’> she added, quickly, “I did not blame you, my. poor girl, Z have sw- jered—ay, and enjoyed all that’ such fresh, gushing sym- pathies bring, see me now. Heaven keep you from my experience, my child, or give you strength for it. You will give Mr. Mor- dant this draught, Eunice, will you not? Itis your duty, let that suffice to calm your fears. Listen. Eunice. If aught happens to hii, it would bring a yet sharper pang ee heart than yours. Now will you trust my coun- sel??? ; : “Do you know him, then 2% asked the ge surprised. “7 never saw him ia my life,” answered Monica, calmly, put Lam ever touched te the quick when the perous and the young are snatched from a happy futu Now can you not trust me when I bid you pareoen Wis duty?’ ‘: “J do—I will,’ said the girl, firmlye ) ‘WW one?’ seers wild va Ed “AS goon as all is quiet to-night. . You must rest for an hour or two, and then be ready to watch Y him in case he wakes conscious after the first .effect.of the dose is over, and your voice and features had better be the first | on Which his e¥es rest.” Alone?’ asked Eunice, with a slight shiver. «(Monel for the very presence of a second person occa- gions a kind of hum in the chamber which is undesirable. I wit be Within callin the adjoining room. Surely. you do not fear the sick and the helpless!” : ‘No, no; only if he should change—if he should die! It will be so dreadful,’? murmured the young creature, plaintively. ; Then, suddenly ronsing herself from the nervous terror that was perhaps rather the effect of over tried strength than actual mental cowardice, she said, firmiyt “How weak and foolish I am! Dear lady, my selfish fears are indeed a contrast to your noble courage. I am ready for the duty, and-may Heaven bless: the attempt,” she added, reverently clasping her hands, Monica gazed tenderly at the young face, with its changing expression of childlike timidity and womanly devotion, but she did not speak, and Eunice quietly obeyed the mute gesture that motioned her to leave the rooin in search of the neediul repose for the ordeal before her. The sister watched her light, graceful movements as she disappeared from the chamber, and then, clasping her hands, she permitted the tears that had been crushed back undaerthe heavy lids to fall unchecked down her cheeks. i “She ds‘a noble child,” she murmured, ‘tender and true, with.a woman’s truest strength in unselfish deyo- tion to others. And. her mother could part with such a treasure! Ah, if it had been mine—if I had been so blessed! my life, my whole course of action, would have been.changed. But it is all over now—buried in the long past. Yetit is strange tis has:come to trouble the still waters of my quiet soul, This unfortunate one, with his haunting name and familiar features, and this fair child, with her winning, unconscious loveliness, which revives all the maternal instincts which are natural to women, and which 1 have seared so ruthlessly, till I believed them dead for ever. Yet it is strange; but it may perhaps be the last triabef my patience, and ere long this weary life will end, and I—I shall beat peace.” The voice ceased ‘its murmurings, but the lips stiil moved. Monica’s heart was uplifted in prayer for the rest which only a long-tried and hopeless soul reaily craves. ; Eunice’s task was begun. The draught which would either silence forever the faint life-pulses in the sufferer’s exhausted frame, or calm the fever which was preying on the very vitals, had been administered by her hands. “Must Ltakeit?, Itis bitter, burning,’ he had said, “Do you giveit me, fair girl? I will trust ou; you would not kill me! No, no—though he might, or lands and wealth, you know. But I will drinkif you hold it to my lips, were it deadly poison.” Poor Ennice well nigh drew the glass back which she was holding tothe patient’s lips, but a glance at his flushed face and sleepless eyes warned her of the danger which one moment's hesitation might bring. “Yes, drink it. You will be well soon; I will not leave you;” she said, gently. : The next instant the draught was drained to the very drew and the sufferer fell back exhausted by the briet eifort, Eunice was sitting alone and motionless now, her eyes and ears strained to observe the slightest change’in her charge which might indicate either life or death. He was calm and qnict, and she trusted that he slept, but she dared not move to ascertain the welcome fact; only the faint vibrations of the coverlet and the relaxing attitude of the head gayeher the blessed hope that repose had come at ast. She was strangely interested in the sufferer—far moreso than she herself knew. His danger, his helpless depend- |’ ence on herself, the noble nature that had betrayed itself ever and anon in his unconscious ravings and shone forth even in the sunken and disfigured lineaments, had won on her young heart. A-second Miranda, it was the first time she had been brought in coiitact with One of the opposite sex who could boast of gentle birthand training. A second Desdemona, she was touched by the danger and the sufferings which she alone hafl power to alleviate. Was it wonderful if one so (ne :o childlike in her innocence, was deeply moved by the anconscious attractions of that helpless of her own feelings? . Hours had, passed, and each moment strengthened the terror suggeSted.itself. © till I amthe calm, passionless being you, is it to be or the other the better. It louks queer to me that young . thing, wich two gentlemen in the room, to my thinking, and you'd better goin at once, sister. There’s the ‘two! doctors coming it don’t look well to strangers.” |. : Monica only replied by a quiet inclination of the head.; She did not think it of any avail to explain the relative, man, and contented herself by repairing'at once to the scene of these startling reports. ia. * y ‘Hush, not a word! You are safe now with prudence,’ she whispered softly to the patient, and then passed on up as soon as I tell them he’s awake, and |’ balance of duties to the practical, hard-headed old Scotch- | to the still partially concealed Basil. 5 ‘ w me to suggest that your presence here is at the laa maee imprudent, sir,’’ she said, with an air of com mand better suited to a princess than a poor - Ha charity. There is too much at stake to allow of idle ce emonies.’’ : j ue tell “¥ quite agree with you, madame,’ he replied, with » cynical smile, ‘but. as 1 have been summoned to m cousin, IL can searcely submit to be banished from the ve erson I came hundreds of miles to see:’? prt? “Ti the physicians permit your remaining here, I am responsible for the patient,” she replied, calmly.. ‘‘I re- quest you, sir—as agentleman—not to resist the desire of a lady, and for more than one obvious reason,’’ she added, her eyes resting on the girl's crimson cheek. : The young gir¥scarcely recognized at that moment the still, mechaniéal, spirit-like sister in the haughty woman who thus claimed her rights, and she wondered at herseif that she never had perceived the exceeding beauty of those pale, quiet features. j ‘ , Byén Basil’s cool effrontery gave way under the proud dignity of the simply-attired attendant of his sick cousin, and he slowly moved toward the door, just in the very moment when two grave figures encountered him at its very portal. ‘He has been thoroughly well cared for, Never could man have weathered what he has done -else,’? Doctor Bayle observed, as he and the English physician advanced to the bedside. ‘1 see the crisis has passed, Sister Monica,’? he added, cheerfully, turning to the nurse, “thanks very much to you and your protegee’s care,” But the sister did not reply. An ashen whiteness was fast spreading over her features, her limbs trembled vis- ibly, and ere the terrified Eunice could fly to her support, Monica had sunk fainting on a chair which the girl had just quitted at the bedside. “She is overstrained. It is the reaction after great ten- sion,’? observed Doctor Bayle. ‘Doctor Seiton, will you remain with our patient, while I assist poor Monica into the adjoining room.’’ And he tenderly placed his arms under the helpless form, and, with Eunice’s assistance, bore the fainting woman from the apartment. ‘Lay her on the bed, and give her this,’ he said, ten- dering a restorative cordial that he had in readiness for his more immediate patient; ‘‘and a lite will do you no harm either, poor childl”’ he said, gazing at the pale young face. “Moreover, you have saved a life I do. be- lieve, so that may be the best cordial for you. I will re- turn to you soon.’’ “Whatan extraordinary scene,’’ observed Doctor Sei- ton, as they turned together from the bedside of their pa- tient, after a brief but satisfactory examination. “J never knew a more sudden attack in the whole course of my practice, especially in a trained nurse. And you say she had not been sitting up with Mr. Mordant ?’ “No, It was arranged that the young girl, who obtain- eri such @ capricious influence over him in his delirium, should take the sole watch. It seemed the most eifectual precaution for perfect quiet.’’ “Certainly; but that makes if more strange. One would think she had been struck by an evil eye, as my country- men say, to goofratsuchatangent. There was a look almost of horror in her features, ere she swooned off.’’ “My good friend, surely you need not learn now the ca- pricious forms of hysteria,” smiled Doctor Bayle, with a slight sarcasm in his tone. ‘Most likely sue is not strong enough for her incessant duties, that is all, and needs a few days’ rest. But what do you think of my patient? It has been a desperate case,’ he added, with pardonable pride in his manner. “fT think he may es through, though a breath might turn the scale,’ said the elder physician, decidedly. “His system is frightfully shattered, no doubt, and the nerves have especially suffered Every shadow of agitation must be avoided. Who was the young fellow we met as we came in? he asked, suspiciously. “A cousin, Tunderstand. His relatives were telegraph - ed for broadeast by Lady Talbot when he was taken ill. Luckily, perhaps, they were too far to arrive very speedily. It is ‘Saye meirom my friends’ sometimes, in a sick room, as you know, Doctor Seiton; and a young harum- scarum officer can do little good in such a place, except, order a funeral if necessary. Heis the next heir, is he not, to our patient?’ “The next.in suceession to my patron, Lord. Delville,’’ replied Doctor Seiton, cautiously. ‘But I know very litile of any of the earl’s relatives, and never saw this young fellow before, Ipresume he is now with the gentleman who journeyed here with me, Mr. Dornton, who is in di- rect communication with my lord, and will be responsible, no doubt, for Mr. Mordant’s safety.’’ “That J consider myself to be,’ answered Doctor Bayle, coldly; “and [must cither throw up the case or have my own Way as to. the sick-room, my good sir, I care neither for king nor kaiser where life is at stake, and I hope you will agree with me in excluding all strangers from Mr. Mordant’s presence till he is out of ail iinmediate danger from excitement.” “And inadmitting the pretty young nurse,” laughed the old doctor, silently. “Weil, the invalid had good taste, even in his delirium, it must be confessed, for a “Was the quietude death? Had the composing draught stilled the restless frame never to move more ”’ She paused for a time, even after this idea had entered her ‘brain, till atiength she could endure it no longer. Every nerve-was agitated, her heart beat audibly as site Tose Softly to. appreach the bed, when the cautious sound of footsteps: arrested her. lovelier face one does not often see; though I did believe Thad onee the most beautiful woman in England asa patient—I mean the jate Countess of Delville. Butthis little creature even surpasses her, I really do think. How- ever, toturn to more important subjects, I quite agree endured, 1 have =» THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. where it is not needed; more especially where the of his patron’s heir is concerned.”’ “You spoke of the late countess. L presume you at- tended her in that lamentable coniinement,’’ observed Dr. Bayle. ‘‘It occasioned great sensation, 1 remember, at the time.” “Yes; but I cannot say I had a fair chance,’’ replied the old man, With aslight pique. “I was not sent for until it was too late todoanygood. The infant was born before I got there, and Lady Delyille in the last stage of nervous exhaustion. I remained as long as I could, and left her in charge of a midwife and her cousin, the present Lady de Vere, for an hour or two while Il went to another critical case. On myreturn I found life was extinct. Both mother and babe were, I firmly believe, sacrificed to that criminal delay. Poor thing! The earl would, not even attend her funeral; and she was borne to the grave as if to her husband there was contamination even in the sight of her marble face. . Tre Earl of Delvilie would not took upon tt.?? A light step sounding behind them disturbed the good doetor’s reminiscences, and he positively started as he turned to meet the wild, troubled look of the pale sister whom he believed reposing in her own chamber. “Lady Talbot requests your presence at breakiast, gen- tlemen,’’ she said, in her usual calm, low tone, ‘I will take my place here during your.absence. If I might sug- gest, 1 would request you to insist on Miss Lisle also taking refreshment, and some ciieerful recreation at_ the game time. Sheis far more in need of it than Iam. Such scenes are pot intended for the young.” “But you are ill and exhausted yourself. I cannot con- sent to your remaining here—and alone,’ returned Doc- tor Bayle, while his brother physician fixed his eyes with an apparently involuntary gaze on her white face. safety i “No, no—l only want quiet. Let me be alone—alone; it is my best remedy,’? Monica said, shivering down in her usual seat; and, with the strange command she could as- “a at pleasure, she waved them impatiently from her side. Dr. Seton, after a glance at Monica’s pale face, passed his hand over his eyes as he followed his companion from the room, muttering: “Tt is strange—very strange! I have been traveling, and talking of old days, till I suppose I am a bewitched old fool. Itis asign of old age. Yes, yes; Iam getting in my Gotage, and fancying the present is ever resembling the past. I must brash awaysuch growing folly, or others may discover—what Iam beginning to suspect—’ that I am only a relic of other times.”’ {vO BE CONTINUED.] —_——__> 9+___—_— CHICAGO. | THE GIANT OF FIRE AND ANGEL OF LOVE... BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. O, large-nostrilled Giant of Fire! not o’er Are thy terrible triamphs on sea and on shore; For oft as thou smil’st as a servant, yet still Thou dost sometimes leap up with a demon-like will. Ah, how awful thy latest of trophies, where lies Grand Chicago all wrecked under snioke-mantled skies; And on further, where forests of world-chanted fame Are but great heaps of dust at the fierce shriek of flame! But, Flame-Giant, not only are trophies for thee! Over Ruin a mightier form do we see! And that form is the blest, white-browed An gel of Love, Showing Earth not forgotten by power above. For the wrecked and the homeless what succor he drew! Proving that man to man in his sorrow is true; And still how all nations hear that angel’s voice— More, more, and yet more do the stricken rejoice! O, Angel of Loye! grandest trophies arethine, And thou thus mak’st Humanity still nobler shine! Chicago restored will more than in old prime Monument “Human Nature és worthy of Time Le CBA _ The intelligence Linley had rece alarming, and aroused his own | the presence of Quadrooma. . “ar _ ‘Lieutenant Linley,” suddenly wh da voice close to him, ‘seems to forget his gallantry.” It was the voice of the charmer. YS “f really beg your pardon,” said the young man, blush- ing; “buf something the man told me turned the current ‘ofmy thoughts.”’ se . “Wasit then so very )Wasin many ways ‘unmiudful of interesting??? asked the young girl. 4S : ; ° “Nothing. I will report it to-morrow; but willnot the ‘night air hurt your? F ©No,’? said Quadroona, abraptly, “put if my presence be ‘irksome, I can leave a proper distance between us.”’ ‘Nay, madame!"’ exclaimed the young offlcer. * ‘Call me Quadroona,’’she answered. — _ «But may {not befaxed with undue familiarity 7 aln a . is -on.?? he began a on OCVaSiON aL By + As $00 1 as can, with propriety, rver, shall go back to England?” «oe a. ERG WOT Baa «Your England must be a most faseiriatt ig viaee, she said, with a low, jnusical, but almost scofnful laugh. “itis my a eee ee i ee ces er “there, was-I born, and every happy moment i ever new makes me love the rem brace, 3G ~ "Your life has, perhaps, been a happy one,”’ said Quad- roona, sadly. ss ee re sys Wi fod HEE OERPO ‘Happy!’ cried Linley, a age a No, an‘ out- cast, a child of charity, even, perhaps, of sii, how cant have been hap ; Se: Ser “child of'smot' * ¢ ’ ‘Child of s nn said Quadroona, ‘Cc’ i And for a moment she muttered the words several times over, asif they had made a deep impression. i i The moon fell fall upon her lovely face, illumining all in deep thought. ete ‘ “It may be so,” continued Linley; ‘‘but Ithink not. My own conviction is, that I standin the way of my bitter enemy. Ican only be a stumbling block as a Jegititnate child.?? — is : Why are you so anxious fo be the child of marriage?’ “phat I may both love and respect my mother,’* said Linley, evasively. He would not add to her, “that Iomay also. aspire to the, hand of Lady Frances Herbert.” “But,?? said Quadroona, speaking in a voice low and almost choked with emotion, “if your mother were other than you could wish, would you not still love her?" “Certainly,’’ replied Linley, somewhat startled by her manner. ‘i wou avenge her.” nai : al hal ha!’? laughed Quadroona, hoarsely; ‘you would avenge. her, But y: weak, your ehemy strong, you are poor, your enemy rich, your father a tyrant, even though a kind one—your mother a slave— © She stopped, choked by her emotions, — “Do not agitate yourself,” said Linley, ‘kindly. ‘Be ruled by me, retire, and. we will resume the conversation, if you wish it, another time.” - 2 as + ‘What would ldo then? I have heard your story. I know it all. You, too, have suffered—you have been happy along side-of me, . Your life has been led in Para- dise—mine in the lower deep. For every pang you have undred. You know not your father I should have hated— cred a parents—I here Wike a my mother: adored—for 1, William Linley, it is who am the child of sin and shame, William Linley,” she added, in low, broken accents, whispering in his very ear lest the air shonld carry thes shall probably share the I same fate. Yes, Qnadroona, the mistress of this ship— whose will liere is law—is an unenfranchised slave.” Linley heard the swords, almost without understanding her, he was struck dumb, with astonishment and horror, atid his, wholé soul seemed depicted on his countenance. “You are horrified, nodoubt. But I have spoken the truth,’? said Quadroona, coldly. Pees : “But you.ate free, now,” exclaimed Linley, recovering himself. Tee ak eg a api , “Tam free! $0 was my mother, while her beauty lasted, William Linley.. Lama ou in years, but ages of agonies have rolled over me, The last year [have thought before I acted. I know my fate.’ rig itesehy ‘What fate fear you?” said Linley, in a low whisper. “To be the companion of rich master for a time— he mother, perhaps, of other children of sin, and then to die—a slave where I had been soyercign mistress.” “But why not are such a fate—you are free ?”’ , _“Pree!!) whispered. Quadroona, with a low laugh— “free! In this sliip—in the school beyond the limits of whose walls Lnévyermoyed? Jamas much a slave ‘here asthe negro in his hut.’ ” ara “But Captain Wiarton. is. kind—linmane—he evidently loves you—worships you?’ : ory . ‘Gforror!” was-the word which gushed from the lips of Quadrogna; “unsay those words if you would not kill me, As a father—brother-—friend, yes—but never otherwise.”’ ‘He loves you as man. loyes the chosen mate of his life- time 2’ said Linley, who was strangely excited by this revelation. e : fe , “Dread vision of soul, art thou then come to me at last 2? muttered Quadroona, in accents of such génuine anguish no rs could be deceived. ‘You, to whom Towe so much—my friend, ny preserver, my playmate—must I Sex Gte VOUL Si. decd: tue dds Ait wie ee : “Why hate if ae cannot love?’ asked Linley, scarcely knowing what he said. nee St “Why ??? she-cried, paaplonatety, “Because if he loves me, he is my master—I am his.slaye! He will make me his wife, or companion, a3 lic lists—and I shail hate him, { must-be wooed and won as other women are, not taken like a new cont or dress. Yes, William Linley, I am a slave, and Wharton is my out . 4 ; “But.” said’ the astonished young officer, “he has brought you to free countries... .° “Why ?? cried Quadroona. , “But you have heard too pera F bee ugh not hear my whole story. ‘Tis a terrible one, indeed, To-morrow night, at the same hour—the with you in Oe autoeracy as to the sick-chamber. Dorn- ton is seusible man, and never wishes to push his nose nights are pleasant. Come, Cora,’’ she said, touching & dark, inanimate mass that lay coiled up on the deck. ‘put the burning save her eyes, which were cast downh upon the deck as if | ° Id do more—I would both love and fi ls Sts. > a —— Aste “omen “Cora wide awake,” said the mulatto girl, rubbing lrer eyes. “Stay one moment,’ whispered Linley, Isying his hand upon her arm; “you have owned that Wharton is a slave- owner? Is hea slaver?’’ Quadroona looked with a wild stare atthe young man, and glided below, leaving this terrible question un- answered. CHAPTER XXIII. It was with strangely wild thoughts, and with the: can- ker worm of suspician eating at his heart, that William Linley ‘passed the rest of that sleepless night. Dark doubts filled his soul—doubts which he could scarcely ex- plain to himself. His own fate did not alone occupy him. He could not but be deeply interested in the fate of the beautiful Quadreona, who won upon him every hour. “You seem dull, Mr. Linley,’ said Wharton, eyeing him keenly, aS they sat below in the cabin, about two days after the events on the quarter-deck, during which time he had no opportunity for private discourse with, Quad- roona. “J am only thoughtful,” replied Linley; “f was'thinking engaged in.” “You regret haying joined?’’ said Wharton, somewhat sharply. “Gaptain Wharton, your authority on board’ appears to be-very despotic, even for a man-of-war?” replied Linley, hesitatingly. “Oh! sits the wind so?”? ing brow. war ??? “ ane request. to leave it at once,’’ answered Linley, rmly. “Indeed!’ said Wharton, sarcastically. “Has England been, then, so good afriend that you honor her so much ?”” “Captain Wharton,” replied William Linley, firmly, ‘‘I am an Englishman. Ihave been wronged by man, not by my country.’ Wharton looked at him fixedly for some time—a storm appeared gathering—but gradually the muscles of his face relaxed. “Mr. Linley,” he said, courteously, ‘I will trust in your honor. I have saved you from that fellow Shipton—you Will not betray me?” “Oertainly not,” eried Linley, shuddering, however, as he said the words. ; “Then imagine the worst of me that may come into ‘your head, and, in the eyes.of the law, you will be cor- rect,’? said Wharton, gravely. cried the other, with a lower- “And What then, if this were not a man-ol- over the strange nature of the service I have so suddenly |, “You are not—” began Linley, starting back. “Tam.@ pirate!’ replied Wharton, coldly. ‘William Linley, I have neither country, name, father, mother, nor ‘legal existence, I am a slave !”? | This was said with awful emphasis, and with a look which could not be described. ' “Yona slave!’ cried the horrified Linley. ‘ «& slave, Mr. Linley. I was born of a slave mother. My fatherswas white, it is true, and she must lave been nearly white; but still I was born a slave. It is true, I am free to go where I list, and few anepeg my origin; rand ison my soul. I have now yen- tured on an expedition which, if successful, will make me rich beyond all the world’s scorn—rich enough to buy yank and honor in your country instead of that which gave me birth. Linley, have known suffering—I wish to know the luxury of power and happiness.” ep “But is your expedition one you may ever ayow ?”’ ask- ed Linley, mildly, ; “Tt is an expedition that, were I the meanest freeborn Englishman, | would scorn!’? cried Wharton, slightly col- oring; “but it is one the outcast, the Pariah glories in. It will resound throughout the world.” Linley waited. “Linley,” said the other, with a keen glance, ‘can I trust you?” “Captain Wharton, unless Iam fully aware of the ob- jects with which the Peari of the Ocean is afloat, I can re- main no longer with you,’ replied Linley. “You will not betray us?” ~ “TJ should make no rash promises,*’ said Linley, grave- y; “but I owe you too much to hesitate. If I cannot be ith you, 1 will not be against. I may be forced to part sje sooner than I expected, but your secret shalt be ea! é€ was a pause. The commander of the Pearl of n‘appeared to struggle with himself. His brow Ww ther indicative of sadness than anger. Gradually it cleared, however}. and after a few moments he resumed nis ‘usual affable manner. | “Mr. Linley,?’ said pe ne in a low tone of voice, “I obtained possession, about a year ago, of very valuable in- fermation, througly a correspondent in Mexico. The for- eign merchants there have, it appears, for some time been collecting: large’ remittances, which they -wish to forward to England, For many reasons they wish to smuggle the money out of the country. Mexico is in con- stant revolution, and such yast riches exported in the or- dinary way, it might be seized, confiscated, or, at all events, heavily taxed. It appears the new government is more Willing to borrow than to pay. The merchants, therefore, having now some’six millions collected in gold, silver, and precious: stones, have petitioned the British goyernment to send ont ‘Secretly a man-of-war to collect the money. For greater safety they selected the ports of Monterey, San Blas, and Acapulco, as those where the treasure is to be embarked. The man-of-war is ready, and will start in‘a week.” : : i “And you propose—” said Linley, very gravely.” 679 capture the vessel by surprise, and miake myself master of the treasure. The crew get five hundred pounds ~~ Veach, I two millions!” cried Wharton, exuitingly; “my employers the rest.’? . z = “Your employers are bold men to risk their money on such a yenture,”’ continued Linley. — STG GS-8 te enterprise, and may fail. . But my em- loyers know me—they are aware of the game J play for. seek wealth, rank, and Pe eng They are in my power; Lin theirs. If I sueceed, I bring the money home, disband ‘crew abroad, save only those wanted by a peaceful rader. The got will be sent res through France, nd and Spain. You know the power of the yellow metat? It is @ passport to rank, honor, love, renown— Cran the heart of man can long for, or desire.” ““Gaptain Wharton, have youthought over all the dan- ger, possible disgrace and ruin, which may attend you, if this awful undertaking fails?’ said Linley, scareely able *) Gredte te wt : iQ bis 1 “The risk is immense, but thé prize is stupendous,”? replied Wharton. “I have noname'to lose, no family to disgrace, no country to’ disown ‘me. Lmay- fail, but if 1 succeed, the proudest will bow to’me.: ‘ean easily pass for a retired planter, or nabob, or merchant—no matter what.” OME iG sug Jays 189 fives! “You will fail!’ ried Linley, warmly. ‘What man-of- war will be taken by this bri ingP77d 9: “The Cleopatra is truly not a’small vessel ” said Whar- ton; “but she will not be overmanned.: “England is at peace, and fears nothing on the seas. 1 trust to a mid- night surprise.) ON “with this enterprisé I can have nothing te do,” cried Linley, inreturn. “tis ‘a mad, a wicked enterprise, for “any Englishman, especially. Captain Wharton, there must be honorable distinetion ‘foryou!”’ aa “Give me a name, a family, a country,” said Wharton, moodily, “and T might hesitate; but I have none. made my bed, and so I will lie on it.” “Then must I leave you” began Linley. éNov? have Ihave cried Wharton, “by the Heavens above, no! I colpanion save you—poor Quadroona wants a nt Resign your commandif you will, Your presence may be ; adviser. ain with us at present. use ul. 4h) . "Resign my command Tmust,” said Linley, firmly, “and leave I will, as soon as itis in my power, You know my story. I too have the battie of life to fight, and 1 can- not leave the fie to my bitter eneniies.”* “Linley,” replied Wharton, ‘I ask of you asa favor not to go. Be generous. Six or eight months isnot much. I may perish in the great strug: Je—and then,’??/he added, with deep emotion, “what will become of Quadroona ?’’ “f would do much,” said Linley, commanding himself with great effort, ‘to serve your interesting friend. But you must know that I have one in England to think of I love, and in my absence calumny may do its deadly work, and I may lose all chance of winning my dearly coveted bride,” «Linley,’’ cried Wharton, passionately, “‘you shall write home—lI trust in your honor to betray nothing—but leave me yet, you may not, Imust even detain you as a prisoner if you Will not stay otherwise. Tam alone in this: vessel, save with or ane ae and she is yet no companion for me. I Jove her, hut she does not understand me fully yet.”’ ‘Does she know of this enterprise?” ‘asked Linley, coldly. ' “No! She believes I seek to win: fortune, but suspects nothow. That Iam atwar-with civilization she knows, She, too, desires never to return to our country.’? «But cannot you live away from your country without this enormous wealth ?”’ “Why do you so eagerly desire to prove your noble birth?’ asked Wharton, bitterly. “Po be worthy of her I loye,” replied Linley, eagerly. «And I seek fortune that I may hold up my head, forget what I have been; that Imay tower to sucha hight, that no man may venture to point the finger of scorn atme. I haye not resolved on this terrible undertaking without thought.’ “You will fail, said Linley, earnestly. ‘Should you guéceed in your first surprise, you will be tracked all over the whole world, you willbe betrayed by your confederates; nm you will meet the fate of a pirate.” Phere was & solemn earnestness in Linley’s. manner, ‘which startled Wharton. His lips quivered slightly, but he said nothing for a moment. ‘Petter die, than be trodden under foot,” he remarked, moodily. “Nature filled this bosom with vast ambition, with desires vague but stupendous, which were fostered py hope; then all was crushed within me—all was night, aid 1 swore to be avenged, to be rich, tobe great, and then to beard my enemy.” vibes ean muttered Linley, musing. He could ap- preciate this feeling, a8 he thought of Colonel Medway. “Well, have’ ‘you decided?” asked Wharton, after another brief pause. ; “f ave decided to resign nly rank. Ifl remain here, I remain as a prisoner, whose sole thought will be to escape.” “Ags you pléase,” said Wharton, haughtily. “Henceforth, then,” replied Linley, “we stand in the re- lation of enemies ; but before I resign myself to whatever you impose on me, I feel it my duty, as your ex-oflicer, to inform you that there is discontent on board, thas Ship- ton has a powerfal party, and that you have mutiny to: guard against.” | “Ah! ah?? said Wharton, his wild eyes flashing with resolution and pleasure, ‘isitso? I thank you, Mr, Lin- ley, you can remain below. You are my guest, and the friend of Quadroona. Recolleet, in any untowaré case I trust to you to think only of her.”? He then tarned away ‘ a tn linc a i ce cert and ascended the ladder which led to the* quarter deck. “Peacock, turn up the men, and bring Shipton’ om deck.” The old sailor started, while Linley, who had followed him, stepped back a little, not without considerable mneasiness. He saw mischief in the dark eye-of the pirate chief. A The crew were piped up, the marines took their places near the arm chests. At a whispered order trom Wharton they loaded their guns in presence of the crew, who looked at one another. There was am inclination among the men to whisper, but a stern cry from the commander reduced them to silence, At this moment, Shipton, heaylly ironed, appeared upow deck. The man was pale,and his brow was dark and scowling. He confronted his superior with an air of opem es too, whieh the other, however, did not seem to» notice. “Mr. Shipton,” he said, with more of courtesy in his manner than. was usualion his part to these below him, “I think you:haye by this time had time for reflection.”’ “The hold is a tolerable tempting place for reflection,’’ replied Shipton. in a surly tone. “1 thought so,’? continued’ Wharton. “I wished you to be convinced that Iam master here—that I allow nothing to be done without my permission. Do you understand me now ?”? ' “Well,” said’ Shipton, looking ¢uriously at the officer, “a captain generally is master om the deck of a man-of- war.’ “When you kidnapped a man on board without my per- mission,’? said Wherton,.sternly, “you did not appear, to think so. I am glad you: have come to your senses. Peacock, knock off. these irons.” The astonished officer gave the necessary directions. “Now, Mr. Shipton,” saidi Wharton, mildly, ‘I hope you will be prepared fully to apologize to me for your slight indiscretion.” “Certainly, Captain Wharton,’” said the other, quite taken aback with this unexpected leniency on the part of his-superior. ‘I am very sorry-———”’ “That-is quite sufficient,’’ interrupted Wharton. “T be- lieve Mr. Linley is on deck.’ turning: toward our hero. “You have to thank this gentleman.’ “Mr. Linley,’? sald: Shipton,. advancing, so as to be heard only by the captain and. the person addressed, ‘may of course form his own opinion of my conduet, but he must be aware that the intention of his enemies was not for me to smuggle him on board here.’” ‘ “What then ?” asked! Linley, advancing’ and speaking in the same low tone. . “Two of my employers sought your dead,” said Ship- ton, who had his reasons:for his frankness). “Name them? said Linley, hurriedly.: “They wished to hide themselves,” replied Shipton, with a laugh; “but I took care to find thent out.” “Their names?’ repeated Linley, in breathless haste. “Colonel Medway,’’ began the other..9 ©0054 “T thought so—I suspected it,” cried Linley. “The other ?”? ser ae “The most noble, the Marquis of Sevenoaks,’ said Shipton, with a sneer. “My rival,’ repeated Linley, mechanically,. Wharton became deadly pale, and turned away to hide his agony and confusion.: In a-moment more: he had re- covered himself sufficiently to speak. * “The Marquis of Sevenoaks?’ he asked, in a@ hollow tone of voice, which filled: Linley, above all, with amaze- ment. “The same, sir,’? said Shipton, with a bow. “J have heard of him—a heartiess roue. Shipton, you may return to your duty. may serve you. dinner.”’ ; Shipton bowed low, to hide his surprise and confusion, and then went. below, to resume his uniform and other trappings of hisrank. The men dispersed to their several duties, and Wharton and Linley alone remained. on the quarter deck. Both were gloomy and silent. After a short pause the officer spoke first. “Mr. Linley,” he said, “‘you mentioned the Marquis.of Sevenoaks, I believe ?”’ “J did, though I mentioned as few names as possible,?? replied Linley. ‘But can you trust this Shipton ?” “No, Mr. Linley, I distrust him more than ever. But ‘tis better that he should believe in my faith than, not. Now J shall set a firm watch upon him, and upon the least proof of mutiny he hangs like a dog,”’ replied: the other, calmly. om “You talk coolly of bloodshed, Captain Wharton.’ “My post isone that requires firmness and. decision,” ‘pnt 1 am weary of the subject. Now, Mx. I hope this lesson To-day I expect to see all my officers at responded Wharton; Let us join Quadroona.” The young man made no reply, but went below, where,. shortly after, he was overlooking some of Quadroona’s: studies. A few hours later he dined with the officers, and was compelled, on so auspicious an occasion, to drink more wine than he was accustomed to. Wharton him- self, though not, fond of spirits, was extremely partial to the rich fiuids which are extracted from the grape,. so that Linley had none to keep him in countenance in his sober resolutions. ; a The song and the cup kept them some hours together. At length, however, Wharton ordered coffee, which being the signal for breaking up, each man Wasshortly after 2t his post.. + wt ee A Pe That night Shipton, instead of desceriding td ‘his berth at the commencement of the middle wateh, went forward and concealed himself until those going. below were safe- ly ensconced.in their hemmed any those for the deck, had taken up their several positions. we 4 Then it was that he yentured to light a lamp.in that part of the forecastle generally devoted to the, chests of the men, and where, also, they sometimes sat in bad weather.. It was small, and divided from the middle deck by a thick bulkhead. He then sat down, pulled a bottle of rum out of his pocket, and waited. { + aa In a few minutes he was joined by four men who crept... out of their hammocks without putting on their shoes. They seated themsetyes silently, after touching their caps respectfully to their lieutenant. — There were four men, each of a different nation. The first was an Englishman. Tall, bony, and appa- rently of immense strength. This man:had an evil repu- tation even om board what was believed to be so suss pions Ace as the Pearl of the Ocean. “He was said to ea deserter from 2 British man-of-war, and to have de- serted after the commission of most henious crimes. He hadbeen-under sentence of death, but had successfully eyaded those who had been sent to watch over him, These facts were ghoken of in whispers, as none dared in that vessel to bring down upon them the anger of Bob Carter.. About forty, his hair Was aAaay tin, and grizzly, his jaws were unusually lank.and thin, his lips were merely. two lines of his face, while his eyes, which always glanced in aman aside;: were small, gray; and peculiarly. round. . ; Next to him sat a squat, round, red-haired Frenchman,,. with rings in his ears,‘a look of stolid : self-suffering . that nid great cunning; anda scowl that few cared.to. with- stand. ;This man, like the other, always carried @: knife,. and was prepared to.use it.’ His name was .Pierre Des- camp; his antecedents were unknown... Gt The third wasa thin and wiry Spaniard named. Pedros: the fourth a hideous negro, of one-of the most debased tribes in Africa, who had been picked up from a crossing in London, and who had received. a kick from: Peacock. for daring on one occasion to claim. acquaintance, with Cora. Five more determined ruffians -never collected to. con- coct a midnight murder. They had resolved,on taking: possession of the ship, and murdering Wharton.. Shipton was to have the post of commander andi the- possession of Quadroona,, Bob» Carter, who had been a merchant captain, ere drink and) crime had sent him before the mast,. was. to be lieutenant... To, the: Spaniard and Frenchman, officers berths were: also promised; while Cuffee was to have Cora: and. revange on Peacock: It may readily be believed that: the poor, #gnorant African. was made. use. ot only as: a tool, to be cast aside when of no further value. Leaving this hideous band. of conspiratars. to. concoct their nefarious designs, we must) refer to other per- sonages who have been long neglected, in order that the current of our narrative:may continue unbroken. We left Lady Frances Herbert hoping—despite the mys-~ tery that environed: the disappearance of.her lover.. We left Madame Molitor acting with energy and decision, as: far as a solemn covenant entered into by her allowed.. We left Sir Archer Beauchamp ill, almost dying, under the care of his son. We Jeft Lady Cecilia Medway consc- quently enjoying a short respite. Days, even weeks, passed, during which: Madame Mo- litor was in secret the constant visitor upon Lady Frances Herbert. The beautiful Frenchwoman was how more than usually pale, thin and anxious... The maryel- lous charms remained the same asyet,. but it was clear that time was about to lay its iron hand, upon them at last. Lady Frances, deeply as she wanted consolation herself, sought to console her, and give her hope.. But no hope, no consolation came. One day Lady Frances received a hurried notefrom her friend, excusing her sudden absence.. She had, to. leave her friends, the Wrights, perhaps for some time,, but she trusted to return in time to impart good news. with re- : gard to their mutual friend. 4 In this way poor: Lady Frances was left to her own te- ~ sources, while the Admiral and. Lady Hawksley insisted more and more upon accepting the hand.of the: high-born Marquis of Sevenoaks. ; Susan Wright was exceedingly unhappy at the depar- ture of Madame: Molitor. She had. no one: now With whom she could: converse relative to him, especially as the elegant and accomplished Frenchwoman’s: place was taken by a very worthy but rather fussy maiden sister of Mr. Wright's; whose notions. of society. Were somewhat peculiar to one educated as Susan had heen.. Sholto Hilton was in despair. He had loss his friend im a most mysterious manner, and his. mistress. sulked with himin the most provoking style, His sole consolation was to talk with poor Jack Hopton of the absent. The morethe poor dwarf dwelt upon the mysterious. disappearance of William Linley,, the more he combined it in his own mind with the yisits. of Colonel Medway to, the house of Doctor Jonas Pollytiank,.. Now Jack Hopton , the Teader is well aware, had not confided his secret In full. to William Linley, to whom, for: some m ysterious ne a- son he was deeply attached. It is, therelore, not to be expected that he should have been more communicative with Iinley’s accidental acquaintance, Sholto Hili on. Still, he was.always glad te see him, that at least le might,talk of the absent. Hopton seldom went abroad—never for a longer period than was necessary te lay in his frugal stock of provésions. Now- that he was alone, the dwarf’s only luxury Was to- baceo. With a pipe in his mouth, he would lie fox: hours on his mat near-the fire, waiting for the return of his master. He paid his rent regularly, and even Mecured 2 written agreement for a year, lest by some e@hance he might be expelled, (TO BE CONTINUED. }  eer, re ie Caos ne New NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 30, 1871. 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The New YORK WEEKLY is Printed at PRESTON’s Great Press Room, 27 Rose Street, New York City. Another New Story Next Week. THE GOLDEN WOLF OF GENOA. OR, The Saorilege of the Sacro Catino. By HOWARD W. MACY. This fascinating historical romance is founded upon the following fact, known to all tourists: The chief church of Genoa is the Cathedral San Lorenzo; the chief portion of this cathedral is the chapel of St. John the Baptist, into which no female is. permitted to enter, except om one day of the year. In the treasury of the chapel is The Sacro Catino, or Sacred Salver, which was for ages supposed to be a solid emerald dish, in which, says tradition, was held the Paschal Lamb at the ‘‘Last Supper,’’ and also that it received the blood of the Redeemer at the Crucifixion. No person, priest or layman was permitted to touch the Sacro Catino. The penalty was death. : The Golden Wolf of Genoa, replete with historical facts, abounds in cunning plots and wonderful incidents, some of the most original and startling nature. The terrible malice of the Admiral of Galata, aided by the treacherous notary Nicholas, fasten the charge of sacrilege upon the noble sailor of. the people, Andrea Follari. The distress and peril of the lovely wife of the doomed man; the courage and beauty of her blonde sister, Lady Inez; the rash but effective heroism ofthe Hungarian Baron; the astonishing power of Rollette, the prisoner, to read the plans and bafile the plots of the am- bitious notary; the outbreak of the people; the fierce hate of the Greek pirate captain; the enormous wealth at stake, and the grand character of the Duke of Genoa, with a thousand thrilling incidents, in many of which the Skeleton Clerk of the Notary plays a prominent part, are combined in a most adroit and novel web of plot which cannot fail to be exquisitely interesting to all who are fond of a romance of love, war and history. Colonization. We do not now refer to the old-time colonization which, in the days of slavery before the war, had for its object the peopling of Liberia with the members of the American branch of the African family.. That schemie seems to have taken its place in history with many other enterprises which the development of events has made obsolete. The subject engaging our attention at present is the coloni- zation of white persons, not people from abroad, but our own fellow citizens; and the field of colonizing operations to be considered is not a remote continent, but the broad and inviting territories of owr own country. The greatest problems which the life-struggle of human- ity presents grow out of society in great cities. Where men, women, and children are gathered in the largest numbers, there we observe more closely their wants and their woes, their strifes and their sorrows, their frequent failures and their rare successes. This vast metropolis is the scene of striking contrast. Wealth and poverty, lux- ury and misery, virtue and vice are brought into close re- lations, and the extremes of social condition meet. No- where else in the world, perhaps, are fortunes made so rapidly and easily, or is money spent so lavishly, or are establishments so sumptuous and costly maintained. But those who thus accumulate riches and freely appropriate ample revenues in extravagant and ostentatious living are comparatively very few in numbers. To the thousands of dwellers in the metropolis, lifeis a daily contest for daily bread. To obtain food and shelter for the time being is all the majority of the people can hope to do. If the demand for labor is extensive and continuous in New York and other first-class cities, the supply of workmen and workwomen is also excessive. For every dollar to be earned there is more than one per- son to earnit. This fact of the relations of demand and supply may be easily proved—is constantly proved. Let a merchant advertise for aclerk, or let an employer ad- vertise for an employé of any kind, and he will be over- whelmed with applications. This result shows that there is always a large unem- ployed population ready to work for a livelihood, eager to embrace any opportunity for so doing, but denied the Op- portunity. Suchis the competition in all pursuits ina great city that not only are wages reduced to the lowest rate, but thousands are unable to obtain any wages at all. And yet, while willing hands, backed by intelligent minds, are compeiled to distasteful idleness in New York, there are thousands of acresin distant sections of the Union waiting to be cultivated and promising abundant rewards to the cultivators; sites for flourishing towns and villages are ready to be occupied for agricultural and man- ufacturing- purposes; fertile lands are offered at cheap rates, and anew country which, when opened up, will rival if not surpass the older districts, invites the attention of enterprising settlers. While the opportunities of work in a great city are in- adequate to the number of workers, the laborer acquires a limited share of comforts as the consideration of his hard toil. The cost of all the necessaries of life is higher than anywhere else. To the bulk of workingmen a sepa- rate and independent home is an unattainable thing. The laborer must be content with limited and unattractive quarters in a more or less wretched tenement house, and for these he is obliged to pay an exorbitant rent. When one passes through the wards of the city in which are found the dwellings ofthe poor, and when one observes the filth, and squalor, and unwholesomeness of their abodes, in which they encounter the privations, disease, and man- ifold ills ofacheerless existence, while their landlords grow rich by their earnings, and when one remembers that, for the same measure of toil and fora much less amount of money, these people might provide for them- selves, in the broad territories of the West, bright and pleasant homes, with fresh air, abundant provisions, and healthful moral and material surroundings, one must conclude that our social system is far from perfect, and there is something radically wrong in our domestic and political economy, so long asthe industrious and worthy poor are withheld from the opportunities they so much need. And yet, notwithstanding the many discom- forts of town life and the abundant comforts of country ise, workingmen and women continue to overcrowd the great cities. Aremedy for this evil is the colonization system to Which we refer. Let societies be organized by which, un- der a judicious co-operative arrangement, the surplus population of New York and other commercial and popu- lar centers may be transferred to new and inviting sec- tions, where they may really work for themselves, and where their labor may promote their own comfort and brighten their own lives in their own homes, instead of enriching rapacious owners of tenement houses, and all the other classes of speculators who by exorbitant charges practically prey upon the poor. A recent interesting address by Horace Greeley hap- pily illustrates this subject. He gives an account of the origin and progress of a colony, bearing his own name, in Colorado. By judicious co-operation a number of persons were enabled to buy at a low price a tract of land which they occupied. A moderate capital—the con- tribution from each individual being a small sum—and well-directed industry have been fully rewarded. In a little more than a year the settlement consisted of 1,000 persons and more than 400 houses, and they had ‘two churches, three schools, a lyceum, @ newspaper, and all the other evidences of civilization, except a grog-shop.”’ This is a satisfactory achievement in itself, and is still more important in showing how the great cities may be relieved of their surplus unemployed population, and the evils of poverty and consequent vice and crime largely re- duced. ‘Wedded, yet. No Wife.” In this number is given the commencement of one of the most charming stories ever penned—‘‘WEDDED, YET No WIFE,”’ by our new contributor, MAy AGNES FLEM- Inc. It is notareprint of an old story, which may be procured complete, in book-form, at the news-stands, but was written expressly for the NEW YORK WEEKLY. {is FLORENCE’S THANKSGIVING. A TEMPERANCE TALE, BY JANE GRAY SEAVER. Florence Farleigh and I had been school girls together, and loved each other as sisters, and it was a hard stroke to me when she .came one day, all smiles, and her deep blue eyes ashade deeper’ and sparkling like two large sapphires set in brilliants of the first water, and whis- pered confidingly into my ever-ready ear her dearest an- ticipations, ’ Her joy was so great, her happiness so serene, that her voiee trembled with emotion, so that at first it was scarce- ly audible, when she bent her head so near mine that the long yellow curls touched my cheek, and she whispered: “Marian, Marian, I—I havye—promised to marry Arthur Armsdale,’’ and her lips touched my forehead and chilled me to the heart with their icy chilliness, and she sank down at my feet perfectly helpless. ; meee l raised her in my arms, for she was atiny thing, and laid her on the sofa. She had not fainted, but seemed to have lost all volition in the great reaction which this an- ticipated event had caused her. * My tears fell fast and dropped upon the marble-like brow of my dearly-loved friend. Now, I didn’t love Arthur Armsdale, that made me so much dislike to see my friend. his wife, but I did love Flora, and notwithstanding ‘the fact that the bridegroom elect, so far.as we knew, had. always borne.an unblem- ished reputation, and belonged to an aristocratic family, not be happy with him. But it only lacked a month of Thanksgiving; and as that was to be the day of all others in the year to mark the great epoch in her life, there was not much time to spend in forebodings. The eventful day at last arrived, I dressed Flora, for she did not wish her maid to perform that service, and then arrayed myself in the plain .white silk which had been Flora’s present to me for the occasion, for I was poor, and only managed to support myself by my daily round of visits to my pupils. The ceremony was over, and I saw them off by the mid- night train on their wedding tour. . I heard often from Flora, but the tone of her communi- cations seemed constrained, and not fully herself. How- ever, they would be home before the Christmas holidays, and so | tried to content, myself with the. belief that all was well. . ‘ I had forgotten to inform my readers that Flora was an heiress and an orphan, under the guardianship ot a ve worthy bachelor uncle, (he wasn’t so very old though, and who had purchased a very beautiful home—I might say a mansion—and invited me to assist him in the’selec- tion of the furniture. And so we had it all ready for the reception of the happy couple one night a week before Christmas. John, the coachman, had been dispatched to meet the ten o’clock train, with strict orders from Uncle Mason (for that was Flora’s uncle’s name) to bring them straight to the new house without a word of explanation, for this house was not bought with Flora’s money, but was Uncle Mason’s present to the bride. At last the sound of carriage wheels rattled on the pave- ment, and stopped in front of the house, which we had ii. luminated as brilliantly as the four-and-twenty parlor burners could do it. f Uncle Mason and JI both rushed to the door, and in an instant Flora was in my arms, sobbing as though her heart would break, and apparently oblivious of the splendor about her. My own tears also rained down my cheeks, but whether from joy or sorrow [scarcely knew, but it seem- ed to me that it was a blending of the two. I just glanced toward Uncle Mason in time to see him brush awaya big tear with the back of his hand, which glistened on his slightly furrowed cheek, like a dew-drop on the half parched grass, : : -“Come, come now, girls, that’s enough of that amuse- ment,’’ said he, his own voice a little unsteady, and be- lieving, good man that he was, that all of these tears were from happiness and gratitude, and not from anything pertaining to sorrow. ‘‘Come; I say, girls, that’s enough, here is Arthur and nobody but an old) man to welcome him,” again cried Uncle Mason, at the same shaking the bridegroom heartily by the hana. : I raised Flora’s head from my shoulder, and then Un- cle Mason came and just put his protecting arm around her, and pressed her to his heart, saying: : “My poor little puss, don’t cry so, or you will spoil all my happiness now in being the donor of this lovely house. “See! now, look about you darling, isn’t it pretty ?” “Oh, uncle, it is beautiful, more than beautiful, and you are too good to your poor Flora,’”? she murmured. I had shaken hands with Arthur by this time, and ask- ed after his health, and had propounded several other foolish questions in a confused manner, when Uncle Ma- son called me to assist Flora in laying aside her outer wrappings, for she had now become more composed. And so I took my darling by the hand and led her up to her own boudoir. “Oh, yes, it is lovely,’? she replied, in a half-abstracted manner to my question how she liked it? ‘But Marian,” she said, ‘you must give and live with me; be my sister, my friend, promise me here in this room never to desert m enough for us all; Uncle Mason has been a very guardian, and has swelled my comparatively tune into alarge one; besides, he is rich lims lf, and would refuse me nothing. And,’ she added, after a mo- ment’s hesitation, ‘I need, I must have your care and sympathy.”? And so before we descended to the parlors where the few friends who had been invited to meet the wedded pair had assembled, 1 had given my word to remain an inmate of the Armsdale mansion; for knew that Flora was in trouble, that there was some secret hidden away down in the innermost recesses of her heart, which she had not the strength to unvail at. present, and so I said, putting my handinhers, and, pressing my lips to her pale cheek, ‘‘I’ll stay, Flora.’? And then we went down to find Uncle Mason pacing the corridors, and looking just a little anxious, forhe,- too, had began to fear that something was a little out of the ordinary course. “Girls don’t cry like that just after being married to a man of their choice, for nothing,’? he said. all for- A year had passed, and it was again Thanksgiving Day; and the Armsdale mansion was in a perfect state of ex- citement from top to bottom; for alittle rose-bud, a. dar- ling jittle blue-eyed baby giri had dropped as it seemed trom heaven in one of the pearly snow-drops which had fallen sparsely since morning, and covered the payements with their downy moss into our midst. It was a beautiful baby, so nurse Wharton said, but it was a sad time for poor Flora; she lay there so still, white and coid that you would not believe she breathed, but once she whispered, “Arthur, where is Arthur?’ and then her eyes closed, and two large drops glistened for a moment upon, the long, silken lashes, and then ran down the pale cheek and was lost. , s “She will live!’ whispered Doctor Clinton, as he beck- oned me to the bedside; ‘‘she wil live, ‘anything to rouse her from this apathy. here is he, Miss Minturn? her husband, I mean,”’ asked the doctor. “Ah, would to Heaven I could answer that question, doctor,’ I replied; ‘che has now been absent nearly two weeks; he is often absent, leaving no tidings of his where- abouts, two and three weeks at a time.. And poor, poor Flora,’’ J whispered, forgetting for the moment how I had promised to keep her secret, and not even to let Uncle Mason know of Arthur’s singular freaks, and to me even she would not speak of her husband during his absence, except to enjoin it upon me, more forcibly not to tell Uncle Mason. But Uncle Mason knew that Flora was not happy, but what the trouble was between herself and hus- band, was entirely beyond his conception; for he believed, he knew, in fact, that they had married for love only. Flora never complained, but I had often found her weep- ing; and one day she said, think, without knowiug just what she was going to say: ‘I look hopefully to the future. I trust the time wiil come when Arthur's home ties will be strong enough to counteract his desire for.c— Prom- ise me, Marian, that,’ she said quickly, ‘should I die you will act the part of mother to my child.”’, Of course promised all she required, and then within a few days the time came when Flora lay there so still and white, I had quite feared that I should be called upon to fulfill my promise to the little stranger. But our prayers had been heard and answered, and Flora had opened her eyes again, and looked straight into her husband’s face, Who was bending over her, and entreating her forgiveness, ope his repentant tears rained upon her marble-like Ow. f “Flora, darling, forgive me,” he whispered; “I have Thad astrange presentiment that my darling Flora would |. ‘ pa tS att ~ - : — now. lve signed it, I’ve signed the temperance pledge,”’ and he held up asheet of paper upon which was drawn up the By-laws of the temperance society, to which was appended among other names, that of Arthur Armsdale. “Thank Heaven!’? murmured Flora, as her husband pressed his lips to her white brow, and Uncle Mason who had just come in, stood a little one side, and wiped his face with his handkerchief, in a very suspicious man- ner, as he said: ‘Marian isn’t it a leetle too warm in this room for sich folks ?”? The truth was out at last. Arthur Armsdale had been what is termed a periodical drunkard. He had tried to have the courage, so he afterward told Uncle Mason, to tell Flora of this one great fault before they were married, but his fear of losing her, had deterred him from making the revelation, And so he had told her soon after, and had also told her that when he felt this uncontrollable de- sire for drink coming on him he went away to a friend who cared for him until he was aguin safe. And at the time of which we write, he had come. home, haying been absent for two weeks, and found Flora at the point of death, and had looked into the deep blue orbs of his little daughter, and had touched his lips to the velvety little cheek, and had rushed from the house again like a mad mad, and joined the temperance society, and had return- ed, and stood there waiting for Flora to be able to recog- nize him, and realize the great happiness yet in store for her. Wesoon had the satisfaction of seeing our beloved Flora rapidly improving. And the baby! I had nearly for- gotten, to mention a very important event which occured as soon as Flora was up and dressed. A christening is always an interesting ceremony, but somehow this one was particularly so to me, but perhaps one reason was because Uncle Mason and I had been solicited to stand sponsors, and then too, the baby was to be called ‘‘Marian.”? —— Another year has passed and again it is Thanksgiving Day, and Arthur Armsdale has thus far kept his pledge, and a happier gathering it would be difficult to find than the one assembled around the Armsdale board on this day. And when dinner was over Uncle Mason said he would like to see us all together in the parlor, and so he offered his arm to Flora, and Arthur took me, then followed our good old pastor, with his motherly wife, and the other half-dozen of our friends, who had been invited to partake of our Thanksgiving dinner. Uncle Mason with Flora still on his arm wheeled round and faced Arthur and I, just as we entered the parlor saying: ‘‘Here, Arthur, I will trouble you to exchange partners with me, it’s hardly the thing for an engaged lady to be promenading with another woman’s husband.”’ “T knew.it, I knew it would be so,’ cried Flora. throw- ing both arms around my neck, and nearly smothering me with kisses. } ‘ “Hush now, girls, that‘l! do,’ said Uncle Mason, gently releasing me from Flora’s embrace, and leading me to the a ae the old pastor stood waiting to join usin holy wedlock. Another Thanksgiving Day has come to us, and a short distance from the Armsdale mansion stands another dwelling not less beautiful, nor arethe inmates less happy, for to-day there is tobe a christening there, and this time the sponsors are Arthur and Flora Armsdale, and the wee little black-eyed baby girl will be called Flora. BIO tevin Be “FOR AN mee s (LS Not TELL A (Tt WITH EAD z . DAMS wees TROD SSPE RSE = LENS <4 > SN Ss BX SDSS BORE a Za PES Dicer ie THE JOSH BILLINGS PAPERS, | Josh and the order ‘injaus wet a, a me tew simpathize With yny by saying, that i ant g V it. : 2 Iti% a nobel institushun, and stands ahed oy the pre- venshun ov krueltytew humans. — } It iz a fakt, that thoze who are kind tew animiles, are kind tew humans. ~ ; : ' lam not acquainted with Mr. Bergh, the president ov yure assosiashun, whom yu speak ov so kindly, idont kno me personally, butikno him at a distance, he is very tall. : : In yure letter tew me, yu speak very tenderly about the Injuns, and:ask me, “if thare sint sum way, tew alleviate the condishun ov the nobel red man on our frontier.” Yu say yuare wiiling tew bekum a missionary, and go amung m, and Jabur for their “ The injun, mi dear sir, iz a pekuliar Kuss. He haz the most, ardent simpathizers amung thoze who dont kno him the muchest. In the komposishun oy the skool girl, the injun maiden bekums a brik, and when the boys speak about him, they speak ov his bo and arrows, and hiznobel natur. Most people kno the injun from® the Hiawatha stand point, but i git mi informashun from the kritter himself. I dont livamungst him now, but in the early years ov mi misfortunes, in this latitude, i bekum striktly acquaint- ed with the nobel injun az he iz, not so mutch az he ought tew be, nor az poets hay tost him up. : Thay saw him in hiz natiff buty at home, and havmni opinyun ov him, which i am willing tew impart tew yu, at fust cost, * ; Mi advice tew yu, iz tew stay with Mr. Bergh, and stick tew the stage hoss, and make him az comfortable az yu kan, and not waste enny philanthropy, nor hallelujah, on the border injun. ; Thare aint a morevillainous individual, now loafing around loose, on the footstool, than Mr. Lo, the injun. The minnit an injun bekums what yu.kall civilized, that minnit heizspilte. . : A civilized injun aint ov enny more use tew himself, az @ means Ov STAG, nor ennybovidy else, than a tame deer. If thare could be found an iland, in the depths of the sea, whare it waz sure, no white man, nor blak man, nor blue man, would ever go, it mite do tew stock it, with the in- juns now residing on our border, and let them civilize each other. 4 ; = lam willing tew admit, thare iz a difference in the va- rious trives ov injuns. ; ; Sum are wuss, than others, but civilizashun haz never been ov enny uze ‘ew an injun. If yu ask enny border man, one who knos the kritters, he will tell yu the same story. Soe Sunday skools are a good place tew lain, the katekism, and git the hang ov the 10 commandments, but tew kno the injun, mi dear sir, yu must go amungst him. Yu kant studdy injun, and lay around a meeting honse all the time, iam sorry for this, but i dont konsider that i am tew blame for it. : As i sed above, stick tew the omnibust hoss, he iz, in mi opinyun, amore fit, and better paying investment, for yure kindness, than the best Blackfeet injun thare iz now in the rocky mountains. *: ; If. yu should go amungst this tribe, az a fast class mis- sionary, yu mite eskape with yure life, and possibly with -yure skalp, if yu did, you would have sumthing tew brag ov, the rest ov yure lile. The grate trubbie iz, the injun wont larn the virtews ov civilizashun, he iz satisfied with larning the vices, and only studdiz how tew improve on them. ruelty. and deceit, are the leading artikles in an in- juns natur, and yu mite az well undertaik tew break the Wiggle out Ov a snaix, or the sting out ov a hornet, aztew git theze two vices out oy enny specimen ov human na- tur, when they form the basis ov karakter. Kindness towards an injun, is no gurantee ov safety. When yu are amungst injuns, keep yure hand on yure revolver, and yure eye Over yure shoulder. When i waza very pretty boy, and fust began tew dwell amung romances, i red menny ov the tales, told so well, about the injun, and thought, how i would like tew be an nobel injun, and hav a wigwam, and foller the bounding deer, and lay mi venson at the feet ov a dark komplekieu buty, and several more things, ov this prerswashun, but sum years after, i found miself on the trail, and had all cs — poetry taken out Ov me, never more tew cum ack. . I dont wish tew hurt enny boddys aktual pheelings. who have made up their minds, that the injun iz a noodel krit- ter, but i will say tew them, stay at home, aud enjoy yure sentiments, ‘ Dont go amung the nobel red man, now on onr frontier, but stay at home, and write sum stanzas about him, and civilize him at a distance, : ; I hav never had but one plan tew civilize the injun, since 1 hay got old enuff tew do him enny good, and this plan iz more unique, than elegant. r Mi plan iz simpli thus,—let the government offer 10 dol- lars for every injun civilized, and jet the proof ov civili- zashun be the hatr oy the injuns head, with the skin at- tached tew it. feasts Now menny folks will hold u one horror, at this but i will bet on the plan. This iz the only way tew civilize the kind ov injun that i ama talking ov, and not hav tew do the work over agin. I dont klaim tew be the original pattentee ov this plan their hands, in number ov Civilizashun, sumthing like it occurred inthe paluy done it at last, and here itis, read it, darling, it’s all right _| crossing each other; beneath these was a three-cornered piece of Yu inform me, mi dear sir, that yu area member ov the] perigee Sewers Often these caps have a puffing | sosiety ‘for the Preweshawey: kruetty tew animiles.** ff of silk or Satin across the top, to match the little cloak or dress «cose THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 daze ov Noah, when the best plan for civilizashun, that could be thought ov, waz tew wipe out the whole race ov human beings, and make sum more. This iz mi plan, for noble red men, on the frontier, wipe them out, but here i pauze, i say, dont make enny more. Try sum other breed ov human kritter. Mi opinyun, mi dear sir, about the missionary bizzness, haz alwus bin, thatitiz a profitable bizzness, well fol- lowed, but thare iz several good ways tew de it, and sey- eral good men tew invest in the undertaking. Sum are kalkulated tew make the good better, sum are kalkulated tew make the better almost perfekt, but thare aint but phew, ov the right bore, kalkulated tew work in the vineyard ov the wild border savage, and thoze, are theze, whoze piety konsists, in shooting at a mark, and hitting the bull’s eye every time. I say once more, mi friend, stick to the omnibust hoss, and let thoze missionarys, on the borders, the skalps ov whoze wifes, and children, are now hung up az trophys in the wigwams ov the nobel red man, let them civilize the injuns, They will do it so that it will stay did. Tam the last man tew throw enny thing in the way oy yure gitting a good job, espeshily in the missionary bizz- ness, but i kant reckomend enny man, tew this partikular situashun, unless i kno he understands the use ov a gain twist rifle,and kan civilize a Pawnee, every time, 440 yards, with a cross wind, —————_>-2+____ “Just Once.” Although the circulation of the New Gane is now larger than that of any paperin the Union, we are anxious to double it. And this increase may be effected ifour friends will only aid us. Let each subscriber en- deavor to induce some acquaintance who is not a reader of the NEW YORK WEEKLY to begin reading it. Our pre- sent readers admire its contents, and eagerly watch for its arrival. New readers are certain to be fascinated by its many attractions, and we ask our friends to give them the opportunity by placing the paper before them, and speaking of it as it deserves. We hope our friends will begin the good work at once. Let each subscriber put in the hands of an acquaintance a copy of the NEw YORK WEEKLY containing the opening part of Mrs. May Agnes Fleming’s great story, ‘WEDDED, YET No WIFE,’’ and ask him or her, as a favor, to read it. To each person this will be a trifling duty easily performed; but the combined result will be immense.» It will double the already enormous circulation of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, and in a short time our regular issue will be over half a million of copies. Now, friends, aid us in this matter—just once THE LADIES’ WORK-BOXx. A department designed especially for ladies, wherein will be an- swered all questions which may be asked by correspondents, re- iating to fashion, the different styles of dress, combination of colors, needle-work of all kinds, the arrangement of the hair, etiquette—in short, anything of especial interest to ladies.] The universal adoption of false hair does not seem to interfere, in the least, with the wearing ot caps by elderly ladies, or those who wish to assume a matronly appearance. e dignity of age —— take the liberty of addressing a few lines to you in praise of your splendid paper, the NEw YORK WEEKLY. I have read it ever since it was published. For the last ten or more years I have got it of the news agentsin Penn Yan. I claim to be one of the oldest, if not the oldest of your subscribers, and I have never seen a week when I thought I could get along withoutit. I have seen the. NEW YORK WEEKLY start from mere nothing, and grow to its present immense circulation of over 300,000. I have read other papers of that class, but in my penenrcnt they don’t begin to compare with the NEw YORK WEEKLY. It may be that I am prejudiced on account of my long acquaintance with your paper, which makes it seem like one of the family. It would be simply foolish in me, a farmer, to undertake to criticise your writers, or tell which I like best. What would please me wouldn’t please some one else. You have a splendid corps of writers, and can- not help but please every one, and I hope to live to see your present circulation doubled, and I have no doubt you will do jit if you keep your paper up to its present standard.” Aiphonte Moulton, ot Harrison, Me., writes: “I have not read the New YORK WEEKLY for sometime until within a few weeks. I think it is much better than it ever was before. I consider it the very best literary paper in the world. The ‘Knowledge Box’ contains information which is worth more than the paper costs. The stories, both the serials and the sketches, are first-class, and the humorous portion is first-rate. Indeed, 1 consider the whoie make up of the paper as near perfect as itcan be. I congratulate ou on being fortunate enough to engage May Agnes Fleming to rite for its columns. She is one of my favorite authors, and her writings cannot fail to add to your large circulation. May your circula:ion grow larger and larger, until it is the largest of any paper in the world, The above is not written as flattery, but is my honest opinion.” _ . Boo vis.—Your subscription expires with No. 3, Vol. Mrs. Landon.—The only advice we can give you is to advertise, _ any to advertisements for personsto fill situations of the kind esired. “Elsie”? writes from Maple Villa: “I think I must tell you what a victory you have gained in my household. Ihave been a subscriber of yours for the past three years, and whenever the paper arrives have to leave everything else and devour its con- tents. My husband always poohed at it until recently, when he first became interested in ‘Josh,’ then ‘Aunt Jerushy’ engaged his attention, and now my brother has become interested in ‘On- ward and Upward,’ and there is quite a rivalry between us when the mail arrives as to which shall have the first reading. I think the paper improves with age, and the last number eannot be ex- celled. The introduction of the ‘Work-Box’ is a great improve- ment, and very thankful am I for the many useful hints I obtain from its recesses. I also wish to thank you for your defense of temperance, for, though living in a quiet country village, where we see but little of its effects, yet by occasional visits to New York and other cities, we have seen enough to be able to judge some- thing of its horrors.” C. H. Taylor.—We will consider the matter, but cannot do any- thing in regard to it at present. Harry Glaston, ot Louisville, Ky., writes asfollows: ‘“Seeingso many complimentary letters published in your paper from your delighted readers, I think it my duty to write you in regard to your valuable paper here. It seems to be the favorite paper with every one, old and young. I think ‘The Wife’s Foe’ has in- creased its popularity at least ten per cent., and another story by the same gifted pen would immortalize it. I have read the NEW YORK WEEKLY for two years, and like it now better than ever. In my estimation it 1s the paper of the age. Success is certain, so there is no use in my wishing it.” ———_>- =< ______ ITEMS OF INTEREST. _ 8@> In the department of zool and botany at the last meet- ing of the British Association, Mr. C. W.. Leach read a paper de- scribing a tailless variety of trout, specimens of which were ex- hibited. They were taken in a lake about one thousand feet above the sea-level, and not above an acre in extent. This was so shal- low that a man could wade through it, had a hard bottom, with but few weeds, and although surrounded by other lakes, these tailless trout were found only in it. They fed on thesmall crusta- ceans occurring in the lake, and were all in good condition. A sportsman who had fished the place for thirty years had never found one with a apg tail, whence it was suggested that the trout, being unable to mix with other trout, were perpetuated in this. way. Cases were cited of streams where the trout were wanting. Concerning the trout without tails, no attempt was made to account for the peculiarity, but the author mentioned as lowness Of the water the fish had ground their tails away against is something to be proud of, and even the first gray hair is not to be ignored. We could write columns about ourideas of age, but we must confine ourselves to caps. _ A very pretty cap had a coronet front of green plaited ribbon, with coiffure made of white dotted net, trimmed with blonde lace, and narrow velvet runin the meshes, the coiffure forming the nas, Another, of white blonde and net, h black Rus- sian braid run through the meshes, and a front piece of black oak garnitured with Marguerites, and headed by a ruching of ace A very dainty Parisian novelty is of blue velvet and blonde lace, the coronetted front of lace quilling subdivided by bows of blue velvet. A cloth of gold rose surmounted the top in front, while a fall of black lace was across the back;-still lower or over the buck braids or chignon were two pieces or bands of velvet, lace, and a beautiful spray of buds and leaves of the golden rose, finished by ends of black lace and blue velvet. A pretty cap had astreamer of green velvet, trimmed with black laces, extending from the front and falling over a white lace vail in the back, green velvet bow on the right side, and a cluster of brown and white flowers on the left; streamers ot black and white lace. - ( “Another had a fall of black over white lace in the back, while the front consisted of white lace and pink gros grain ribbon, clusters of Mermperites at. the sides, and streamers of pink gros grain ribbon, trimmed with white iace. : A pretty cap of white lace had garniture of black velvet and rink fiowers. A particularly tasty cap of gray lace had a. lon; vail, separated in the center by a rosette of delicately sha lilac velvet. ‘ The front, a coronet of quilled blonde, with loops of velvet; at the side, a cluster of asters and morning-glories. The widow’s cap is still a three-cornered piece, trimmed simp) with the crepe ruching. The head dresses of lace are very mu in favor, and some of them are very expensive, often a tiny head- piece costing as much as fifty dollars. _ For intants, there are all kinds of dainty caps for outdoor wear, for the old style of putting on caps for the house is teas out of date; the sensible verdict is, that it is unhealthy for the ead to be coyered all the time, causing heat in the head of the the bottom. Ba A letter from the Chief of Police in Milwaukee to a gentle- man in Boston describes the devastation there as fearful. One of », the most peculiar events connected with it, however, was the . stampede of wild animals from the prairies and thickets into the villages. Bears, prairie wolves, and prairie dogs, usually preying ° upon each other, joined together in a race for life. Even the rab- bits and smaller animals joined unharmed in the flight from the fire. @> When King Amadeus sent a tel m to the ex-Empress Eugenie, asking what honors she wished to have rendered heron her visit to Spain, she replied that she desired to travel in the strictest privacy. Her adversities, she added, had made her in- different to pomp and ceremony. She returned to Spain as an unfortunate woman, anxious to see once more the land of her birth, where she had been so happy. SG A Mr. Croseman, of Huron county, Michigan, awoke one night, lately, from a great dream of peace to find a swarm of » little busy bees in bed with him. They had taken possession of the sleeves and other dependencies of his shirt, and were making themselves sociable. He vacated that linen with alacrity. SQ Douay, France, has sold its guillotine. A large number of spectators were present this singular auction. A captaih in the ‘National Guard bought the knife for about $1 25, and the woodwork was knocked down at $6. Both are for a Lon mu- seum. It is remarkable that in all those places in the West which were overrun by the potato-bug last summer, and everything in the shape of a potato eaten up, the crops were never known to be so large as they are this fall. : XRG An adventuress, calling herself Baroness de Lagarde, was recently convicted of swindling, in the criminal court of Vienna. In the course of her examination she stated that she had former- ly been a milliner in Philadelphia, and a lobbyist in Washington. G@> The largest building for religious purposes in the east of London was opened several weeks ago, for the use of the Baptist © con; ation under the pastorate of the Rey. A. G. Brown, for- h little one, which sometimes materially retards the growth of the hair. Most of the winter caps for infants are made of merino or cashmere, richly embroidered with silk floss, in bunches of leaves and flowers, and around the edges in sc pe The arrow ribbon, sometimes in with which it is to be worn. ; The Valenciennes lace caps are still very fashionable, but they cost more than the merino, and therefore will not be as generally adopted, except by those who have considerable money to invest upon those expensive household dainties babies. We also find some very pretty and comfortable hoods in worsted, knitted, crocheted, and woven, Which sell at very reasonable rates. These are mostly made of white, and have little knots of colors over the front. In selecting or bonnets for babies, our friends should be careful tosee that nothing rough or harsh comes in con- tact with the tender ears of the little wearers. Very often the Val- enciennes caps, particularly, have a stiff foundation, which, if the cap is not lined with silk, will rub nst the ears of the child, and cause a most uncomfortable feeling, which as the poor little one cannot explain it must endure in silence. . This is 7p the time to give our friends some generai ideas in regard to hats and bonnets. Which are the most stylish, high or low crowns? A most difficult question to answer, for all styles seem to be fashionable. For children, the sailor’s hat seems to be as much in tavor asever. This has a round fla e low, and a poe pom. It is ies ee with Seen af ribbon or velvet, with a golden ship embroidered upon the en and a standing wing of some bright lumaged id On one side. Scotch caps and hats are also general opted for both and ; be girls, from one to six or seven years of age. The soft are Le 8 popular, on account of their pliability, and beave cause they do not easily soil. 1n truth, every style is in fav ‘ We will give a few hints about the present styles of adies: A pretty hat for a young lady was of white felt, shape a high crowned turban. The brim was faced with white velvet; near the top of the crown was a fold of pink velvet in the center of one of white. Over the right side was a rosette and pon-pon of pink, and an exquisite white ostrich plume, which extended over the hat sideways, and down the back. One of pearl velvet had a soft crown, rather high, surmounted in the back by a bow of pearl-colored satin ribbon, and a blue lume. Around the crown was a standing plaiting of blue velvet, nished by a coil of the blue and pearl ribbon and velvet. Another hat in a rich shade of dark green, had for ornamenta- tion a puff of the velvet, edged on each side with thread lace. In the back, almost in the top of the crown, was a black plume, and loops and ends of rich gros grain, A brown velvet hat was very stylishly trimmed with a coil of two shades of the brown. The front piece consisted offa fan,shaped ornament of velvet, bound with lighter shade of silk, and held in place by a large jet pin. A long willow plume extended from the front over the crown and down the b : The bonnets do not differ materially from the hats with the ex- ception of the strings. A very elegant bonnet was of black velvet, very high crown ornamented with jet trimmings in arrows and flowers, exquisite ostrich plumes and tips, and a blue bow, in the most delicate shade at the side. “ : , The front was rolled back and covered with a quilling of blue, over which was black thread lace; very long strings of blue gros- grain ribbon. e of the novelties in bonnets have face trim- mings of split ostrich feathers curled. These bonnets cost as high as fifty and seventy-five dollars. A very pretty bridal bon- net was of white uncut velvet, trimmed with black thread lace, its for and a white tip or plume tipped with black. The flowers were white in beds of black lace. The effect was very elegant. A dainty bonnet of blue velvet was ornamented with white lace and delicate blush roses, with sprays of leaves and buds. The coronetted front was garnitured with the buds, and was something like the old style cottage bonnet. Another bonnet in drab velvet and silk, was three stories high, and most fantastically trimmed with clusters of exquisite moss roses and buds. j It is most difficult to designate the favorite materials for hats and bonnets, as everything seems to be popular. Felts are used for common wear, and are in various shapes; one calied the Tyro- lise is high in the crown, rather steeple shape, and is trimmed with bands of velvet, ajaunty wing of a bird, and is rolled brimmed and indented in the crown. It is used for traveling purposes. For full dress, velvet and gros grain have a decided preference, and black is more than colors, although the new, ri shades are used to correspond with some of the elegant suits, which are so popular. Beavers, too, are much worn, and are shaped like those of the gentlemen, but are not quite so tallin the crown, Low sailor hats and turbans’ are made in all mate- rials. For trimmings we find velvets, satins, gros — and lute- string ribbons, and by the piece. Ostrich and vulture plumes, in great variety, long, and in tips, and in black, white, and ail gay colors. jso the wings and breast feathers, as well asthe heads of beautifully colored foreign birds. The flowers «f this season are most exquisite, and serm almost too delicate and perfect to desecrate by wearing them. The sprays of autumn leaves are. very popular, and have all the changing huesof the natural leaves. For laces we find the Brussels net, the ordinary blonde, and a variety of thread laces, which are rich and costly. Oftimes we find all of these trimmings including jet ornaments upon one hat or bonnet. This truly is an age of extravagance in dress. > 6 PERSONAL. James H. Hale and Truth are informed that whatever may be said or written to the contrary, Mrs. May Agnes Fleming has been engaged to write hereatter exclusively for the NEw YORK WEEKLY. Theseriais referred to are reprints of stories written several years ago; and AuL stories purporting to have been written by her, and appearing in any other paper than the New YORK WEEKLY, are either republications or have been written while she w 8 still in the commencement of her careerasa novelist; and although they do not compare with “Wedded, Yet no Wife,” commenced in the present number of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, still they do not fail to add to her already brilliant rep- utation, and consequently aid the NEw YORK WEEKLY by keep- ing her name constantly befure the public, who understand that her future efforts will appear on/y in the New YorRK WEEKLY, and her admirers will, as a matter of course, seek the paper in which her latest and best productions will appear. e assure our cotein pu raries that we are -thanktul for the gratuitous ad- vertising we are receiving at their hands, and are glad to see that they appreciate and assist usin our endeavors to convince the public that in securing Mrs. Fleming we have added another bright star to our already brilliant literary constellation. | L. R. writes from Brooklyn: “I take pleasure in writng to you that IT am charmed with the serials called ‘The Unknown Suitor’and ‘Upward.and Onward,’ and think that you deserve great credit for publishing such interesting stories. I miss no op- portunity to advise everybody who delights in good reading to buy the New YORK WEEKLY.” merly a student in’ Mr. Spurgeon’s College. Ba Felix Pyat, a Communist, escaped from Paris in a coffin and ina hearse. He was attended by a mournful widow, whose lugubrious aspect suddenly cha as she and her defunct found themselves secure on board an English steamer off Havre. n@> A child was born in Lincoln ¢ounty, Tennessee, recently, without bowels, and having only one eye, no palate to its aonn its hands badly deformed, and with six toes on one of its feet. 8G Wisconsin and Michigan will lose nearly all their fur bear- ing animals by the great woods fire. iG One-half of the depositors of the Boston Savings Bank are girls and women. RG While a woman, with a sick child in her arms, was bei triedin an Enel police-court, the child died. eer! It is estimated that one-seventh of the population of America are’church mem BG@> The largést portion of seamen who come to the port of New York are of German nationality. en B@> A party of Americans are shooting crocodiles on the Upper Nile and nding their hides to New York. m ug A Cuban has arrived at New York for the purpose of in- vesting a million in real estate. . , xg The late war damaged the French railways $16,000,000, ———_>90~<+—______—_ TO CORRESPONDENTS. Ba GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.— E. Haslinger.—The present mode of distributing time is called the Gregorian calendar, which first came into operation in Octo- ber, 1582. That in use previous to this, and which is still used in the Russian empire, is called the Julian calendar, from Julius Cesar, who, 45 B. C., fixed the solar year at 365 daysand 6 hours, every fourth year being leap year. This arrangement prevailed generally until the date mentioned above, a defective in this particular, that the solar ool consisted of days, 5 hours and 49 minutes, instead ot days and6 hours. This differ- ence then amounted to ten entire days, the vernal equinox fall- ing on the llth instead of the 21st of March, To obviate this error Gregory ordained, in 1582, that that year should consist of 356 days only, October 5 becoming October 15. To prevent further ir- regularity, it was ordered that every yearending a century should not be counted as a leap year; excepting the 400th year, year, but 1700 and and the multiples of 400. Thus 1600 was a lea) 1800 were not, nor will 1900 be, but 2000 will. In this manner three days are retrenched in 400 years, because the lapse of eleven minutes in a year makes three days in about that period........ T. C. V. H.—\st. See ‘‘Knowledge Box.” 2d. You can purchase of any bookseller cards with interest calculated for any amount at any length of time.......... Sincere Admirer.—|st. Mr. Alger’s new story, ‘“‘Brave and Bold, or the Fortunes of Robert Rushton,” will be commenced as soon as we can find s after the novel- ties already announced have appeared. 2d. list already com- prises many of the finest novelists of the and to which we are constantly adding other brilliant inteilects. 3d. The serials we have in preparation for the volume just opened, are far supe- rior to anything we have heretofore published, as our readers will unhesitatingly admit during the pr of the year. 4th. We cannot furnish bound volumes of the NEw YORK WEEKLY.... J.S8 —“Cannibal Jack” is out of print. .... K.P. F. T.—We doubt if you can have the cane mended, unless by banding it to- gether..... Knight.—\st. Grand jurors are not elected by the people. The usual mode is to put into a box the names of ail per- sons qualified to serve as such, and the officer of the county whose duty it is to select the jury draws a certain number of names from it, when the sheriff notifies them to that effect. In this city a certain number of names are selected by a commission of law officers, and from this list the grand juries are drawn during the year. 2d. Town officials are elected under different titles—select- men, town committee, etc...... Ralph.—Young Men’s Christian Associations may be said to have originated with the Waldenses, during the fifteenth century. At that time, when the whole com- munity possessed but one manuscript Bible, and it was necessary to read portions of it daily, associations of young men were formed, who were required to commit to memory different por- tions of the Holy Seen an Thus, at their daily gatherings, in- stead of reading the Holy Book, one man repeated from memory the lessons for the day, another the epistle, and another the gos- PS Non D. Script.—ist. Tete-a-tete means head to head, It is used to express a private or familiar conversation. 2d. An ai- derman isa member of a municipal board, in many cases en- dowed with the functions of a petty magistrate. 3d. The lady is living. 4th. We cannot inform you. 5th. The cost to join the Board of Brokers of the Stock Exchange is $10,000. The Beard is limited to a certain number, and when a vacancy occurs the can- didate has to be proposed and elected as in other bodies. 6th. Fair. 7th. Various prices...... Florence Armst: .—“Lady Le- onora,” by Carrie Conklin, is being prepared for publication, and will be commenced as early as possible...... J. L.—We do not find the name of the steamer advertised in any of the transatlan- tic lines.:.... Constant Reader, Englewood.—About five years. ..... ‘The following MSS. have been accepted: “What She Said,” ‘Cheap Pity,” ‘Struck ss! Lightning,” ‘“‘What is Death,” “Charity,” “My Boy,” “The Worst Girl in School,” ‘How Arnold Escaped Capture,” ‘‘A Few Thoughts on Mrs. Holmes’ Works,” “Eli Rogers’ Resolve.” The following will appear in a new mam- moth monthly soon to be issued: “A Vision of Heaven.” The following are respectfully declined: “The Past,” “The Voyage of Life,”’ “Kindness,” “Jennie Moore’s Trials,” ‘Vicissi- tuden”? “Only Waiting,” ‘“‘One Lost Rose,” “Born Poor and Died Rich,” “The Garden City,” ‘A Self-made Man,” ‘My Es- teemed Friend,” ‘‘Was She Right,” “Tom, the Bootblack,” “Darling Anne,” “My Eighteenth Birthday,” “Melon Stealing,” “The Broken Vow,” “To Jennie,” ‘tA Little Child’s Mission,” “A Fragment.” > e~< THE bookstore of our old friend, Colonel John D. Egan, place of attraction for those who desire to add to their libraries rare and valuable works. He has recently crowded his shelves with a valuable stock of literature, comprising theological, medical, legal, mechanical, and miscellaneous -_publications, which he offers at auction prices. Of course he sells the NEw YORK WEEKLY, which accounts for the crowd that gathers in his store on publication day. Back numbers of the NEW YORK WEEKLY may always be obtained at the store of the genia! colonel. ——>2+———_ The publication of the “Life Sketches of David, Cum- Harrison Sisson writes from Penn Yan, N, Y., as follows: “I midge’’ will be resumed next week. — 28 found with deficient fins, the tail fin being sometimes altogether | one of the popular notions regarding it that because of the shal- | No. 133 Smithfield street, Pittsburgh, is at present a noted - Shae lie.  ae Zz cas ALL BORN IN OCTOBER. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO F. 8. STREET. BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH. Father, mother, and children three, All members of one family, A curious thing indeed to see, All born in sad October. No birth-day record do they need— If they the year and day but heed, The month is very plain indeed— For each it is October. All came when leaves were brown and sere, And nature’s face was dark and drear— The saddest season of the year— The month of brown October. But may no envious Autumn come To cast a shadow on their home, And may their lives be sunshine from October to October. Around the white throne may they stand, A still united, happy band, When they have reached the “better land” Where there is no October. Father, mother, and children three, All members of one family, A curious thing indeed to see, All born in sad October. Old Moscow, THE KING OF TRAPPERS. By Judson 8S. Gardner. commenced last week. Ask any Nevys will get the first part of the story. ] [“Old Moscow” was Agent for No. 2, and you , CHAPTER IV. WANDERING IN DARKNESS. Concealed by the thick bushes into which she had fall- en, the poor girl lay for a long time, knowing nothing of what was passing around her; but when sensibility again returned, the full terrors of her situation instantly forced themselves upon her bewildered brain, and she trembled at her future. : With the caution she had learned of Old Moscow daring their brief and rapid journey, she slowly arose, looked around, and listened. There was nothing to be seen or heard, and emboldened by the silence, she stole out from the concealment of bushes, and crept slowly toward the brow of the cliff. It was as desolate as if man had never been there—was torn, and trampled, and crumbled away; the roots of the tree to which the white man had hung were broken, and everything told of the fearful end of the murdered and murderer. ‘ ; Still, there might have been. some strangely accidental escape; and to satisfy herselfas much &s it was possible for her to do, she laid down and drew herself carefully to the edge, and endeavored to penetrate the gloomy depths. Then the mists gathered still more thickly in her eyes, and her brain whirled. She could see dark objects lying at the bottom, and hundreds of foul birds of prey wheeling around, settling upon, and fighting for a portion of the horrid feast. : That the roots of the tree had broken with the double weight; that one had dragged the other down, down, to be impaled upon the cruel rocks, and be»crushed out of allsemblance of humanity, she was certain. 4 Filled with thoughts, that: changed even if they did not do away with her sorrowful ones, the wretched girl now hastened to a spot from which she could com- mand a view of the country for miles around, and looked anxiously for the hills Old Moscow had pointed out. But there were high points of land upon every side—some that appeared quite near, and someata distance, andshe could not decide which were the friendly ones, yd ; To her untrained eyes there was nothing to distinguish the one from the other, but she at length settled the mat- ter to her satisfaction, and began to journey in the direc- tion she had chosen—in a directly opposite course to that she believed she was going. In fuct, though she was not then aware of it, she was lost. But with rapid feet she hastened along the rugged way; frightened at every bush—seeing Indians form in every stump, and an Indian face in every. thicket—startled by every stirring of a leaf—every cracking of a branch—by every call of a bird and plash of musk-rat into the water, until she began to grow faint with hunger and weary from unwonted exertion. Reflection only added to her torture. She had no know- ledge of woodcraft—knew nothing: of the ways in which a hunter or even squaw would soon have procured plenty and scarcely dared to. put leaf or bark into her mouth for fear they might be poison. In such a state of affairs bodily rest afforded but little real relief, and soon she started again and kept wandering until night came again, whenshe sank to the earth, and there remained till morn- ig dawned. Y 5 ‘ Then the fact that-she was Jost burst upon her with ap- paling force, and she bowed her head and wept long and bitterly. But the idea of dying there alone gave her strength, and she began again her hopeless journey. Noon came, and the hot sun parched still more her lips, and appeared to make her biood boil in the veins—night and the heavy dew and cold wind chilled her form, until her bones seemed ice. All her desperate struggles to gain home were ended now. Shecould go no farther. She haa finished the last foot of her earthly journey unless as- sistance came, and that speedily. She reeled and fell. Her eyes grew dim and her brain clouded. Strange thoughts floated through it, until her intense longings were condensed into, and found utterance in the single word: “Water!” For a brief season tired nature gave way, and she slept, though only to dream such terrible, startling dreams, as caused her to start up suddenly. And again and again this was repeated, until even as the mad desire for drink became too terrible to endure, tle sense of blessed gratifi- cation stole over her swimming brain—cool, sparkling water was held to her lips, and she drank such a draught as no one save the shipwrecked sailor or one in the same situation as herself ever dreamed of. She drank, opened her eyes, sayw who had given the water to her, and sank back again fhto the arms that were holding her. The young man at her side was of fair face and strong form, and the look of anxiety showed how very deeply his feelings were interested—showed what it would have crimsoned his face to speak—the true state of his heart. His dress, and the arms he carried, revealed the trapper, and his knowledge of the woods that he was no novice, “Heaven be thanked,’ he murmured, from lips almost as colorless as those of the girl whose head he pillowed tenderly against his swiftly beating heart, ‘‘that my steps were guided tew this spot whar her precious form war lyin, and that she am not dead. But ef she should die!’’ Crushed by the thought, he laid her gently down, brought more water, and bathed the ashy face—held the improvised cup of bark to her trembling lips, and silently prayed, as he had never done before, for her restoration. And at length his efforts were crowned with success. The blae eyes opened, the form was gently raised—rich biushes mantied the soft cheeks as she saw how closely she was held, and the change from utter despair and al- most death to safety, and the promise of life acted like a charm. “Philip! Philip Lee!” she exclaimed, though in the softest of whispered words. ‘Heaven must have guided you. But had you been an hour later you would only have found my—my corpse!” “Yes, it must have been Heavyen—or, as Old Moscow would say, your good angel. But wharam he? How did yer come here ?”’ f “Old Moscow,’’? she answered, pointing reverentially upward, “is with the angels.” ‘“Dead!? “Give me some food—let me gain a little strength and I willtell you the sad story. lam dying of hunger; for over two days not a single morsel lias passed my lips.” “Merciful Heaven! You starving ter death, and Old Moscow already dead!’ and the iron frame of the man shook like one in convulsions. But he hastened to produce his little store of dried ven- ison and parched corn—brought a fresh supply of water, murmuring the while against the coarseness of the fare, and that if she would but wait he would procure some- thing better fitted for her delicate nature. As well might he have asked tlie starving wolf or win- ter-famished bear to wait; as it was he had to use gentle force to keep her from bringing death by the very food she had so much longed for. He kKnewthe danger of over-eating after so long a fast, and when the keen edge of the appetite was somewhat blunted he refused to give her more, and asked again for the particulars of the death of his old friend. ‘Fle died for me,’’ wasthe tearful answer; and she soleinnly repeated the story, “Bub the cussed Injun died with him!’’ answered the young trapper, his tace lighting up with enthusiasm, though it instantly afterward darkened with revenge. “Yes, they must have had one fate. and so horrivle that it makes my blood run cold even to think of it.” “Thar’ll be more Injuns diel’ was the vindictive re- sponse. ‘‘He war the truest and best man that ever fol- lered er trail; and though I knowef any man war ever taken hum to glory he war, yet his old bones wouldn’t restin peace ef he wasn’t revenged. But that’s time enuff fer that. NowImust git yer outon ther woods, and back ter-——”’ “My dear father and mother. Oh, tell me of them ?’? “It'll be er blessed’day when they have yer back in thar arms, fer they am mournin’ powerful bad, and ther last words yer poor mother said when I cum away was that she’d never see her Maggie agin.’? The girl looked at him with thankful cyes, even though they were still swimming in tears—with eyes that be- trayed warmer feelings than she would have permitted her tongue to utter. Slic had been attracted toward him when they first met, as he had been to her; and amid such scenes love is a plant that quickly blossoms. She looked upon him, too, as having saved her life; and when he spoke of returning to hunt for Old Moscow’s body, the color ljeft her cheeks, and he felt her weight grow more heavy upon his arm as they walked slowly aloug. Both were drinking in deep and delicious draughts of that feeling which is the nearest to heaven—both thinking of the time when danger would be passed, and they cou!d pour out the wealth of their hearts into each other’s wil- ling ears. And conversing with eavh other, they almost forgot their still perilous situation, until the whistling of a bullet put a sudden ending to their ideal dreams of hap- piness, and the young trapper fell backward with a heavy groan—the girl screaming and clinging to him. But in an instant she was torn away and hurled to a distance—the half-risen trapper knocked senseless by the blow of a tomahawk and bound handand foot. Thenshe was rudely lifted from the place where she had fallen, and saw to her dismay that she was again in the power of the chief who had at first abducted her—he whom Old Mos- cow had told her was the most cruel and brutal of all his re aad tue or Horse SHOE—the war-chief of the ioux. But no time was given for thought. Lifting the sense- less body of her lover in his arms the Indian drove her before him with his hatchet until he reached his horse, threw his burden upon it, and. guided her back to a cap- tivity that was worse than death! CHAPTER V. FROM DEATH UNTO DEATH. From the moment of his fall Old Moscow gave up every hope of escape, forthough he had been in many a des- perate situation, none had ever rivalled this. Suspended between heaven and earth, deprived of the use of his Old Moscow.—The wolves dashed on hands—with the heavy weight of the Indian hanging about his neck like the nether millstone and prodacing strangulation, it would have been madness to think of escape. He tried to pray, but nothing could escape his lips. Even had he been hanging there alone his situation would have been bad enough with the blood all rushing iato liis head, and death would soon have followed—now it must be almost instantaneous. But he was mercifully deprived of feeling even before he had time to fully comprehend all the terrors with which he was compassed—hung as a dead man until the hands of the Indian released their clasping, and the body plunged down to a living death. Yet even when the compressing power about his throat was gone, the old trapper knew nothing until the almost expired life surged up again within him and he found himself lying under a tree with a body of Indians drenching him with water. Never had aman been so literally rescued from the jaws of death, and never had one more curiosity to know how it had been accomplished, but for the time he was dumb. It was hours before his bruised throat, and swollen lips and tongue would answer the will sufficiently to articu- late, and by that time he had been brought back to the very prison wigwam from which he had mysteriously es- eaped. As soon, however, as he could articulate lhe be- gan to question his guards. ; The story was short but plausible. Theconfiict had been witnessed by several of their number who were following upon the trail—they had been near when he had fallen, and hastened to the rescue, and though too late to save the one of their own blood, had succeeded in doing so by him and taken the most ready means to restore him to sensibility. “It’s mighty hard,’? he almost grumbled, ‘ter bring er dead man back ter life jest fer ther sake of killin’ him ergin. But ef ’tis ther good Lord’s will I’m content.” “The pale face fears death,’? was the sneering reply. “No more’n any other man, but he’s erfool who don’t, fer ther best on us haint none ter good, andi know l’ve got my full share of sins ter answer fer. But if yer mean that I fear ther pain of dyin’, it haint so.” “The torture of fire will make him sing another song.”’ “7 know that ther flesh am weak and that I haint no stronger nor ernother man, but ef yer think that Old Mos- cow will——” “Old Moscow!’ was repeated by a hundred tongues, with the utmost astonishment, for his fame had reached even their ears, and their joy knew no bounds at having such a man for a captive. “Yes, that am my name—that is ther one I am best known by, and I ’spose it’sjest as good as any other. Anyhow I haint goin’ ter deny it.” ; Yet for all his bola avowal he would not have done so if he had reflected for a moment, for it would make them take extra precautions against the possibility of escape and render his death more horrible. “Old Moscow!’? was repeated again and again, and even the squaws and boys crowded forward to see one so famous. On the evening of the third day of his captivity, a stir in the village told of some unexpected and gratifying event, and placing his eyes toa chink in the bark covering of the wigwam, he saw that which caused a greater chill of horror to pass through his frame, than the knowledge of his own certain and terrible fate had done. Riding in triumph into the village came the great chief, dragging behind him by ropes placed around their necks and fastened to the saddle, were two prisoners, with tied hands, and the first glance showed him that they were the beautiful giri for whom he haa risked his life, and his favorite companion, the young trapper, Philip Then the blood of the old man fairly boiled, and his feelings found vent in the strongest words of indignation and scorn, though uttered under his breath. “The mean, sneaking dogs!’ he said, ‘‘ter drag er wo- man by the neck; and the poor boy tu. Ef ever ther war er tribe that desarved ter be sent hullsale ter perdition, it am ther Sioux—ther miserable cut throats.* But I do hope ther boy wont be fool ernuff ter let on that he Knows me. Ef I kin only make them think that we am strangers and git them ter put him in the same wigwam then.” But seeing that one of the braves was drawing near, he con- tinued aloud: ‘‘Whoam they draggin’ along like er dorg ?”’ “Do you not know him??? was the quick question. “Meknow er fellowthat haint got no more pluck nor that? Before I'd suffer sich disgrace, I jist drap down and be strangled to death. Me Know him? I hope they wont disgrace me by puttin sich a coward in the same wigwain.”? ? But such appeared to be the determination, for the mo- ment Lee was released from his not only disgraceful, but dangerous position, he was led thither, notwithstanding the protestations of Old Moscow, and rudely thrown down and bound. This appeared to have been the orders of the chief who had made botit him and the girl prisoners, as it would require doubie the number of guards to watch them if separated. And it was well that the young trap- per was quick-witted, and understood that they were to appear as strangers, for there were a dozen pair of sharp eyes fixed upon them, and the least change of expression would have been fatal to the plans ol Oid Moscow. Stillhe did not hesitate to talk, and after rating his companion soundly upon the ignominious manner in which he had been brought into the village, he questioned him to how, when and where he was captured, and learned all he wished to know. “Wal,’? he said, “you’ve got todie, and all the advice The Sioux Indians are universally known as “Cut Throats” from the fact.of their making a motion with the hand across the throat when they wish to designate to any one at a distance the tribe to which they belong. All tribeg have a sort of Masonic sign of this character, and this is theirs, THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. — ana SD ¢ Oo I’ve got to give yer is not ter disgrace yer white blood, but die like erman. But dont talk any more. I hate cow- ardly boys!” The rest of the day was past apparently in the most sul- len silence, yet they managed to converse at intervals, and Old Moscow thoroughly posted his friend. But when night came—and fortunately it was one of extreme storm and darkness—they managed to get their heads near to- gether, and whispered without restraint, Then the plan that Old Moscow had formed at the first sight of Lee was matured and acted upon. Though tied hand and foot, the deer-skin strings were not proof against the sharp teeth of a determined man, and in a much shorter time than would have been deemed possible the old trapper had the full use of his hands, and had given freedom also to his companion. To have put themselves out of the way of danger was then an easy task, and they would have laughed at being overtaken had it not been for the captive girl. Now they would either save her or lose their own lives. Hastily stripping off the blanket from the dead brave, and wrapping himself up in it, the old trapper disappeared in one direction, while his companion stole like a shadow in another. Whatever they intended todo must be done quickly, and five minutes had not elapsed before a wig- wam was in flames at the farther end of the encampment, and a hostle war-whoop rang through the woods. With a dexterity that appeared like magic hundreds of armed warriors, sprang toward the point of alarm, while the squaws ran hither and thither making night hideous with their yells. But all too soon the subterfuge was dis- = SS > ————— in Front and completely hemmed thener covered. No volley of arrows and bullets came from the timber, and the wigwam was speedily extinguished. But another, and still another, blazed in different parts of the encampment. Yet they were too valueless to demand at- tention, and a rush was made by the warriors for the prison house, to find that algcén flawies. at oy ' Yhen each intuitively knew what had happened, and rushed for their horses to scour the country, and cut off the fugitives. Buta few followed the chief to where the girl had been confined to find the two old squaws who had guarded her—one of them the mother of the chief—quiv- ering in the agonies of death, and the girl missing! Outwitted, beaten at every point, with the fire commnu- nicating from wigwam to wigwam until half the village was burning, the great HORSE-SHOE acted like one bereft of his senses. He stamped the earth in impotent rage, tugged at his scalp-lock as if he would tear it out by the roots, and cursed his followers, forgetting how much de- pended upon speedy action. But he was not long thus. He choked down his rage, and having secured his horse, dashed madly away, with the blazing homes of many of the red men illuminating the forest so that he could see for a considerable distance. With the feeling that he had baffied any that might follow, the old trapper was journeying along, though with all possible speed. For the first few miles he too had rid- den, but as soon as the greatest danger had passed, he dismounted in order to relieve the overburdened horse and make him last as long as possible. And now that he had a little of clear prairie before him, he began to feel comparatively easy, and was talking almost gayly to the girl—save his regrets (more than shared by her) that Philip Lee was not with them. “Ther Lord has bin very good ter us,’ hesaid; ‘He brought us out of great danger.’ “But poor Lee,’? answered Maggie Grey, sorrowfally. “Ther boy am smart and will take keer of himself. I don’t think he’s in any more danger than we am, and— oh, Heaven!’? The report of arifile, the whistling of a bullet, and the heavy thud as it struek his shoulder, caused the exclama- tion, and before he could determine from whence the shot had come, the chief of the Sioux dashed forward, fairly rode him down and trampled him under foot. But the trapper was not to be crushed into the dust like a worm without turning and stinging, and a quick blow of his hatchet effectually ham-strung the horse so that warrior and steed rolled together upon the prairie. “Go,’? shouted Old Moscow, to the girl. ‘‘Go! Ride fer yer life, and leave ther old man ter die,’’ and he threw himself upon the Indian and exerted all his strength to keep him from becoming disentangled and following. But the frightened girl might not have taken the advice had the matter been left entirely in herown hands. Such, however, was not the case. The horse she rode, alarmed by the shot, was terrified by the frantic struggles of its wounded mate, the floundering of the men, and above all by the smell of blood, and dashed madly away with the rider clinging with her arms around its neck—a half-wild steed running away with a helpless, half-fainting girl! Away from strife that must bring death to one or both, and the last thing she saw was that the Indian had thrown the trapper upon his back—had his knees firmly planted upon his breast—one brawny hand upon his throat, and rae vi his hatchet with the other for the last fatal ow! CHAPTER VI. WOLVES ON THE TRAIL. A brave girl, and brought up upon the frontier, it was not very long before Maggie Grey awoke to the exigencies of her. situation, and felt that it would be» necessary to guide the frightened horse, or his instinct would guide him homeward, and she would be carried back to the vil- age of the Indians. ' She rassed herself to a secure position, turned the horse upon the covrse she knew lay in an opposite direction to the home of the red-men, and encouraged him with hand and voice. Through timber, slough and prairie she continued her Way—tlrough valley and stream, and over rock and hill. Not, however, with the same speed as she had started. Her heart bled for the poor, suffering animal that had carried her so bravely, and to relieve him as much as possible dismounted and walked by his side until it grew so dark she could scarcely see her way. But determined not to stop in the midst of the timber, she groped her way until she had passed out of the gloom and gained the open prairie. Here she fancied she might rest in peace, and having tethered the horse so as to prevent his wandering to any considerable distance, she gathered the long grass and made for herself a soft bed, though resolving it should be one of rest merely—not slumber. With strange thoughts crowding upon her brain she lay, and wove bright dreams of love, with the young trapper, Philip Lee for a hero, forgetting for atime the stern realities with which she was surrounded. But nature is oftentimes stronger than human resolution, and despite her frequent upstartings and rubbing her eyes at last, all of earth disappeared, and she lay locked in heavy slumber, But it was suddenly broken by the touch of something cold upon her forehead, and believing it tobe serpents, she started up in horror and fled screaming away. Yet she turned and looked to see whiat had disturbed her, and then sank helpless to the ground as she saw that adark object was following her, and bowed her head in expecta- ing of instautly feeling a blow from a tomahawk or scalp- ing Knife. But-no blow came. Why did the Indian hesitate? She summoned all her courage, raised her head and looked even as the cold, damp touch was being repeated and saw to her infinite relief that it was only her horse—that aN. she had been foolishly fieeing from her very best friend. But what could cause such unusual actions? Shespoke kindly to the horse, and he bowed his head, and she saw that he was trembling, and that his eyes flashed wildly, and he kept looking anxiously around. “Poor fellow,’ she said, as she gently patted his neck. ‘You must have become over-heated and the night air has chilled you.’? The sudden straining upon the rein lifted her to her feet, and she saw dark forms stealing around upon every side, red balls of fire flashing from out the gloom, under- stood the cause of his terror in an instant, and sank back with a groan of despair. “Surrounded by wolves! Oh, Heaven!’’ she gasped. With the same instinct of companionship that had caused the horse to crowd close to and touch her, she drew nearer to his side and laid her hand upon his mane. He crouched down as he felt the touch, and with the light ofanew hope burning in her eyes she made a mighty effort and sprang upon his back. Like an arrow he darted away out into the open prairie, the girl clinging to him and caring nothing in what direction she journeyed so as to distance the savage beasts. But the poor girl saw with increasing terror that the wolves were gaining upon them, that the speed of the horse was sensibly diminished, and she did her utmost to force him forward. Asif feeling that an- other and more precious life than his own depended upon it, he responded by a magnificent burst of speed, and for a time held hisown in the race. But it was useless—use- less. It was only protracting misery. Nae Ney SZ There was no chance of escape. She raised up as far as possible and looked with exceeding anxiety around. Directly ahead, but so far as to be but dimly discernible, was another belt of timber. If she could only reach that she might cling to some of the branches and swing herself into a tree. With cheering cries she urgé the panting steed on- ward. Yethe would have needed no urging had speed and power remained in his limbs. Alas! they were no longer supple, and his breath was growing short. “Oh, Heaven!? gasped the wretched girl, “if I could only reach the woods!”’ She could now distinctly see the waving of the green branches—could distinguish tree from tree—could almost pick out the branches she could easily reach, the ones that promised safety and life. Scarcelya haly-mile re- mained between her and them! But every instant the wide-mouthed beasts were crowd- ing nearer, until they ran side by side with the foaming horse—glaring upon her with their savage eyes and lick- ing their huge jaws as they snuffed the swiftly coming feast. The horse, brave to the last, made a desperate rally, but his strength was short-lived. The wolves dashed on in front and completely hemmed them in. There was no possibility of escape. The horse turned round and round, snorting with fear, and at last, with his proud spirit completely broken, he staggered, stumbled, reeled, and fell witha shrill neigh of agony, carrying the girl to the ground with him. Then closer and more dense grew the dark circle of savage beasts, leaping, crawling, urging each other on, and yet cowardly waiting for one more bold than the rest to make the first advance. And seated upon the dying horse, with her hands upraised to Heaven, the despairing girl prayed that her death might be swift. [T0 BE CONTINUED. ] QQ ne THE Unknown Suitor; THE CHARMED RUBIES. Mrs. Schuyler Meserote. [The Unknown Suitor’” was commenced in No. 51. Back num- bers may be obtained from any News Agent in the Union. ] CHAPTER XVI. IN SEARCH OF THE RUBIES. Torquilstone Castle was uninhabited, save by a few old retainers, Richard Livingstone and his wife having gone to Europe; and as Guy Livingstone walked up the broad aisle leading to the front entrance, he felt a kind of shiy- ering dread. The old place was so lonely, and out there was the old vault, and that white, dead face looking.up through the gloom. Should he never forget it? be a death’s-head at the feast through all the coming years of his happiness? The remembrance of it made his cheeks white, and thrilled him with terrible horror, but he was a self-willed man, who followed his purpose to the bitter end: He walked on rapidly, resolutely muster- ing his courage, and entering the castle, proceeded up the broad stone stairway. In her prison-room, in the south wing, Cecil Holt heard the sound of his step, and started to her feet, breathless with hope and expectation. For two days and nights she had been a prisoner, in that dreary room, with its stone walls, and lofty windows; andin allthat time she had eaten only a few crackers that the man Vanburgh had given her, consequently she was faint and weak from hunger. Hour aiter hour she had waited, hoping that some one would come to deliver her, and now, at last she heard a step. Nearer, nearer, it came; the key rasped in the lock, the heavy door swung open, and she stood face to face with Guy Livingstone. Fora moment ortwo both stood silent, the poor girl trembling with apprehension, and Livingstone regarding her with malicious triumph in his eyes. “My dear young lady,’’ he began, at last, ‘‘you really must pardon my apparent rudeness, and not feel too wrathful at whatIhave done. You are my prisoner, wholly in my power, but I want to be friendly to you, Cecil. You see I know you, in spite of your pretty dis- guise. Come, sit down, and make yourself comfortable, and don’t stand there looking as if you thought I meant toeat you. I’m not a cannibal. Now, hear what Ihave to say—I must come to the point at once, I’ve no time to lose. Your mistress, Maud, has been very ill, and in her ravings,she has talked incessantly of her Charmed Rubies. Now, I want to know what she means?” The girl’s heart leaped to her lips, but she answered simply: ‘How should I know, sir?’’ “Because you were her maid, and confidant.’ ‘“‘Mistress Maud had no confidant, she kept her own se- crets.”? “A wise woman; but have you never heardof these wonderful rubies??? “I?m sure I don’t remember, sir.”? The young man could have struck her, but he went on quietly: “77m sure you do remember, Cecil. Maud had a queer fellow for a lover, and got letters from him—didn’t she now ?”? “Mistress Maud had a great many lovers, and got a great many letters,’’? she replied. His eyes began to blaze, but he kept down his wrath by Wouildiit"} — nae et at _ “Now, Cecil, my good little girl,” he went on, ‘you are just teasing and deceiving me; I can see it by the sparkle in your pretty eyes. I have aright to know all about these matters. Your young lady will be my wifeina couple of days, and then, pretty one, I shall take you back to your old place; and when you make up your mind to take a husband, I’ll give youa snug little cottage, as a wedding present; only tell me about these rubies, and you shall have as nice a lite home as the nextone. Come now, speak out, didn’t Maud give the ‘rubies’ into your keeping ?”” Cecil felt as if her senses were leaving her, and her poor heart fluttered, but she managed to answer quietly: “Mistress Maud kept her jewels in her cabinet, I had nothing to do with them.” ’ ; pe Sine advanced a step, growing flushed and ex- cited. “Don’t banter with me, girl,” he said, sternly; ‘I’m in no mood for it—I want the truth. You have had letters for Maud Montressor, and you know where the rubies are concealed. Come now, be 2 good girl, and tell me. Maud shall never know, and you shall have your cottage, and this purse of gold besides. See, it contains fifty golden guineas.’ * _He drew a purse from his pocket, and held it before the girl’s eyes. For an instant, a swift thought of what it would bring to her and Albert, swept through her mind, but she put the temptation from her, her very finger-tips tingling with shame. “I don’t want your gold, sir,’ she said; ‘‘all you possess could not bribe me to betray my young lady.” “Then you confess to a knowledge of her secrets ??? “T confess nothing, sir, and I shall divulge nothing. You have no right to question me.” He clutched her arm like a vise, his face growing pur- ple with passion. “By Heaven, right or no right, Iwill know,” he thun- dered; “I’ve made up my mind to get at the bottom of this thing, and I will, if I have to tear your heart out to make you tell. Girl, you arein my power, and I warnyou not to resist me.’ His distorted face and blazing eyes, and his iron grip upon her arm, terrijied the girl beyond expression, but she would not succumb. “I do resist you, and defy you,” she answered in a calm, clear voice, shaking his grasp from her arm, ‘‘and I never will tell you a word in regard to my lady, not if you take my life.” He made a step toward her, but she hurled him back, and then stood facing him, keeping him at bay by the power of her calm, untaltering eye, and like a wild beast he cowered before her gaze. Dissolute and hardened as he was, there was something in the girl’s honor and vir- cae awed him. After a moment he turned on his leel. “ll leave you to your humor,’’ he said, sneeringly; ‘*we’ll see how long this fine resolution will hold out. The walls of this dungeon are thick, and the bolts and bars se- cure, and people can't survive on air. When 1 come again, my pretty termagant, you'll crawl to my feet, and beg me to suffer you to tell.”’ He left the room, and the instant after, Cecil sank down on the stone floor of her prison, with a low moan of despair. CHAPTER XVII. THE SECRET WARNING. Maud Montressor’s wedding night had come. No pre- text or excuse could delay it longer. Her father’s com- mand had gone forth, and nothing would induce him to recall it. At an early hour in the evening, he had visited her in her turret prison, and after making known to her his intentions he had condneted her down to her old suite of apartments. : And now, the poor girl sat in her own chamber, scarce- ly recognizing her surroundings, so greatly had they been changed. The entire suite of rooms had been fitted up in the most gorgeous style. The walls were gleaming silver, the carpets daintiest blue and amber, tiie luxurious chairs and lounges all blue and gold, and every stand and toilet topped with pearl. And there, in the midst of all this glitter, uprose the bridal couch, a mountain of snowy, scented lace, while an open door disclosed the dressing- room, heaped with costly robes, and every imaginary ap- pendage of female adornment. Maud sat in an immense arm-chair, cushioned with white satin embroidered with gold, wrapped in her cash- mere dressing-gown, while her attendants made ready to arrange her bridal toilet. A bright-eyed French girl be- gan to take down and comb out the long braids of her raven hair, while a slight, pale woman knelt at_ her feet, and laced her dainty satin boots. The poor girl seemed to have fallen into a state of semi-unconsciousness; her face was like marble, her eyes dull and meaningless, her whole aspect indicative of that apathy which is the last and worst stage of hopeless despair. She seemed utterly indifferent to the attentions of her attendants, almost un- conscious of their very presence. The French girl chattered, and brushed and admired the glossy, raven braids, and the paie woman lingered about the pretty feet, glancing up at their owner ever and anon, With a strange, wistful expression in her sad_ eyes. At last, when she had finished her task, and had adjusted and readjusted the diamond buckles, she took the dainty foot in her hand. and gave it a sudden pressure. Maud opened her eyes, and looked down in surprise. The woman made a swilt gesture, and as she arose, con- trived to slip a folded scrap of paper into her hand. A drowning man will clutch at a straw, and poor Mand, going down into the dark deep of unutterabie woe, caught at this as asign of hope, mayhap of deliverance. Her list- less eyes brightened, and a swilt color rose to her pale cheeks, as she arose, to the infinite vexation of the French maid, and approached the chandelier. “I do wish 1 could get rid of this headache,’’ she said, with a yawn; “it unfits me for anything, Fanchette, get some rose-water, and bathe my temples before you finish my hair.”? Fanchette darted into the adjoining room for the re- quisite article, and in her absence, Maud examined the aper. : “Dismiss every soul from your room, but Fanchette and myself, and I will save you from this marriage,’’ it ran. Maud’s heart leaped to her lips. Only one thought filled her soul, the hope of escape. The reaction from despair to hope was so sudden that she trembled in every limb, but she faced her attendants calmly. “J shall need none of you—for a while, at least,’ she said, ‘‘but these,’’ designating Fanchette and the pale woman by a gesture. “IT amunwell; leave me, and say to the bridesmaids that they may come up in an hour.”’ The attendants obeyed, and the door of the bridal- chamber closed upon Maud and her two companions. Fanchette made a movement to resume her task, but the pale, sad-eyed woman stayed her hand. “Wait a moment,” she said; ‘“‘they have made a mis- take. Iam to be the bride to-night, not my lady. Isn’t it so, Mistress Maud ?”’ Maud assented, and Fanchette looked on in wide-eyed wonder. “You are to help us,’ continued the pale woman, ‘‘and my lady there will make you a rich present, and you will prevent a great deal of trouble. Are you willing?” Fanchette stood silent, seeing which Maud took out a heavy purse. “Consent,’? she said, ‘‘and this is yours—and this be- sides,’’ she added, lifting a string of jewels from the toilet. “Gracious me!” cried the girl, raising her eyes and clasping her hands; ‘‘’tis just like a book—a fairy tale. Yes, P’ll do anything, if you won’t let me come to harm.”’ Maud put the gold and jewels in her hand, with an as- surance that no harm should befall her, and the strange woman continued: “Now, my lady, if you wish to escape this marriage, you must fly. Wehave neta moment to lose; put on your riding-habit, and go down by the back way. You will find your horse at the east gate. I could find no one to attend you; there were none I could trust. You had better brave the darkness than to wed Guy Livingstone. In the meantime, J will be bride. Go! Fanchette, my lady’s habit is in the inner room.” i The girl went to bring the dress, and Maud followed her, returning to the bridal-room, in a few moments, ar- rayed in traveling-costume. She lingered an instant, holding her gloves in her hand. “You are a stranger,’ she said, pausing beside the arm- chair into which the woman had sunk; “I am_ trusting you on your word! You assure me that I shall not be de- ceived ??? ‘“Lady,’? she answered, solemnly, looking up with mournful eyes, ‘7 am Guy Livingstone’s wife—not in men’s eyes, but in the eyes of Heaven. I have worked hard to save you; trust me, and go!”’ Without a word, or even so much asa backward glance, Maud Montressor left her glittering bridal-chamber and went out into the wintry darkness. CHAPTER XVIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR SURPRISE. “She’s coming!’ ‘“That’s the bride!” “How regal!’ ‘What a glorious figure!’ ‘A born queen!’ These were the exclamations that greeted the bridal party as it swept down the wide hall and into the spac- ious drawing-room where the invited guests were assem- bled. These guests were not over numerous, for the old earl was too tastidious to crowd his rooms; but they embraced the very elite of his acquaintances. The drawing-room was magnificence itself, and the bridal party, as it swept beneath the gleam of the chandeliers, presented an array of beauty and elegance beyond all description. The bridesmaids numbered twenty-four, all robed in white satin delicately relieved with blue; and the bride herself, as stately as a queen in her spotless garments, was abso- lutely dazzling. From the crown of her queenly head to the tips of her dainty feet she was one gleam of diamonds, shimmering and glittering beneath the foamy waves of her vail like drops of sunlit dew. Her step was elastic, her air and manner both content and buoyant; she had reconciled herself to her fate. . Old Sir Felix watched her with glistening eyes, and Guy Liv- ingstone’s dark face glowed with triumph. The minister advanced to meet them, and filing down in a shining train they paused in the center of the room. The guests rose to their feet; a silence like death reigned for the space of a moment, and then, solemn and awful, rose the minister’s voice. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, in the sight of Heaven and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony. If any man can show just cause why they may not law- fully be joined together let him now speak, or else here- aiter for ever hold his peace.’’ He paused, and for another moment an awful silence reigned; and then he continued: “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of | 5 @ great effort. any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined to- é ny ss . ° aA settee ee secininimniiaiin  gd ove e@ether in matrimony ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that if any persons are joined together, otherwise than as God's word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.*’ Again the silence of death reigned for an instant, and then tlie diamond-studded bridal vail was thrown back, revealing to the gaze, of the ustonished beholders, 20¢ Maud Montressor's imperial face, but a face wan and worn with sorrow, and the bride’s voice was heard: “TI know of ne impediment or just cause why we should not be again joined together, for 7am already Guy Liv- | ingstone’s wife.” There was a rustle and a murmur of intense consterna- | tion, in the midst of which Sir Felix strode out in front of | the minister. “What does this interruption mean?’? he questioned angrily. “It. meaus,’’ replied the sad-faced bride, ‘that I am a Livingstone’s wife, nothing more!’’ 7 he bridegroom turned quickly, with an oath on his lips, but at sight of the pallid face beside him, his own blanched to the hue of death. The ,earl caught his arm. “Guy Livingstone,’! he said, speaking with angry vehe- mence, ‘‘what does this mean? Speak, explain, disap- prove this woman's statement, or your life shall pay the forfeit.»? But Guy Livingstone stood silent. : “Wont you speak?” the old man broke out passionately, “have you nothing tosay? Whereis Maud, my daughter? and go and command her to come here!” ‘ The bridesmaids obeyedIds angry gesture, retreating ina startled group, but when they reached the bridal chamber they found it empty! CHAPTER XIX. THE GIPSY CAMP, In the very hight of the bustle and excitement which followed this most startling disclosure, Albert Dunn came slowly up the broad carriage sweep that led to Montres- sor Hall. The grounds were ina blaze; there were bon- fires and illuminations, and feasting and rejoicing among the tenantry in honor of Mistress Maud’s marriage. He paused at the lodge gate, looking up at the grim towers,and watching the forms that flitted past the gleaming win- dows. He was weary, and sadly out of heart. For three days he had beer searching for Cecil, and had found no clue to her hiding place. Since the day she left himin her pretty harper’s dress, he had not heard from her, nor could he meet with any one who had seen her, Mrs. Trent, the old dame with whom she lodged, on her way from the village, had seen a young harper in Montres- sor Park; that wasallhe could gather. And Cecil was mis- sing! Some harm had certainly befallen her: He stood there watching and waiting; perchance, some one in that gay wedding throng might bring him some tidings of her. Presently, while he stood thus, there was a great bustle at the mansion, the doors were thrown open, the guests poured out, and the carriages began to roll away; and just then, a shrouded, hooded form came gliding past him. His heart gave a great bound—might it not be Ce- cil? He put himself in her path, calling softly: “Hist! my friend, will you speak with me one moment? What is the matter up at the hall? Isthe wedding over??? The gliding figure paused, and a woman’s voice an- swered: “The wedding will never (aice place—let Ine pass, sir!” ; ‘Just one moment, begging your pardon. I am in search of a young girl, Cecil Holt by name, who was maid to Mistress Maud afew weeks ago. You haven'tseen or heard of such a person ?”’ The shrouded figure turned sharply, looking up at his face, clearly revealed in the light, then she put out her hands with a mournful cry: “O, Albertt Albert!” Tie stood silent a moment, utferly amazed, then he caught her to his breast, and held her there in a close em- brace. “Hien, Ellen, my poor little sister, have you come back at last ?? She sobbed upon his bosom for a moment or two, and then she looked up. “Yes, Albert, I have come back. Iam on my way home—to the old home—l couldn’t die without seeing you and mother once more. I have been weak and sin- ful, but I Rave suffered enough. You must forgive me now.’ “We have forgiven you long ago, my poor little sister— why have you not come back to us before this? what are you doing here to-night 7” “T came to save Lady Maud from a marriage that would have broken her heart, my work is done, let me go home now, Albert.’? “You shall go; you know the old path, Ellen, that we traveled so often in our childhood; and poor mother will be more than glad to receive you; your loss has weil nigh broken her heart. Hurry on now, and make her happy; I shall be with you by morning. I must push my search @ little farther now, for I’m terribly afraid some harm has befallen Cecil.” The pale-faced woman drew her mantle about her, and hurried on, treading the familiar paths her childish ore had trod, a poor, heart-broken wanderer going home to die. In the meantime, Albert lingered about Montressor Hall until the bustle had subsided, and the last guest had departed, but all his inquiries could elicit nothing; Cecil was not at the Hall, and no one knew ought coucerning her. Perplexed and anxious, and almost broken-hearted, the poor fellow turned his weary feet homeward. This was the third day, and he had heard nothing from her. He knew it would be thus, he thought, when she left him that Cay, and consigned the Charmed Rubies to his keep- ing. He put his hand to his breast to see if they were safe. There they were, in their heavy golden case, rising and falling with every beat of his heart. , What should he do with them if he never found Cecil? The thought maddened him. He mst find her}; he would never cease his search. Guy Livingstone should rue the day he was born, if he had wrought her any hurt. But what should he do,; where should he go? He stood irre- solute, with half a mind to follow his sister home, and half inclined to go round by Mrs Trent*s—perchance she had some tidings for him. Just at this juneture, a briglt light out upon the downs attracted his notice, ‘and actuated by one of those seemingly senseless inpulses, that rule us all at times, he bent his step toward it. A gipsy camp, half-a-dozen swart-faced men, and as many women surrounding a crackling fire, over which the inevitable caldron was bubbling. Albert sauntered up, and soon fell into conversation with them. He traded knives with one of the men, and secured the eternal re- membrance of a dark-eyeddamsel, by bestowing upon her a gold shirt button and a few bits of silver coin. Then he told them his story. They listened alertly, and one small, sharp, wiry, little fellow, who appeared to be a kind of king in the tribe, was sure that he knew something of the missing girl, he had seen her, in her harper’s suit, going in the direction of Wiltshire only two days before; he could find her if he hada mind, he asserted, his black eyes snapping like sparks of fire. Albert felt his heart bounding in spite of his reasons; he had been reared up to entertain a kind of reverence for gipsies, and to believe in their wonderful arts, and he had not quite out-lived this romantic fancy of his youth. Looking at them in their wild costumes, and listening to their gibbering in- cantations, he began to believe tliat they really could ac- complish all they promised. The poor fellow was worn out and hopeless, and caught eagerly at the faintest clue by which his lost love might be found. She was im- prisoned, so an old crone, who sat crooning and rocking before the blaze, asserted; and the sharp-eyed little leader of the gang, with many mysterious becks and nods, avowed his determination to lead the way to her prison on the following morning. Albert had better re- main with them, and they would make an early start, so they said. And Albert Dunn, the sober, matter-of-fact carpenter assented, and sat down amid them to wait for the dawn. But the night hours wore away slowly, despite their mirth and song, and by twelve o’clock he was thoroughly tired, and half famished in the bargain; and glad enough, having eaten nothing since morning, to partake of their supper of rye cakes and molasses, and to drink a mug of hot gin. The bright-eyed gipsy king poured it from his own private flask, and the old fortune-teller mixed and warmed it, and Albert thought it very fine, as it went tingling through his chilled veins. He quaffed it to the dregs, and in five minutes after le was stretched before the fire in a dreamless sleep. CHAPTER XX. RAISED FROM THE DEAD. When Albert Dunn awoke, the poon-tide sun was shin- ing down with a glare that almost blinded him. He sprang to his feet amazed and bewildered; his limbs were cramped and sore, and his head so dizzy that he could scarcely stand. The gipsy camp was deserted, the fire had burned out, and above the smoldering ashes were the cross-sticks from which the mystic caldron had hung. The young man gazedaround him for several moments in utter bewilderment, and then the incidents of the past night came slowly back to his mind. But his friends had deserted him. And all at once it flashed over him, that they had done worse. ‘He put his hands in his pockets— their contents were gone. With a thrill of terror he felt in his bosom for the heavy casket containing the Charmed Rubies, but that was also gone! For full tive minutes the poor fellow stood immovable, his face fairly haggard, then he broke out into the most vehement self-accusa- tion. “Fool, fool that [have been, I might have known they were lying—and J to believe them, and suffer myself to be duped in this way! Ideserve it; but they must not es- cape, f must have the rubies back, though they cost me my life.”? And over the frosty downs he started in hot pursuit. Sunset found hin in the vicinity of Torquilstone Towers, but no trace of the gipsies could be found. As the twilight began to deepen, he paused at the entrance of an ancient graveyard, atid weary and footsore, he sat down on a marble step in front of a moss-covered vault, to rest a mo- ment, and to collect his disturbed mind. He was utterly given over to despair—Cpcil gon2—the rubies gone—there was nothing more to live'for, hig star had gone down—the fates were against him. The sun dropped out of sight, and up the clear, cold cast, a pallid moon arose, shedding a chill luster over the spectral gravestones and the frowning turrets of Torquil- stone Castle. Still the young man sat there, brooding over his troubles, Allatonce, the wierd, deathlike si- lence was broken by agroan, @ long, tremulous groan of human agony. Albert Dunn started to his feet growing white with ter- ror. Again the soundcame deep and hollow, and fraught with unspeakable anguish; and it proceeded from thecld 'Many of the stores were’ cl SS TE vault at the foot of which he had been sitting. Had his presence disturbed the dead in their graves? His first impulse was to fly; buf a moment later he blushed at his cowardice. Whatever it was, he would see the end. He resumed his seat on the marble step to await the issue. After an interval of some ten minutes, he heard the same sound again, and this time it was followed by an unmis- takable cali for help. The young man rose to his feef, and began to examine the bolts that secured the door of the vault, convinced that the sounds were not supernatural. With some diffi- culty he slid them back, and opened the heavy iron door, A blast of chill, foul air rushed up, driving him back, and with it came the cry of asoul in the very agonies of death. Albert Dunn stood looking down into the yawning depth of loathsome darkness, with a shudder of creeping terror; the thought ofexploring that suniess habitation of death, made his very pulse stand still, yet he could not turn away; a kind of fascination-held him rooted to the spot. The daylight went out, and the moon shed a ghast- ly radiance over the solemn scene. The young man stood irresolute. Again the crycame. He enteredthe yawning door, and descending a few steps, called: “Who's there?) What’s the matter?” There was a moment of terrible silence, and then the an- swer came: “Oh, for Heaven’s sake help me!”’ Albert did not hesitate an instant, he was determined to solve the mystery, though it led him into the jaws of death. Down he went, groping step by step in the dark- ness. At last he reached the floor, stumbling as he did so against a human form. “Who are you? Speak?’? he commanded. ‘ The prostrate form struggled up, clutching at his knees. “Tam Victor Wolfgang Torquilstone. For the love of Heaven, help me out of this living tomb.”’ Albert took him in his arms, and with almost superhu- man effort gained theentrance, The man sank down at the door, panting for breath, the moonlight revealing his white, emaciated face, but a grand and noble face withall. After a moment he looked up, clasping his hands. _ “Thank Heaven,’? he murmured, “I am free once more!’ and as the words escaped his lips, he fell forward in a dead faint. é Albert stood over him irresolutely, not knowing what to do; but opportunely enough, just at that instant, a peasant’s cart came rattling down the lane, which he lost no time in hailing, and with the aid of the driver, he suc- ceeded in getting the prostrate man on his feet, and into the vehicle. “And now,” he said, ‘where shall we take him; he must have help at once.’’ “Torquilstone Castle is the nearest place. I guess they’d ‘commodate ye, though there’s nobody home but the old gate-keeper.”’ And to Torquilstone they carried him. (TO BE CONTINUED.) ———_>-2+ GRANDMOTHER. BY NATHAN UPHAM. There cometh up, from childhood days, A face, with strangely winning ways, Of one, who shared my sports and plays, Whose accents glowed with love and praise, ; j My grandmother! How often in her lap I'd sit, And see her my warm mittens knit, And hear—nor doubt the truth of it— Of forms that in the embers flit! Dear grandmother! Four score and ten, and still is hale! Will chat and joke, and never fail To tell some strange and weird old tale, That charms us, while young cheeks grow pale! Dear grandmother! ait And she has trotted, on her knee, Of children’s children, thirty-three! Tho happiest child of all, is she! Her steps—so near Eternity! Blest grandmother! She seems to see the far-off shore, CP pnts Where those that go shall come no more; z Where she shall join one gone before, V3 And there, with angels, God adore! Blest grandmother ! @ Redeemed by Love; OR, THE DRUNKARDS DAUGHTER. By Julia Crouch (‘Redeemed by Love” was commenced in No, 1, bers can be obtained of any Newg Agent in the United CHAPTER VIII. As I told you befot'é, Mrs. Davis had. only five cents in her purse, and they had nothing toeat. ‘They had no money to buy little Tommy a Shroud and coffin, and they were in the great heartless city without a friend to help them; but they trusted in the Friend who never sleeps, and He was with them. 4 They hoped to get the money that Mrs. Driver owed them the next day, and Mary said she would go down into the street and sell her new shoes, and get them something, for the children were very hungry. So she put on her old shoes, and wrapped her new ones in a paper, and started on her errand. p Abe BP RA The sidewalks were stillslippery, and Mary was obliged to walk a long distance before she could come to a store where she thought they would bélikely to buy her shoes. ‘but now and then she would find a door open; and then she would go in and ask Back num- States.] ‘them to buy her shoes. She Nad asked in vain several times, anda little disheartened was walking along, hardly thinking where she was going, when suddenly her feet slipped, and down she went on the sidewalk, and her shoes rolled several feet from her. She sprang to her feet as soon as she could, but when she looked for her shoes they were gone. Some one had picked them up. She screamed, and ran to find a policeman, but there was none to be seen, andso she was obliged to give up ever seeing her new shoes again, and she cried very hard. “T wish,’ she said, aloud, ‘I had not tried to sell them, then I should have some good shoes to wear, now I haye lost the shoes, and can . nothing to eat beside.’’ For a time Mary could not feel reconciled to her loss, and she felt angry with the thief who had made her so wretched, but soon she remembered how often her mother lad told her that “he who does wrong is more tobe pitied than the injured one,’’ and so she forgave the thief, and began to think what she shoulddonext. Shethought of the good old man whom she had twice seen, but she could not remember the name of the street he livedin, nor the way to it, but she began walking about hoping she might by chance findit. She walked a long way but it was all in vain, and at last disheartened she started toward home. On her way she came into @ very dismal street, much like the one on which she lived. Some one spoke toher as she walked along. 4 “Stop a moment, little girl.’ She stopped and looked behind her, and there was the man whom she had seen a few days beiore in the corner rum shop, and who had told her he was going to reform: He looked very happy, and hisstep was firm asany man’s. “Look at me,” he said; ‘‘don’tI look more like a man than I did when you saw me last? I found a good jobof work yesterday, and got enough money tegive my wife and little boy a good Christmas dinner, and hayen’t drank a drop of rum, and never was so happy inmy life. Here are ten centsI willgive to you to buy something for Christmas.” He slipped the money in her hands, and was gone even before she could thank him. “How good Godis!? she said, and passed on feeling much happier than before. She soon left that dismal street and entered a grand one, and she heard beautiful music, and saw that it came from the great church near by. She had not been in a church for many months, and she thought it would be so nice to just step in one little min- ute and hear the prayers and the beautiful music; soshe climbed up the steps and stood on the threshold of the in- side door of the church, and looked around. The music had ceased and the people were Kneeling in their eush- ioned pews, while the minister in his white robe was praying. When the prayer was done,and the musi¢ commenced again—sofit and low at first, and then swell- ing out into a grand anthem—the people. rose from their knees, and some of them glanced behind them and saw little Mary standing in the door, looking much like a beg- gar-girl, in her tattered shawl and worn shoes, with her pretty brown eyes fullof wonder, and her bvown curls creeping out from under her little hood. The glances of these people startled the little girl, and she remembered that they were waiting for her at home; and ashamed that she had for a moment forgotten them, she darted from the church, and was going down the broad steps when she saw an old man—with his stail,and accompanied by a servyant—ascending them. Mary actually screamed with delight, for hewas the very same good old gentleman who had been so kind to her. She caught his trembling hand in both of hers, and looked up into his kind face with a bright tear in either eye. “«Q, sir!) she said, “I amsoglad Ihave found you at last, for we are in great trouble at home, and I knew that you would help us if you knew it.” ; The old man knew Mary in an instant, and remembered her name. $ ; “Well, little Mary, what is the trouble at home?” he said. ’ “Poor little Tommy is dead,’ she replied, “and has gone to live with the angels; and mother. is too sick to sew, and Tommy has no shreud nor coffin, and we don’t know what to do, and I wish you would tell us.” f The old man wiped a tear from his eye, and turning about, began to descend the steps. 798 “I will see what can be done for you,” he said to Mary, who still clung to his hand. The servant opened the door of a very handsome car- riage, and then lifted Mary up and set her amang the soft velvet cushions, and assisted the old man to follow. How pleasant it was ir that nice, warm carriage! The old man gave. nn, the servant, a long list of or- ders, but Mary could not understand them; and after they had driven a long distance and stopped a number of times, they came into the dirty street in which Mary lived and stopped before the door which led to her desolate home. The old man had said but a few words all the long way, but had sat with one hand over his face, looking very sad; and Mary wondered why any one could feel otherwise than happy, with a handsome home, and carriage, and plenty of five-dollar bills; but she did not speak, except when the old man spoke to her—and that was very seldom. When the carriage stopped at her house the footman opened the dooy, aud the oid man said: “Now, little ‘girl, run up and, see your mother, and John will carry up the things I have had bought for you, I would go up and see your mother and her children my- self, but lam old and lame, and it would be a hard task for me to climb all those flights of stairs. Tell your good iother that L will send poor Tommy a shroud and a cof- fin, and a hearse to take him over to Greenwood,”’ Mary kissed the old man’s hand and said some broken words to him, then she entered the house and, followed by John, ascended the stairs, When she entered the room she saw Tommy lying still and cold on the bed, and her mother was sitting in a chair with the children all around her reading from the Bible. They were all much surprised to see a man come in with Mary, his arms full of bundles, but all in a breath Mary told the whole story. John put the bundles on a Chair, and went out again. They all clustered about the chair then, and began to tear off the wrappings, to see what there was in them. There were SO many nice things I cannot tell them all, but be- fore they had looked them half over, John came back and asked them if they had any coal, and they told him it was nearly all gone, and he went down the stairs again, and they continued opening the bundles, There were a great many nice things to eat, but Maryand her mother did not feel very hungry, for they kept thinking of Tommy so still and white, and of how often he had been faint and hungry, when they could not give himeven a crust of bread. They thought of the absent father, too, and wondered if he had as nice a Christmas dinner as they. The children were all very quiet; even little Annie didn’t laugh and play as much as usual. “Mary."” said Archie, when he was eating a piece of nice pie, ‘‘did that dear old man tell you his name ?” “No,’? answered Mary, ‘‘I didn’t think at all about that. I wonder what his name is. Next time when I see him I will ask him if he will tell me.” “Don’t you wish he was our grandfather?” said Ellen, “T Jove him as if he was, and I wish I could see him and kiss him.” “TJ wish I could see him and thank him,” said Willie. ‘T love him better than I do my own grandfather in the country, for he wouldn’t forgive poor mother.’’ “Hust, Willie,’ said Mrs. Dayis, “your grandfather was once very good to me, and you must say no word against him.’’ “Tloye my grandfather out in the country, too,’ said } Ellen, ‘but I love the dear good gentleman who gaye Mary the silver dime and the five dollar bill, and sent us these nice things, the best, and 1 wish I could see him.’’ “T wish you could see him, too,’? said Mary, ‘‘and you would love him better even than’ you do now, he always looks so kind, and is so handsome too, with his long beard as white as the snow, and his kind eyes always looking sad, pa oh, so very pleasant. He seems like Abraham in the Sibie.”? - “T wonder if he has any children,” said Archie. . “T don't know,” said Mary, ‘perhaps he is all alone in the world, I wish he was our grandfather. It would be so nice.’? CHAPTER IX. The next hey the sl i godin er the hearse came for Tommy, and a minister came too, and read a prayer, and then Mrs. Davis kissed him im his coffin, the chiidren all lo h marble-white face for the last time, they bore him from the room, and down the stairs and placed him in the hearse, an the desolate mother and children wat d at the window and saw the hearse disappear down the stree they look al the where Tommy hac and knew that. th lain s ane ee sad him we sehen} ) i iim at last in heaven. en they talked of how ha he walking the golden streets with myriads hited an mi and the blessed Christ smiling on them. yy thought of him with his beautiful robe and golden lyre, and roaming on the banks of the river of life, clear as are, with fadeless flowers growin all about, and roping in @ crown upon his head, As they talked it seemed as if they heard the songs of heaven w. to the from the other shore, and all toget all hymns, ‘Beautiful River.” — m r they sung that sweetest of “Shall we er at the River Where bright angel fect Shall we ice Have mee at ive: Which flows by the throne of God?” Several weeks: passed away after Tommy’s death, and - Mrs. Davis was better, so that she sewed all da; aiid the children never suffered from hunger. The goodoldman not forgotten them, but had several times sent them a basket full of good things to eat, and once he had sent them a five dollar bill wrapped up with oaf of This had to go toward paying the rent, although Mary much needed a pair of shoes; and all the children were very ragged. Mary and her mother tried to mend their clothes, and made them look as wellas they could. Archie was always talk- ing about books, and schools, and he often asked his mother if he couldn’t go out into the street, and try and find some work to do, but Mrs. Dayis could not bear to think of her pure-minded boy going into the street to be a newsboy, as he was so anxious to do, for she knew-how terrible was the influencethere, and besides it was still cold weather, and Archie had no shoes, so she would tell him to wait until warm weather, and perhaps they could find something to do then. So Archie waited, and Mary brought to = pieces of newspapers that shé we in the streets, and he ou MM RELY VTi > ; er the childr him, and#ell them what he was going to do when he eentete = man, He used to play meeting sometimes, too, and then he would deliver a lecture on Temperance, and the children sitting around him would look very sober, and watch him as he ftourished his hands, He knew better about the misery that rum brings into the world’than many men wise with book-learning. I do not believe a temperance Jecturer.ever had better or more ‘attentive listeners than did little Archie standing ina chair in that dark and dreary room, and talking to lis brothers and sis- ters, whose father was a drunkard, and Mrs. Dayis. would listen as she sewed, and somehow she would always turn: her face to- ward the wall, and the tears would roll down her cheeks. She often gathered herchildren around her and told*them of her childhood, and how good and kind their grandfather was to her then, and how beautiful and grand her home was. Shetold them about their father too when he was young, and brave, and hand- some, and wooed and won her, and ar her as happy as a queen until the red wine tempted him, and he was led on to drink alco- hol, and finally became a drunkard and lost his reason. They talked about him every night and wondered where he wasiand when he wouldeome back tothem the same kind husband and father he was in the happy days gone by. Mrs, Davis tistened for his step every day, and could not but feel disappointed that he did not come, and sometimes she feared he had fallen back into the old way, and was wandering about fron: place to place with no one to plead with him to turn from his eyil ways. “Come, my little girl,” said Mrs. Davis to Mary one day, ‘‘put on your bonnet and shawl, for the work is done, and take it over to firs. Driver’s and get the pay for it, and then you shali take it and buy you a pair of shoes, for you need them badly.” Mary looked down to her shoes. : “Mine will last a little longer, mother,” she said; “les me buy the children something with the money.” “Well, children,” said Mrs, Davis, ‘what shall we do? Shall Mary buy herself some new shoes, or shall sue take the money and Buy something for you?” . : : “Dear Mary shall have the new shoes,” said Archie quickly. “She does so much for us, and brings us things, and works all the time, and I wish I could help her. ar i ¥ “Yes, Mary shall haye some new shoes,” said Willie; “she ik:so good to us; and when I get a little bigger E will work and buy her a new silk dress, and as many pretty clothes as Mrs.. Driver’s:lit- tle girl has got, Won't she look pretty in the red silk dress; and new shoes, and nice shawl,andnewhat?? “Won't you buy me some nice things, too?” said little Ellen.. ‘why, yes,’ said Willie; ‘you and mother both,.and little An- nie, too, and Dll buy Archie lots of books, and Jet him. goto school, so that he can learn enough to lecture,, and? write: books, and bury all the rum deep in the ground.” ‘ They all laughed at Willie, but he didn’t smile-at all, but flour: ished his little hand about his head, saying: “J shall do it,and you may laughiall you wish.. You see-now when I get bigger if you don’t live ina better house: than: this,. and dress likerich folks; and Tl find fathertoo,.and won’t.let him drink another. drop of rum, and give him: some’ good' clothes; and Vl find grandfather too, and I'll tell himiwe can get along without him—— “There, Willie, don’t talk so,” said Mrs. Davis; “you know it grieves me to hear you speak in that way about.yourgrand- tather.” “Oh, mother! I’m sorry,” said Willie, kissing hissmother.. “T won’t tell grandfather that, but I'll find him, and we'll all forgive him, and Jet him live with us in the beautiful'country.” “So you are going to let Mary havesome new’shoesj, insteadiof her buying you something. Iknew you were just such good. chil- dren. So, Mary, take the work, and come home soon.with. some shining new shoes on.”? : : “Well,” said Mary, “if Mrs. Driver will pay'me,’’ and she-kissed them all “good-by,”” and went out into the street feeling almost happy. “T won't mind it so much if Mrs. Driver cnestyl an me to-day;” she said to herself; “for the children are not hungry, and we have got coal left from what that dearold man sent us, and. I’m sure I can go without a pair of new shoes one-day.” 5 She skipped along until she came to a place in the street-which was torn up andmen were at work, repairing it. There was.a 2 _ ground, and Mary was running briskly over it, whena great dog came running along behind her, and before-she knew it he had hit his great Shaggy side against her, and she had fallen. down upon the torn-up street, among the stones.. She attempted. to Prise, but she could not step on one of her feet, for she had sprained herankle. There was a crowd around her in an instan but. Mary saw one man pushing by all the rest, and soon he:had. taken her in his arms. “T know this little girl,” he said; “‘stand'aside.” And the-crowd dispersed, and the man bore Mary along in his-arms. _He- was one ot the workmen on the street, and the man: who Had! told Mary he was going to reform. ‘ “Does your ankle ache badly?” he said.to Mary. She said it ached sommes but it did ache very badly;.and ‘the poor little girl could searcely keep the tearsfrom her eyes. She told the kind man where she lived, and! he carried her all the way home in his arms, and up the-two flights of stairs, and laid her on the bed, and then told her mother about the accident, andsaid he had onee been a drunk: and: had first seem. little Mary in the corner rum-shop, when sli begged for her father to go home; and he said it had touched his heart; and then he-had seen her again, when she had said her-fatheravas going toreform, and he had then determined to refornz too, and had mot drank a drop. of liquor since, and intended neyer to drink anotherdrop as long as he lived. Mrs, Davis bathed Mary’s:ankte while. she lis-. tened to the man’s words, and she thanked ‘him for his Kindness, and said she hoped he would keep his pledge; and he-finally left them, promising to call the next day, after his work.was.done, He had told them that/his name was William Day, and they did not forget him, but loyed him, because he was kind to.Mary, When he had gone Mary started up all at once, and exclaimed, with a look of terror on her face: “Oh,. mother, mother! I have lost the: work! Thave-. lost the: work!’ and then she hid her face in the pillow andisobbed. aloud. CiAPTER X.- The work was indecd lost; Mary had dropped it. whemshe fell, | and the pain which she felt from the sprained ankle caused her ' ta forget it, and it could now never be recovered: If was asad loss too, for Mrs, Driver was a hard: employer,. and: did not easily forzive mistakes or misfortunes: Poor little: Mary! would, she never have a pair of mew shoes? Mrs; Davis felt. yery sorry.. It had taken her a longtime to make those fine nice garments,, the material for which was:very costly. A thousand thoughts:zushed through her mind, Perhaps Mrs. Driver would not emptoy her again, and how Longe would take to make-up for the loss. Mary continued 89 ving with her face hidden in the pillow. “What shall wedo, mother?” she smd, Mrs. Dayis pitied her poor little girl, whowas always sothought- ful and good, and she knewshe wes not to blame for losing the vrork, so she trieck to speak very cheerfully. ‘to-go out. wide plank arranged for people to walk on, seyeral feet from:the }: the YORK WEEKLY. ee> “Never mind, my child,” she said; ‘there will be some way for us Iam sure; we mustn’t ery for ‘spilt milk’ you know.” She kissed little Mary, and all the children gathered around the bed, and baby Annie put her little white hand on Mary’s hair and lisped “poor Mary,’’ and Archie said “never mind,” like his mo- rie and Willie’s black eyes sparkled, and his round cheeks grew redder, “Pll be a man, soon,” he said, ‘and then you never’ll have to go to Mrs. Driver’s again.” “Tam very glad,’ said Archie, “that Mary did not get. hurt worse. Suppose, mother, she had hit her head against a great stone, and killed her.’ Mrs. Davis shuddered. “Sure enough,” she said. ‘We ought to feelyery thankful that she is not hurt any worse, and yery grateful to Mr. Day for bring- ing her home, Don’t cry any, more now, my child, all will be well, God will take care of us,”? Mary wiped her tears away then, ‘Mr, Day is very kind,” she said, “and I do feel very grateful tohim, I do not know what would haye become of ine if he hadn’t been there.” “And then how thankful we should be,” said Mrs. Dayis, “that he has become a sober man! How happy his wife and little boy must be now. We will not moyrn oyer the lost work, but rejoice vyer the restored husband and ner. Mary’s face brightened for an instant, then grew sad again, “But, mother,’ said she, “what shall we do to repay Mrs, Dri- ver? Shall we buy some material, and make some garments just as the others were made.” “We cannot,’ said the patient mother; “we haven’t enough money in the world. We will ask Mrs. Driver to furnish more” material, and then we will make it up for nothing, I know of BP Paes way than that. We will sew enough to satisfy her for the loss.”’ “But who,” said Mary, “will go to Mrs. Driver, and tell her about it? I cannot walk, you know.” “Yes, I know,’’ said Mrs. Davis, “but I think you will be able to go to-morrow afternoon, so we will wait till then.” “But,” said Mary, ‘‘Mrs. Driver was anxious that I should take the work home to-day. Oh, dear mother! I am afraid she will be angry.” “We cannot help it, my child, if she is,” said Mrs. Davis; ‘we will do the best we can—angels can do no more—and trust the rest with God,” The day passed slowly away, and it was almost dark when they heard a tap on the door, and opening it found a boy waiting at the threshold. “T have come for Mrs. Driver’s work,” he said. Mrs. Davis’ face grew very pale, and Mary’s grew very red. They looked at each other a moment, then Mrs. Davis took a piece of paper from a book, and wrote a note to Mrs. Driver tell- ing of the accident, and of the lost work, and promising to sew enough for her to make up for the loss. She gaye it to the boy, and he was soon gone. The next morn ng Mary’s ankle was better, but she could not yet walk about, and she and her mother were much afraid that she would not be able to go out to Mrs. Driver’s in the afternoon, and they were rine, Afternoon came, and though Mary tried very hard to be able to go out, yet it was all in vain, and so she was obliged to give it up, Mrs. Davis had oon tof going out herself, but she was very weak, and had not walked a block for a long time, so she conclu- ded to wait until the next day, when she hoped Mary would be able togo. They all watched for Mr. Day, for he had eed to come and see them after work that night, but he did not come and they felt much gprs eegeo Yet the children all gathered around their mother at the usual hour, and listened to her fer- vent prayer, and then with good-night kisseslay down in their beds, and slept sweetly until morning. When they awoke thesun was shin and their mother was cooking the_breakfast. Mary’s ankle was much , and she laughed aloud when she found she could walk a little. The other children opened their sleepy little eyes, and laughed too, and Mrs, Dayis Kissed them all and felt very glad. In the afternoon Mary could walk almostas well as ever, and with high hopes she started for Mrs. Driver’s. She walked siowly along in the February sunshine very glad to be outdoors again, and almost before she knew itshe was in front of Mrs. Driver’s erent] popes. Bridget came to the door as usual when she rung the . “Here you are, sure enough,” she said, “but it’s bad news I’ve got for ye, Mrs. Driver says she’ll have no more work for ye. She says she can’t be a botherin’ with them that will lose her and make herso much trouble; but she won’t charge yea aaetae the wo ae have lost, only she says she will have ye do no more work er: It’ssorry Iam for ye, but not a thing can Ido tohelpye.”. _ Bridget shut the door then, and Mary started for home. My dear children if you had seen the face of little Mary then I know you would haye cried. There was on it such a look of disap- appointment, sorrow, and pain. Her thin lips quivered, and she felt so unhappy that she sat down onthe wide steps and cried as hard asshe could a Jong time. Her eyes were red and swollen when she arose and started tor home, and she kept whispering to herself, “What will mother say?” and “What shall we do?’ She had walked several blocks, and turned into a narrow, filthy street, when she saw & t many people gathered together, and as she approached the crowd, she heard a man say, “I think his leg is } broken; be was drunk when the wagon ran over hi m.” Then another man said: ‘I wonder what they will do with him.” Mary pitied all drunkards, and she drew near to the injured man who was still lying on te sidewalk, and looked at him _ puiti- fully. “Poor man!” she said, and stooping over him, looked into his face. Then with oe ery, she knelt down beside him, and threw isneck. “It ismy father,” shecried, ‘Oh! it ismy father.” we He was a wretched-looking creature, for he had been a poor yagabond for weeks, but Mary did not mind that, she knew he was her father, who was once kind and good to her, and she looked around upon the crowd, and said: ri ae he could be taken to our home, where we can take care ° Two stout men stepped forward and asked her where her home was, and then they made a kind of litter, and but the poor suffer- ing man on it, and then bore him toward the place where his wife and children, all unconscious of his nearness to them, were await- ing little Mary’s return. he excited child ran ahead of the men who bore her father on the litter. She ran up the stairs that led to her home faster than she had ever run before, and burst intothe room, so out of breath and excited, that she could say nothing but: “Oh! oh! mother! mother! they’re coming; they’re coming.” Mrs. Davis was frightened. ; “What do you mean?” she said; ‘‘whois coming? Why are you so excited ?” Before Mary could answer the stairs, and Mrs. Davis went out,into the hall, and saw the two men bearing her husband ena . She did not see his face, but instinct told her it was hé, and she went back into the room, and arran the bed, and when the men entered with their bur- = d-them to lay _— on.the bed, which they did, and POTN ae ANE San I od ; he it J Mrs. Davis recognized her poor fallen husband then, and she kissed his bloated eheek, while her tears fell thick and fast on his white f recovered from her excitement, ard heard them coming up the ace. Mary had now partially re is told the story of her finding her father in the street, and knowmsg who he was, and her mother felt very thankful for the incidents and told Mary they must have a physician immediately, and so the little girl went, out into the street again, and soon returned with the Kind gentleman who had onee come tosee Tommy. I will not tell you about Mr. Davis’ broken leg, ner how the doctor set it and splintered it, while the r man groaned, and Soeiie how he left him promising to call the yery next day to see if work was all done right, but [will tell you what Mr. Davis said ané did when he awoke amd saw his w@fe and children around him, [TO HE CONTINUED-1 must haye a flag up here, Union down, and signal to the stranger the need we have of help,” ; “T will order it, my lord,” said Sedley. _ “Nay—I have to go down and see how Starbuck's work is going forward. I will send it. Stay thou here, Lieutenant Sedley, with Lady Mary, and watch the frigate, for such I see she is. TI think the watch will be better kept if both are here, instead of one be- low, the other here.” The young nobleman went off laughing when he said this, and both Sedley and the lady colored up with blushes, too well know- ing what he meant. “Thy brother frowned darkly yester morn, sweet Lady Mary, when giving way to your dear heart’s impulse, you did embrace me, Yet now, he seems to wish toleaye us where we ean hold peprerse, which he must know is likely to tend toward expression of the love which fills both our hearts.” “Yes, my brave Algernon, and I know a reason for it. I had serious converse with him last night. He would have disparaged thee, as a suitor for my loye, but I silenced his batteries!’ “How, sweet lady—is it a secret?” “Not from thee, Algernon.” “He knows, as well as I, that though not favored by fortune’s gifts, thou art nobly born, and that of the three families most famous in the Marches, the Harkness, Radclifie, and the Sedley— thine, though poorest, is most ancient. Ours now alone holds title, because the last male Harkness who held it, is gone, and my brother next of kin held right to take it. Of fortune, in mine own right I haye enough, bright heayen knows, for thee and me. Of love, ’m sure we both hold previous store in hearts which never loved before!’ “True, dear lady, true, but lam one who would carry wealth to my lady rather than she should come to me with dowry.” *‘Thou wilt bring honor, or braye protecting hand, a blameless name, a form and face no king in all the world can equal!” said the lady, earnestly. ‘But look—Algernon—look—the frigate bears away.” ‘ paeee ; “Ay—she steers toward the pirate whom I dismasted. Her look- out hath discovered him.” : “Yes—she steers right for the wreck. She Will earn most like who dismasted her and then come bowling down before the wind to help us out of trouble,” “Here comes the flag, with a staff to hoist iton. “We'll have that up and then to our wateh again,”” A The man who brought the flag and a spare studding sail-boom for a staff, lashed the latter to a stunted tree, securely, then with oe outhaul in the block as halliards, ran the flag aloft, its union own, . But so calm now was the air, the flag lay limp against the pole, and not a fold was lifted to catch the stranger’s eye. Yet, out where she was, there was a gentle breeze to give her steerage way. @ 7 “What doth it mean? The frigate hath suddenly changed her course!? cried Lady Mary. “She hauls up. and léaves the dis- masted pirate far on her [ee beam.” Sedley Tee took the glass and carefully sighted the wreck. “There 1s not a man to be seen upon her deck!” he said. ‘The cunning wretches haye hidden all below, and the commander of the frigate does not deem the wreck worth looking at. He hauls up now to chase those sloops so far to windward. He luffs at least five points to windward of this island.” — “‘and will pass us, unlooked-to, uncared-for ?” “Notif our signal is seen, asit must be, for breath of wind now. See it 1 thy fair neck, sweet lady.”’ wa; “Tt lifts what is of more importance—our flag! said the lady. ‘The frigate, too, comes in more rapidly.” “None too much so—for night is drawing on,” said Sedley. “She has no eyes but for the sloops away off to the west it seems. Why does not her look-out turn his eyes this way ? “Had you not better fire a gun ?” said Lady Mary. : “Her captain would not thank me for it, since it would alarm the pirates with whom he wants to close. No, better let him in his own way attack them. °*Twill prevent any attack on us, and we can the easier hasten our own preparations for sea.” . >> “Thou knowest best, Algernon.” p “Thanks, dear lady—now do me a favor, I pray.”’ “T willif it bein my power.” *') > ; “Go to the tent where thy sisters wait, and take refreshment. There is no Jonger need of y watching here. This faithful man will stand sentinel. Come—I will escort thee as far on the way as my battery, where my own seryant hath prepared a lunch for me, het “Thou art chary of thy hospitality,” said the lad outing. “May not I share thy evening meal ?”’ . we i “Ay, lady, if thou wilt, such as it is’ But I thought thou Woulust HKo——” ; “Nothing better than thy company and thy fare. So say no more. I will not be driven from thy convoy.’? ; “Wouldst thou might be under it forever, dear lady,” he sighed, as he led the way down the hill. im * —— z CHAPTER XXV. ia The twilight came, then deepened into darkness ere Hark 2 gle, who had been on deck an to ‘alin toca ings, and to sweep bis sloop in toward the shore. e would not have given it even then so soon, but two things alarmed him, Twoot the Spanish sloops had stood out to sea and he feared they would fall in with Pedro Polias and enable him to attack the English first. Next, there was heavy. firing in the northwest, so quick and regular, he knew the. neh slo were engaged with a disciplined enemy—undouw! a man-of- war. This being the ¢as¢, he knew that whatever he intended to do. ao ne Rin SOME ad " yhile the vessel was moving in with her great oars that no sound but the quick drip of falliong maton obi apie lifted, reached the ear, the buccaneer went into his cabin to arm. Victor was there to serve him—sad and €=arful. “Lad, why is tt that thou, who didst not shrink when destruc- ; ion pnd ¥ yt ae the deck, whexce thou didst tear me rom the clutch of death, now alarm at the pros f battle which I hope will be almost bloodless 7 ere oT ‘Alas, kind master—my heart is full of bodings. I fear this battle ar be thy last. ould thatIcould turn thee from thy urpose “That thou canst not do, my boy. It were sheer cowardice t yield into the hands of others iA is now so near my own. For Pedro Polias hath ere this, I fear, jomed hands with those who'll help him.” ““Yes—that may be so—but oh, should success be thine, and yet Have I not faced it a death come with it! Death unto thee !? “Why, it would be oat death, my boy. thousand times, toyed with itas my bark has played with the tempest, and mocked its strength. °Tis weak in thee, child, ‘pone thou art, to fear that which must in good time come to us a “T know it, good_master, but I bad dreamed a bright fate was I feel a gentle ifts a curl of sunny light from off Hark Cringle, THE ONE-ARMED BUCCANEER. By Ned Buntline, CHAPTER XXIV, For a time Lord Radcliffe kept his men, or a portion’ of them, posted onthe hills above his batteries, hae pe from appear- ances, that the One-Armed Buccaneer intended to land and at- tack him in the rear; but when he saw his vessel come to, with a kedge, a half-mile from the shore, lower awayall sail,and the men go leisurely to fishing on the rocky reef beneath their keel, he made up his mind that they would wait for reinforcements. Then he watched closely the yet distant sloops, and saw with in- creased satisfaction that they were becalmed, Speaking to Starbuck, who was with him reconnoitering, he 8 aid: “Night will be upon us, surely, before they can any ef them get here, and even then there must be more wind to bring them up.” “These sloops all use long sweeps, my lord, great ears,,manned each by a dozen men!” ‘ ; “Aye, but those against the tide whith now will. turn;.or hath turned now, methinks, will hardly bring them up!” “Not till late, at any rate, my Jord! — “Then go thou, good Starbuck, and give all thy energy.to has- tening repairs. Then when the leaks are fairly stoppedj.hasten to get our stores on board, keeping:the guns and ammunition in battery to the very last. by working. hard we'll get %0 sea this night, mayhap betore they try to attack us again. Afloat, with a working breeze, I’d defy them all. I were better tosink- there, at any rate, defiant British seamen, than: to-be butcheredihere on shore like cattle in mf gill “Most true, my lord, I'll do my best to get the brigantine ready But there comes a messenger from: Sedley!. Shall I wait to hear his report!’ , “No—hasten on the work! T’ll seeinsperson to-anything which Sédley wants. We will not_be attacked by these-men out here before they are reinforced. Weve made them respect us through their Tosses!”” 3 Starbuck now hastened to his work,.and Lord: Radcliffe turned to meet the messenger. : “Good news, my lord!” said the man.. Lieutenant’ Sedléy bade me-tell you that Lady Mary descried in the square-rigged vessel out at sea, a man of war, and that she now, with:square yards, heads in toward the island.” “Tis good news indeed—if true, P11 double thy pay my man, for bringing it. Heayen appears indeed to favor-us. When.wreck seemed our sure doom, 4 harbor loomed before us—when @ crowd of hungering fiends: came rushing-on to banquet on our.death, the: tide held them back. under fire until disabled, out to pieces, : And now, when:peril is thickening in.the distance, helpalso looms up as near. Heaven is-indeed all merciful, and weak. are those who feel. lt. not,. Haste-back to Lieutenant Sedley and to Lady Mary, and say I will soon be there.. I lin here to give a few orders to my sentinels, and then Iwill to them:and for myself see what this stranger is, and ‘if a: man of war, strive to learn her‘nation. We will: by signals idraw her to our aid, and with her guns and our own, when once -more we are afloat, scorn these waters, and rid the world of the plundéring wretches who swarm. about the isles and*inlets. In ten:-minutes I'll be-at the battery, a Mr. Sedley—in five more With my sister, where she keeps watch!” ‘ The messenger saluted and hwrried back, while Lord Radcliffe sending every man but a single sentinel down to help Mr. Star- buck.in the labor gangs, gave that sentinel directions to watch all the vessels and especially the sloop so. near, and to make instant report of any newor near appreaching danger, This done, Lord: Radcliffe hurried to the points where he would meet Sedley anghis sister. ; t k F “A man-of-war;,thou sayest, in the square-rigged: oraft in the effing?’ “Ay, so saith Lady Mary, and your lordship. knows that she is well: posted on the appearance of various craft. In truth she knows as well the difference.of rigin sailing vesselSas any man in allour erew!” ‘ “Yes, thanks:to your frequent teaching, Mr.,Sedley. As-there is mow. no immediate danger of attack from any-quarter, you can go up with me to her point of lookout, and together: we will ex- :amine the stranger and consult how we can best signal her for aid. Starbuck hopes to have the brig all ready for us to board ere ‘the mid wateh of night cames on, then if this be a. man-of-war, ‘the swarming thieves areund us shall receive arlesson which will never be forgotten, if indeed one lives: to holdjmemory of what. became of bis comradesi??) The young officer lef ee in charge of a trusty. subordinate, ‘and'at once accompanied Lord Radcliffe up the hill. “So, fair sister mine, thou hast founda treasure.on the sea, & man-of-war to champion us'when we so,sorely need her services.” “It.is @ man-of-war;.and English, too, good brother!’ said the lady.. “Eknow:that by the bluff bows and square.yards, and sails with seatcely any roach, for her flag is astern, and cannot yet be séen! A Frenchman would be sharper: forward, taunt in mast, with short yards and more reach to the topsails. A Dutchman would lie squat in the water; with mot halfthecanvas we see yonder!” Eat L r “True, my fair sister. Thou’rt as well witted in sea-sigusg-as the best of us. “The vessel comesin very slowly it seems to me.* “With scaree a breath of wind, and the tide out there not yet turned, we could not expect otherwise. She heads. a little to windward of the dismantled hull of the sloop which Mr. Sedley beat so bravely off this morning.” ; “Yos, and T hope will sink her ere she comes hither drifted from our ra But we 3 ae rn oe My Steartan dream I pn thee master of a ordly castle, wi air lands thine o as far aseye could see— and—a bride who loved thee well!” ta o : “Tush, boy— twas indeed a dream. Once such might have been my lot—but ’twas not to be! Get me my steet vest, *tis link- ed mail, lad, and light. Iwill wear it, though I had not so intend- “d, to, what care I may of the life thou thinkest hath : ‘yale, in yonder armory. Ah—whatis the matter, That ery—hast thou hurt thyself?” ids The lad had opened the armory door, where hung several suits of clothing, the vest of mail and the various ‘weapons, But not on these did his eyes fall—nor did these cause his cheek to blanch, then flush with sudden redness, while a low cry broke from his some child? ips. : ‘ There above all, framed in black walnut, richly carved, was 2 small, but exquisite portrait in oil, the faee of a lovely woman, to whom despite the different, eq lexion, oxe fair, the other brown. and the hair of one se long ané flowing, the other in short vey, mass, there was resemblance to Victor himsely. “What a strange face—it startled nie!’’ said the boy. “Strange, quoth ye?) Isit not Deautifet?” eried Hark Gringle. almost fiercely. “Ay, it is—yet false as fair, and for that to me i: was delusion, and a snare. Take down the vest and close the doer, boy—I do not want to look upon it gow. I need all my strength to-night [’7 The boy, trembling under some strong emotion took down the vest, which his master did not put on, but seeming to be wrapped in ponent he laid it om an ottoman, took wp his cap and left the cabin. “For these long, Fong years, through all his perfls he hath ke that!” said the bow, elasping his hands: over his heart. cithese long, wild years when striving amid the stormy amd in the mad heat of: battle, to forget, he hath yet clung te that, False and tair—fair-and false—oh! Heaven, too true, tootrue! He will not forget! _Ah—he comes—back betraying. tears,,.back, and let me be myself again\” pia The buceaneer eame in, but seemed too mucli absorbed in thought to-evem see the boy. He merely took his sword and belted it upem his thigh, and then as. the sloop’s frow jarred against the-beach, he went out to head his men. picky nr boy put on.a belt which carried a dagger and pistols an ollowed, GHAPTER XXXVI. Wien Captain Sarsfield'heard the rapid, heavy firing of canaon to his southwest, he asked Lieutenant Grummetwhat-lhe thought it came from. “The pirates-wouldn’t be so foolish:as: to fight’ each other, sir— so it must besome armed-vesseLthey’ve fallen in with that makes a desperate: resistance, or else a man-o’-war is playing such a game as we’ye commenced, but can’t earry through!’ “Why can we not carry.it through ?" “Because we are already shoaling our: water, and those two sloops are in where we can’t go, without grounding. You see, sir, they’re well in: with the: island. now,. and they'll make hiding places in spite of us!” 4 “Well, wecan.send in boats and out them out, er ‘destroy 1em! “We cam send in boats, sir, but whether they’ll come out again is doubtful, I know what kind of work itis.. They know eyery bend and turn, always Keep out of the way as long as they. want to, and when they get:you stuck, pepper-you as a widow does a bachelor, till you have to retreat or get.used up!” “Then you'd give up this chase were you in command?’ “I surely would, sir—for we'll make nothing more than hard knocks, the best we ect!” ; “Well—you can brace up, and platter-in, and we'll go about and head to sea!”? , “Were itnot best, sir,.to run down and/see what that’firing amounts%0? There’s a desperate fight going on and we-might take a hand in there, and do good service!” “Again you are right, Mr, Grummet,.and I thank you for your advice. Bring the ship around, and steer her to the point you think best!” . ; “Thank you, sir! Quartermaster send Jim Kelso here!” This man, the same who was aloft when Captain Sarsfield was there with his glass, came aft'to the first lieutenant, on receiving orders. “You're. well acquainted in these waters, Kelso, I’ye heard yow say |”? said the otticer. “Yes, sir—I ought to be. I was cast: away on the soathern point of Isle o’ Pines, when Isailed in @ Salem trader. Me and‘ another-chap got an old canoe and eruised about for over six months,,dodgin’ pirates and hidin’ away from ’ém, livin’ on fish and raccoon oysters that clump in bunches about the Mangrove roots. What Idon’t know. about these ’ere - waters, . sir, isn’t worth ‘he knowin’, if it is me assays.so!’’ “Where away is that firing do you think ?” “Why, it’s plain enough, sir, down at Magnolia Key.. Isaw there were people there when we were a bearin’ down for the wreck, but I was.told tokeep my eye an these ’ere sloops to wind- ward and forgot all aboutit!? “People there? A vessel may Nave-teen cast away during the last blow, and it may be her pal resisting a piraticali attack!” eried.Captain Sarsfield, “Fill away at once, Mr. Grummet, and run g@wn under the pil »of this man—but keep the leadgo- ing on both sides of the ship and all hands at their stations, for we must keep afloat!” ay, ay, sirl’” The frigate was how worn round on her heel, her braces round- ed in, and as she squared away, Jim: Kelso went forward, with a night glass, toamake out the Jand, if possible, by. itsaid, though. he:had given the compass bearing af tire key pretty accurately. As the wind'was now freshening, he remarked to. Mr. Grum-: mett that before moon-rise they ool be abreast af as snug a harbor as there was on the south nial of Cuba, righain the heart of the Magnolia Key he had been talking about. “Deep enough for us?” asked:the lieutenant, “Deep enough and large enough to. moor a dozen; line 0’ battle ships, Sir! Wood and water in there, too. Seven fathoms o¥er the bar, sir: Lsounded it a dozenatimes, and whenmvwe got off, me and my mate, ’twas in a Spanish. sloop-o’-war, that run in for wood and: water.” : : The lieutenant asked no more-que-‘‘ons, but looked to his sails, forthe breeze was still freshening, and fhe frigate dashed along jauntily with 16 on her beam. - : The firing was:yet-heard, but-If did not-seem, soarapid as at first. Suddenly there was a glare of light seen away to the.soutliwest, “Nos moon-rise yet, surely!” cried Gaptain Sarsfield, as. his eye caught sight of it. “No, sir—not for an hour yet; It is a fireon: the island that Kelso. talks about.” : “A vessel on fire, sir, I reckon, by the way that the flame runs oe Nothing exeept sails or tarred rope. would burn aa quick as. that,” rae? “Heavens! Crowd on sail, T feclas if we were nee@ed there, and may arrivetoo.late. Crowd on every stitch ef eanvas that will draw..”’ “We haye got every sail set now, sig, that wil do. good, We are making nine knots. through the water, at least, and thas is. great foxes!” t [lO BY CONCLUDED NEXE WEER,! our gave the order .to ‘slip moor- — ns to whon have s Sn Topo nen at outs 0 Yas a see none, aa time the t had fallen, and ris seemed likely to be fulfilled ’ the promise of a storm Aitersupper, Zalimeand her lever took refuge in the pasior, stile steamer off scene curiously and wonderingly, and they were regarded in turn with wide stares of surprise and curiosity. “Whom have you there, Kodi?” asked a faded ‘blonde, a Geor- ph * mature years, dropping her pip@anm@rising indolently to ier eibow, “Where is the Lady Ayesha?” demanded Kodi, with a hasty glance around him. “In her room,’ was the response, and the Georgian pointed to an open door off the fountain-room. At this juncture there wasa stir, andthe Lady Ayesha, the chief wite of Kelegi, and the ruler of his women, swept into the room, She paused and looked at the strangers, only one of whom was yailed, in haughty astonishment. She was a woman of imposing presence, and of mature beauty. She was apparently of middle age, and her manner was more than imperious—it was insolently domineering. Like the other women she had black eyes, but hers were shaped like almonds, and under their languishi: were full of suppressed fircs. Her hair was eae an ean oy erent, an . ert Ayre with sweet scents, ei was dark an aughty, without softness or s s. yet still handsome and éituttowee. Pa Ta She looked at the new-comers with haughty insolence, and de- manded: r “Has my lord returned, Kodi ?” “He has, my dady,” with a bow Jess low than usual, and a man- ner less reverential a full of secret exultation at the impending downfall of the Lady Ayesha, whose usual overbearing manner toward himself he was about to repay with interest. The Lady Ayesha noticed the thange in his manner,’and resent- ed it. “My lord will be here directly, I suppose 7’ she sai > her wrath until she should lave gained what Safortnation ake wanted. “Not till evening, madame!” was the response. Ayesha's eyes blazed on being addressed thus simply, She was used to adulation and the most servile form of address, Be careful how you speak to me, dog ‘of an Abyssinian?” she cried. “At a word from me, your head will be severed from your Pes aig you ee the gern sitar’ of the bowstring ?? } “Who ve you there 7” she said, abruptly, puttin: sp question as the ded Geor ian. ane ass Poe He spate “The blac an Abyssinian brought from Crete,” said i with mock humility, “The woman unvailed is a Greck, the ma of the young lady.” = aration lad 4 Be eae ie “She isamcw slaye for me, pose. 9 promised to brin, ea Greek. Unvai your face, girl, I would look at you!’ Bin ser st ae tea Zulime stood like a statue still, ‘save that her bearing grew haughty. She looked like a princess carefully disguised, carrying ber thiek vail and wrappings with a grace the chief wife could not help but mark. fae uttered a cry of rage. “The fitst thing you have to learn, my girl.” she cried, “will be obedience tome, Tam ruler in this harem!” , Before Kodi could speak, Ayesha sprang forward, and furiously tore the yall from ber ae . The next moment she stepped back, thevail in her ha speechiless, and pale at sight of the royal beauty of the unate” The fous tener orien cps giaculations of astonishment, os Oveliness bad ever before e : yithi those walls. ver before been seen within The maiden stood, her gray eyes flashing, her golden hair dis- hevelled by the violence of Ayesha, her slight figure drawn wp in haughty grace, a vision of glorious beauty. It was no wonder that Ayesha almost reeled, and lier face blanchea in van atyful ap- prehension. “Who is.ske ?” she gasped. ig A Greek!’’ replied Koda, with but haif-disguised exultation. ‘The recent acquisition of our master, whe loves her to distrac- tion. Your day is over, Ayesha. Your youth and beauty are gone, and the order is given for you to obey where you have reigned! Our master sent word that you must submit yourself to the mule of the Lady Zulime—your future mistress, his chief wife, and the rufes ot his harem.” The Lady Ayesha stared wiklly at Zulime, unable tocom preeend her downfall and humiliation. “‘Then,as the meaning of Kodi’s words foreed themselves upon her, the deposed wife threw ap her arms, uttered a long, wild, tiuging shriek, and fled from the apartment, L [TO BE OONTINUED.] ‘ eens ae MASONS AND PLASTERERS. BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY. Fluttering thick as autumn leaves In and out, and under the éaves, The twittering swailows work and play, Building their cots with bricks of clay. Free masons are they, Unfettered their wills, Nature trusts them to-day, And they meet their bills, Splashing about the river’s brim, Here and there, the brown beavers swim, Their teeth are saws, with which they cut The butt ofa tree for a water butt. Ts their life a sham ? They're sober I think ! Yet I’m sure they danv The water they drink. But the mason whose praise I sing, Ts no swallow, though he swallows a wing; Nor a beaver, with a dam for a vat, Tle’s a mason, who carries no bricks in his hat, On the scaffold he stands, Well poised in the air, Guiding the work of his hands, With the compass and square. As he builds the wall strong and high, Climbing nearer and nearer the sky, So we all, with a brick at atime, May build up a life sublime, Unless like poor Pat, Who made Bacchus his god, We should putin the hat What should goin the hod. All are builders, wise and unwise; Some make their scaffolding the skies, And then look down with scornful eye, And proudly ask us ‘‘how is that for high ?” They climb the starry stair, They claim the highest school, Yet do nothing ‘‘on the square” Nor heed the “golden rule? With the conwass of pity sweep The circle of mankind, and keep Unswerved the plummet and the line, True to the square in light divine. ~ Thus working day by day, We build like masons true, Till the Master calls us away, Beyond the wats of blue. The Lone Ranche. A TALE OF THE STAKED PLAIN. By Captain Mayne Reid. {*The Lone Ranche,” was commenced in No. 42, Back num- bers ean be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.] CHAPTER LIV. CONDITIONS OF FREEDOM. After stepping forth from the tent, Uraga paused to re- flect, The pias ‘suggested by Roblez seemed feasible enough. If he could but force the consent as proposed, it would not be difficult to get it sealed before anything could interyene to counteract it. But there were other points to be considered ere proceeding further with the affair. The lancer escort must not know too much. There were ten of them, all thorough cutthroats; and as such haying a fellow-feeling for their colonel and chief. Not one of them but had committed some crime, and more than one wilo had stained his soul with murder, This was nothing strange in a regiment of Mexican soldiers— under the regime of Santa Anna. It was not rare even among its officers. 4 On parting with the troop, Uraga had selected his es- cort with an eye to chances and contingencies. Yet, al- though they would have been ready to yield obedience to him in any deed of blood, he did not desire them to pene- trate the darkness of his f ered to shoot or ould have obeyed with the hang the two. pri rs, the eagerness of ) ds let loose from the leash; or wicked boys D tted toindulge in some cruel sport. There could be no difficulty in having the prisoners exe- cuted, under the pretense of a condemnation by court- martial—or without, by a simple command from their chief, Therefore, Uraga would not himself need to act directly as the assassin. No poignard or pistol would be required. A volley of carbines would do the deed, if not more effectuaily, at least more plausibly. omc rae re ae. that already. Accept the conditions I offer, and all wil yet be well with you. dinate officer. It will enable me to obtain that.” Miranda still remained silent—long enough to arouse the impatience of him who dictated, and tempt the threat already designed as an alternative. ‘Refuse,’ he said, his brow suddenly clouding, while a gleam of sinister significance flashed out from his eyes; “and you see not another sun. By that now shining you may take your last look at the earth, for this night will certainly be your last upon it. banquet. if you refuse what I have offered. your bones. Let it be plain, Don Valerian Miranda—a yes or no,”’ ‘““Wol”? was the word shouted, almost shrieked out, by “No! he repeated; ‘‘never shall I am in your power, Gil Uraga. the man thus menaced. I consent to that. IT can even promise you the pardon of the State; for my influence in high places is very differ- ent from what it was when you knew me as your subor- You see those buzzards on the cliff? They are wetting their beaker, as if expecting a They shall have one, and it will be on your body, Accept them, or before to-morrow’s sun reaches meridian the vultures will be feeding upon your flesh, and the coyotes quarreling over Answer me, and without faltering of speech. 1] her back—even if he should have to drag or carry her. Hewas too late. Before he could Jay. hand upon her she had reached the spot. where her brother lay bound, flung herself down by his side, and was holding him in her em- brace, pressing her lips to his forehead and moistening his cheek with her tears. [TO BE CONTINUED. ]} OUR KNOWLEDGE Box. A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering. QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.— A Dyspeptic.—BOILED WHEAT.—A writer on dyspepsia recom- ° mends boiled wheat, He says: ‘Soak about a quart of clean, white wheat in warm water for twelve hours or longer, Then boil it for three hours, or until the kernels are thoroughly cooked, in a farina kettle, or inatin pail placed in another kettle con- taining water. Let afew large nails or small stones be put in the large Kettle to keep the pail irom resting directly on the bottom. By this means the wheat can be cooked fora long time without scorching it. If the vessel containing the wheat is not kept in hot water, the wheat will scorch and burn, even if the mass is stirred Put your pistol to my head and blow out my brains, as] while it ispeing cooked. After the kernels are quite soft, add salt you have hinted; hang meto one of the branches above; give me any kind of death—torture, if it please you. It could not be such torture as to sce you the husband of You cannot force my consent, nor gain her’s, upon such disgraceful I know she will rather see my sister. I shall at least be spared that. conditions. My noble Adela! me die—die along with me.” “Ha!—hal’? responded Uraga, in a peal of mocking laughter, in which could be detected a trace of chagrin; Women are not so superbly They have a keener comprehension of their own Surely I mean no harm to the Senorita oa ‘er- haps she may not so disdainfully reject it, as you have ‘we shall see about that. stupid. interests. On the contrary, it is an honor] am offering her, done, Don Valerian. However, we shall soon see,’? Saying this, Uraga turned upon his heel, and walked off; leaving the chafed captive writhing within his ropes. CHAPTER LY. A SISTER SORELY TRIED. The marquee that gave shelter to Adela Miranda and her maid, was not visible from the spot where the pris- The other tent stood between, But from the tenor of his last speech, Miranda guessed that Uraga had oners had been placed. and some shrubbery further concealed it. gone thither; and could also guess at his intentions. He was right in both conjectures; for the ruffian, chagrined by the denial he had received from the brother, and impatient of delay, was determined on haying an answer from the sister—point blank, and upon the instant. Once inside, he muttered a direction, or rather request, for Conchita to withdraw. He did this with as.much grace as the excited state of his feelings enabled him to command; excusing the act by saying that he wished a word with the senorita alone—one he was sure she wouid not wish to be heard by other ears He entered the lady’s tent. than her own, Roused from her despondent attitude, she looked up— her large, round eyes expressing surprise, anger, appre- hension. The maid, disinclined to obey the request, looked toward her mistress for a sign of eo The t could serve no purpose to gainsay the wish of one who had full power to enforce it, and whose demeanor showed him de- latter hesitated to give it. Only for an instant. termined on doing so. “You can go, Conchita,” said the young lady. call you when you are wanted.” The girl went out with evident reluctance, and stopped not far from the tent. “Now, sir,’? demanded the senorita, on being left alone with the intruder, ‘‘what have you to say to me, that I should not wish her to hear??? “I pray you, senorita, do not begin with me so brus- Lapproach you as a friend, though hitherto I may quely. have approached you only in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, that in time you will give me credit for good intentions. I am sure you will, when you know how much I am distressed by the position I am placed | Weekly.—No recipe......@eo. CI in. It grieves me, that my instructions from head- quarters compel me to adopt some harsh measures with my prisoners; but in truth, senorita, no discretion has been left me.” “Senor,”? returned the lady, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, ‘you have said all this before. I thought you had something of more importance to com- municate to me.’? “And so have I, senorita, But it is of so unpleasant a nature, I hesitate to give speech to it.” “You need not, sir; after what has” passed, Iam not likely to be nervous.” Jespite her courageous nature, and an effort to appear calm, her voice trembled as slic spoke. There was an expression on the face of the man that boded some evil disclosure. The suspe’ andin a tone still defiant, she made a further demand for the promised communication. “Senorita,” he said, speaking m grave measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, “it has been my @uty to make your brother a prisoner—an un- pleasant one as I have said; butalas! the partalready performed is nothing compared with what is now re- quired of me. am glad of it, senorita, for cause you one.” 4 uceal the look of alarm, There was the pretext of patriotism, wit jhent of treason to the State, This would be tl motive. It was only the real one Uraga cared from hia escort. They must not at once rgeant!’ ue called to the troope 7 +s sleeves, an immediate authority over the escort, ‘‘come hither! The rine soon stood before him, saluting, and si- lent], ting orders. ' “That Indian you see,’’ continued his colonel, pointing to José, who was but little known to the soldiers, ‘was on the way with @ message to me, in company with an- other. In crossing the Pecos, his comrade was carried off by the flood. He may or may not be drowned. In either e2a9 go in search of hin; and if you find his body, bring it. José will guide youtothe place where he was last seen. You will ride down the bank of the river, though yon need not. gofar. Two or three miles will be far enough. If you.don’t find any trace of him within that distance, then the poor fellow must Certainly have sunk to the bottom, and it would be no use searching farther. Take all the men with you; only leave Galvez, who is keeping guard over the prisoners.”’ the lancers were soon in their saddles, and riding away from the ground, the prisoher’s guard alone staying be- hind. Galyez, who beinga ‘familiar’ with his colonel— morethan once lis participator in crime—could be trusted to overhear anything. This movement had not escaped the ebservation of the fwo men tied under the tree. They could not divine its meaning, but neither could they auger wellof it. Still worse when Uraga, signing to the sentry to come to him apart, muttered some directions in his ear. It did not tranquiiize their fears to know what this was. On the contrary their apprehensions were increased, when the trooper again returned to them, and unloosening the cord that bound the ankles of Don Prospero, raised him upon his feet, as if to reimoye him from the spot. On being asked by the prisoners what it was for, Galvez condescended to answer, saying, in a gruff voice, that he had orders to separate them, so that in the absence of the others his task in guarding them should be easier. It seemed a lame explanation, but no other was given; as Galvez, rudely taking hold of the doctor’s arm, con- ducted him to a diistance of two or three hundred yarcs, and once more laying him along the ground, stood over him in the attitude of a sentry. Ail this was mysterious and fear-inspiring; aS much to Don Valerian, now left alone, as to Don Prospero, who had been taken apart. > * Miranda was not left long to his meditations. Ina few seconds after, the place of his iriend and fellow-captive was occupied by his captorand enemy. Gil Uraga stood beside him. There was a quick interchange of glances; on the side of Miranda defiant, on that of Uraga triumphant, although the expression of triumph appeared to be held in check, asif to avert some event before showing itself in more savage demonstration. It was the first time Uraga had youchsafed speech to 9 former commanding officer since making him a pris- omer. - “Don Valerian, Miranda,’ he began, “you will, no doubt, be wondering why I haye ordered your fellow- prisoner to be taken apart from you. It will be explained by my saying, that] faye some words for you I don’t wish overheard by acy one—not even your dearest friend, Don Prospero.”’ “What words, Gil Uraga ?? ‘“T have a proposal to make to you.”’ Miranda remained silent, awaiting if. “{ may first_tell you,’ continued the ruilian, “though doubtless you know it already, that yourlife isin my power—that if I now put a pisiol to your head, and blow out your brains, there will be no calling to account, If there were any danger of it, it could be avoided by giving you the benefit of a court-mariial. Your life is forfeit; and our military laws, as youare awate, can be stretehed a little, just now, to meet your case.”’ : “T am aware of it,” said Miranda, his patriotic spirit touched by the humiliating reflection. “I know the des- potism that now rules can do anything, and would, with- vut care either for law or constitution.” ‘Just so,” assented Uraga: ‘and for this reason I ap- proach you with my proposal.” “Speak it, then! am your prisoner, powerless, and therefore cannot help listening. Speak it, senor, without further circumlocution.”? : “Since you command me to ayoid circumlocution, I will obey you to the letter. My eee is this:. Thatin ex- change for your life, which I have the power to t@ke, and also to save, you will gtve me your sister.” Miranda writhed within his rawhide fastenings till the cords almost cut through his skin. Withal he was silent; his feelings being too intense to permit of speech, ‘Don’t mistake me, Don Valerian Miranda,’’ pursued his tormentor, in a tone intended to be soothing; ‘‘when 1 ask you to give me your sister, I mean it in an honor- able sense. 1 wish her for my wife; and to save your life she will consent to become so, if you only use your influ- ence to that end. She would not be a faithful sister if she did not. I need not tell yon that I love her—you know She no. Jon TH ‘ing eyes. - “What mean you, Colonel Uraga 1’? ‘Don Valerian dies within the hour.” “Yon are jesting, sir. My brother hast Heis not wounded. Why should he die? OF not torture me thus. Unsay your words, or g planation of them.” a She spoke hurriedly and with an incredulouss ont while at the same time her hand, pene her bosom, told that she too truly believe: sa “T shall nse, however, was too painful to be endured; You say you are prepared for ashock. 1 hat] am going to say will mechanically from sity of lier ap- what he had id, “Don Valerian is not sick,’ continued the unfeeling to suit the taste. But wheat should never be salted before it is cooked, as salt will render the bran tough. Wheat thus prepared is excellent when eaten in milk, or dressed with cream and sugar. Procure the best quality of white wheat, as red wheat is liable to be tough. Only a small portion of the wheat received at city flouring mills is sufficiently free from rat and mice litter, and foul seed to be cooked in the foregoing manner. The practice of the writer has been, for a few youre past, to procure a small bag of clean wheat from some good farmer, who cultivates clean, plump grain, Aside from the surprising economy in providing such an article of diet, boiled wheat is one of the very best kinds of foed that invalids, bilious and high-living dyspepties can eat. No medicine is comparable to it for giving a healthful. tone to one’s system when it is somewhat run down.”’..,.......B.—Yes........+ Sunnyside.—-A wooden knife is Jess lable to wound the flesh or abrade the skin........ Q. Q.—Shave it off frequently....... Bound Boy.—KALSOMINING PARLOR WALLS,—A correspondent recently sent us the following: “It is a popular error to bebieve that the materials for kalsomining are yee expensive, and also that few men have sufficient skill to apply the liquid even after it has been properly prepared. For this reason people are frequently de- ceived into paying exorbitant prices for this kind of work. The materials employed are good clear glue, Paris white, and water. Paris white is sold in New York City and Brooklyn for two or three cents per pound. Itinerant Kalsominers frequently charge twenty-five cents per pound; they use nothing but the genuine silver polish, which is scarce and very expensive. In case the wall of a largeroom, say sixteen by twenty feet square, is to be kalsomined with two coats, it will require one-fourth of a pound of light colored glue, and five or six pounds of Paris white. Soak the glue over night in a tin vessel containing about a quart of warm water. Ifthe kalsomine is to be applied the next day,’add a pint more of clean water to the glue, and set the tin vessel con- taining the glue into a kettle of boiling water over the fire, and continue to stir the glue until it is well dissolved and quite thin. If the glue-pail be placed in a kettle of boiling water, the glue will not bescorehed. Then, after putting the Paris white into a large water 1, pour on hot water, and stir until the liquid ap- pears like thick milk, Now mingle the glue liquid with the whi- ting, stir it thoroughly, and apply it to the wall with a white-wash brush, or with a paint brush. It isof little consequence what kind of instrument is employed in laying on the kalsomine, provided the liquid is spread smoothly. Expensive brushes, made express- ly for kalsomining, may be obtained at brush factories, and at some drug and hardware stores; but a good whitewash brush, haying long and thick hair, will do very well. In ease the liquid is so thick that it will not flow from the brush so as to make smooth work, add a little more hot water, When applying the kalsomine, stir it frequently, Dip the brush often, and only so deep in the liquid as to take as much as the hair will retain with- out Jetting large drops fall to the floor. If too much glue be add- ed the kalsomine cannot be laid on smoothly, and will be likely tocrack. The aim should be to apply athin layer of sizing that cannot be brushed off with a broom or a dry cloth. A thin coat will not erack.”.,,...Josephine.—We have no such recipe......... N. D. R.—Our space in this column is too limited to e€ you a full description of the process referred to. We would advise you toget a cheap work on tanning. News Co., in this city.......Occidental.—W f with a copy of “The Carriage Painters? Manual.” It con- tains useful information on subjects of interest to you........ G. W. H.—Take sulphur occasionally, and wash your face in spirits of wine...... Iynoramus,—Bathe your eyes in salt and water... ... C. A. Geldard.—Rub your limb with opodeldoc,........ Afficted.— Sulphur applied externally and taken internal will cure you. Any druggist will tell you what quantity to take..... .Dirigo.— _2 Correspondence column......Orvis.—We cannot aid you......... Jersey Blue.—We presume what you desire can be procured at any India-rubber store in this city de Reader of New York mobers.—1. We know nothing of the party named. 2. Haye nothing to do with quacks. 3. You can cure yourself if you follow the subjoined directions. Bathe night aad morning in cold water; avoid the use of stimulants of all kinds; don’t indulge in late suppers; let the covering of your bed be comparatively light;rise early; be temperate im eating; mingle in cheerful company; keep your thonghts off your malady, and bathe your body occasionally in salt and water.......... Rodarte’ pit 0. Schevers and Rose Clark.—1. See 28, 2.—To PRESERVE TOMATOES.—Make a sirup of a pound of to a pound of fruit; cut up one lange lemon, oe eup of aeerrved ginger to every pound, Boil the tomatoes tender; them on a dish to cool; add the lemon or ginger to the ay and let it beilup once. Put the tomatoes in jars; turn Ne ot sirup them, and cover them tight...., .. William Callaghan. hair will grow again.......... take out the paint, and ine the Oil.....+4.: ZL S.—1, The ‘natural lemon. juice” will not injure the skin. . It is far bett than the ‘prepared kind.” 2, Charcoal used onee a week wil not in our judgment, injure the teeth, You ean procure it at any druggist’s.” 3. Glycerine soap is very good. 4. To improve the complexion see No. 36. 5. Don’t paint your lips. 6. x candles afford the purest light, and are supposed to be the least inj to the eyes and complexion. 7, Don’t spare the water toilet. Cleanliness will render a homely person attract to bed early and rise early, take a great deal of out-door e eat sparingly, and keep in good temper, and you will be a despite the. absence of mere beauty. Above all don’t ind envy or senone: seseeveses J, OR.—See “Knowl e.—Se Go ini A, GC. eNO, 28..........4.P. F.—We cannot You..;....- ‘Aouse.—They Will disappearin time, Bathe your eyes pany in cold water...... Sdwea off Dufy.—Sulphur..........Le Roy.—t. TO REMOVE SUPERFLUOUS HAIR see No. 44. 2. To IMPROVE the complexion, see No. 36. 3, Castor oil with darken the hair. 4 Take plenty of outdoor exercise and eat sparingly........Wicks.— See No. 32; but it will cost you much less t0 haye them. regilded by an experienced person............W. H. S.—Keep a little gum arabic in the mouth for one or two hours every day, allowing it to dissolve slowly.....-.-+. Important.—See No, 44..........0. 8, B— Housewife—To MAKE For silvering copper, see No, 28....... hee YEAST.—A very good yeast is made in this way: Grate three large raw potatoes on a coarse grater, pour into the mass of pu P enough boiling water to make a clear, thick starch, add one halt cup of sugar and one quarter of salt. When Inkewarm add one Keep warm until it rises. One-half eup of this east will rise three large loaves of bread. By boiling a handful f sin the water you pour oyer the potatoes, this yeast will eep two months in hot weather. Another recipe is this: Boi one pound of good flour, a quarter of a pound of brown sugar, and alittle salt, in twogallons of water for one hour, When inilk- warm bottle it and cork it close, It will be fit for use in twenty- four hours; one pint of this will make eighteen pounds of bread... Little Red.—1. TO MAKE VINEGAR. No, 40. 2. TO: GuRE But- TER.—Take two parts of the best common salt, one of sugar, ruffian; ‘nor yet has he received any wound. For all) .yonehalf part of saltpeter, beat them up and blend the while this, in less than an hour he must die. It has been de- aint Take one einen of this. ton to: ae sixteen creed,’? ' é 45. i ounces of butter, werk it well into the mass, and close it up for “Oh, merciful Virgin! You are mocking me, senor. | use. It will keep Rood for three years BS d-it stands three His death decreed? By whom 7 - | Weeks OF & MOBth Delay i ie ani. olrPeeeidiee To Die “Not by me, 1 assure you, The military authorities of | MT we oSee No. 40......u P. Nicholas. «FOR TREATMENT OF the country have been his judges, and condemned him | »,peworm.—sSee No. 41...... Bertha.—To Can, Fruir.—see No. long ago. I sentence carried out. trusted to me; and I cannot disobey without losing my command, and perhaps risking my own life. My orders at starting were, to bring the prisoners back to Santa But a messenger has just arrived—an Indian you may haye seen—with a dispatch from the governor, in 1 am com- manded to haye goth of them shot on the moment of re- Fe. which he orders their immediate execution. ceiving it.?? The tale was preposterous enough, and might have seemed to her what it was—a lie—but for the knowledge of many like cruel deeds in the history of hernative land. Her own and her brother’s experience, at least rendered it not improbable; besides, from within her tent, she had seen the Indian Jose and his mule ride up to the camp- both jaded as if coming from a journey. This gave plausibility to that part about the bearer of a dis- ground, patch, almost confirming it. “God of my soul!’ she cried out in the anguish of con- viction; “‘can this be true?” “Tt is true.” “Oh, senor! you will not carry out the cruel sentence? It is not an execution—it is an assassination, Colonel You will not stain your hands with murder? You Uraga! will not? You mewst not!’? “T must obey orders.”’ “My poor brother! Mercy! Merey! You can saye him? You will?”? “7 will f The emphasis with which these two words were pro- nounced, brought a quick flush of gratefulmess over her movement, as if to thank face; and she made a forward him by a pressure of the hand, She might have given it, but for the expression upon his features, that told her the consent had not been fully given, or the speech finished. There was more to come—two other words. They were: “Upon conditions.” It was a. sad check to her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She might have some But she knew Gil Uraga, and could tell they She knew not what they might be. suspicion. vould be hard. ‘Name tllem, senor!’’ she said. him—as we’ve heard—net somine. 1 > Wi will give anything to saye dear VY alerian’s life.’? ‘All your wealth would not save him, senorita; but that will—that which would cost you nothing—your hand,” “Senor?” “Yes, senorita. that is asked.” Your handin holy wedlock. She started as if a serpenthad stung her; for she now all—eyen for whom her hand was 80 strangely solicited, though she mechanically asked this comprehended question. “For one,’? he answered, ‘who loves you with his whole soul—who has loyed you for long, hopeless years— ay, senorita, ever since you were a school-girl, and he a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze upon you from a distance. He is a peasant no long- er, but ohe who has wealth, one upon whom the State hag bestowed honor and command—one worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in the land, Sen- orita, behold him at your feet!’ Ou saying this, Uraga dropped upon his knees before her, and remained awaiting the response, It did not come. Sheseemed as if petrified, and de- prived of the power of speech. Her silence gave him hope. eSenorita,” he continued, in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, ‘‘I will do everything to make you happy—everything a husband can do. And remember your brother’s life. shall be risking my own to,saveit, I have just seen iim on the subject. He does not object, but on the contrary has given his consent. He knows his danger.”’ “My brother has given his consent!’ she exclaimed, with a look of incredulity, ‘I must. have it from his own lips—I must see him.”’ ‘As she said this, she sprang past. the kneeling suppli- cant, and before he could rise to his feet or stretch forth an arm to detain her, she had glided out of the tent and was hastening on to the spot where she supposed the prisoners to have been placed, Witn exclamations of anger and chagrin, Uraga went rushing after, His intention was to overtake and bring They only waited’ for his capture to have the }.4; This disagreeable duty has been in-} Rutledge.—To Sturr Brrps.—See Toe ‘Tfit be money I will give it. Though my brother’s property isto be taken from 1 have wealth, and Thatis all ad t . Wife’s Foe.—For A CURE FOR CANCER.—See No. 45..... ves ye, Aunt Jerushy.—To MAKE TOMATO CATSUP,—See No. 82...... Barnaby Rudge.—To Bron GUN BARRELS.—See No. 30. HISTORICAL ITEMS. THE peach is supposed tobe a native of Persia, and its botani eal name refers to that origin. It isknown to have ficurished in both Persia and China at a very early.period, and was highly yalued in both countries. It has often been found growing spon. taneously in Asiatic Turkey. It is mentioned by Pliny, and several other classical writers, and many anecdotes are related of the veneration and even superstition with which it is regarded by the Asiatics. Itmay have been one of the “trees of tha garden,” which God planted in Eden, and which were to nourish and cheer our first Pe in their pristine purity and happiness, It is not mentioned in the Bible, but its congener, the almond, is mentioned several times, and as early as the days of Jacob, Tr is not known who the Man in the Iron Mask really was. Conjecture has been very busy with the mystery, and we can only relate what is actually known respecting t nat unfortunate individual. He was a State pronet in France, who always wore a black velvet (not iron) mask, which completely concealed hi face, He was at first confined at Pignorel, about 1666; in 1681 he was removed to Exelles; the island of St. Marguerite in 1687; and finally, in 1698, to the Bastille, where he died on the 19th of March, 1703. He was everywhere attended by M, de St. Mars, and al. though the slightest attempt on his part to reyeal his real name would have met with instant death, he was uniformly treated with the greatest. courtesy and indulgence. Various attempts have been made to ascertain his identity, but without success, Tu once mysterious word “uhlan” means nothing more nor less than alancer. The hussar emphatically styled “the fierce hus- sar,” was once a0 doubt as great an enigma as the “ubiquitous uhlan.? “Husz” in the Hungarian language signifies ee er The “ar” signifies “price,” and “hussar” (pronounced like the man hussar) means ‘‘the re resentative of twenty men.” word dates from the time of Mathias Corvinus, when, in national Hungarian levies, every twenty men were obliged to contribute to the army one perfectly equipped horseman, who, in accord- ance with facts, was styled ‘‘hussar.” As to the origin of the phrase “Old Nick,” Archdeacon Nares tellsus that ‘‘Nick” was a very old name among the northerns, and that from them we derive the word. We borrowed it, in tact, from the title of an evil genius among the ancient Danes, They believed that he often appeaved on the sea and on deep rivers, in the form of a sea monster, weoeee ir, immediate shipwreck and drowning to the unbapp sailors, Keyster, another antiquarian authority, mentions @ deity of the waters, worshiped by the ancient Danes and Germans under the name of Nicken, or Nocca, Hence, doubtiess “Old Nick” arose, by an easy corruption, Tye Chicago fire is unparalleled in history by any previous fire, perhaps with the exceptions of that in the City ot Moscow, which was a military necessity to drive out Napoleon and his army—and that in London, in the month of September, 1662, which destroyed 436 acres of public buildings, 400 other buildings, 13,000 dwellings, and forced 130,000 of the inhabitants to flee to Islington and Highgate. JBDILES were magistrates of Rom’, and were first created about 490 B. G. There were three de~ . s of these officers, and the func- tions of the principal were “lar to those of our justices of the peace, The plebeian ediles presided over the more minute affairs of the State, good order, and the repairs of the streets. They also procured provisions for the city, and executed the decrees of the people. Dres Tree “day of wrath” is a Latin medieval hymn on the day of judgment, It is as ascribed to various authors, among others to Pope Gregory the Great (died about 604), and to St. Bernard (died 1153); but it is generally considered to have been com- posed by Thomas of Celano (died 1255), and to have been used in the Roman service of the mass before 1385, TULIPS were taken to England from Vienna in 1578. It is re- corded in the register of Alkamaer, In Holland, that in 1639, 120 tulips with the offsets sold for 90,000 florins, and that one called the “Viceroy” sold for 4,023 guilders. The States stopped this rumous trafic, The tulip tree was taken to England from America about 1663. THE London and Greenwich Railway was opened for traffic on the lth of December, 1836, and was the first completed line,from the metropolis. ‘The London and Birmingham (now the London and North-Western) was opened as far as Boxmoor—twenty- four miles and a half—on the 27th of July, 1837, and to Birming- ham, 17th of September, 1838, SiLK stockings were first worn by Henry II. of France in 1547; in 1560 Queen Elizabeth was presented with a pair of black silk stockings by her silk woman, Mrs. Montague, and she never wore any others. The art of weaving stockings in & frame was invent- ed in England by the Rey. Mr. Lee, of Cambridge, in 1589, twenty- five years after he had learned to knit them with wires or needles, Cotton stockings were first made in 1780. THE late Daniel O’Connell was not tried for high treason, but for conspiracy. The trial commenced at Dublin on the 15th of January, 1844, He was found guilty, but the verdict was aiter- ward sét aside by the House of Lords, Collier.—Turpentine ¥ - Emme S.- 3 psc nigga loaressg tne inaaititilainchcaaiabigingiesite a a cas: dntaneinee ee nanan  “TEs Re RD OR MIME Cre Py 2) as banetitns — = rai pin apemves ee THE SILENT ONE. BY NATHAN D. URNER,. A pale rain droppeth from the moon Over a white gravestone, And, sweeping the ground With a low, sad sound, The willow tree maketh moan For the silent one, the sorrowful one, Beneath the stone. The tears are dried that once were shed Above the lowly dead; For her who lies prone Beneath the white stone, They wept when they lowered her head; But sorrow 10 more with tears is fed kor sorrow dead, But still there droppeth from the moon A pale rain o’er the stone, And, sweeping the mound With a low, sad sound, The willow tree maketh moan For the silent one, the sorrowful one, Beneath the stone. THE MEN OF WOOD. BY BURKE BRENTFORD. Two men were conversing loucly and angrily in the shop of old Beech, the wooden-image maker. One was old Beech himself, as crabbed and surly as an antiquated Scoteh terrier; and the other was Jasper Blake, his perse- cuted nephew, a likely, dapper-looking young fellow, who loved his cousin, Mabel Beech, much to his and her own satisfaction, but greatly to the dissatisfaction of old Beech, who would not hear of it. The young man’s tone had been entirely expostulatory; but he was rapidly losing his temper. “J should think,’ he cried, ‘‘that your giving Mabel to me were no more than simple reparation for your having defrauded me out of the inheritance left me by my Uncle John’s will.’’ This was one of old Beech’s sore spots; indeed, if he had a number of sore spots, it was probably the sorest. “Will! you rascal! will! There is no will!’ he ex- claimed, quivering with rage. ‘7 don’t pretend to know where you have hidden it away,’”? sneered Jasper. ‘I only know that Uncle John, who was my foster-father as well, always told me that he had made a will in which he had left everything to me, and that, no will being found after his death, you became his legal heir.” “Get out of my shop, you lying scoundrel!’’ roared old 3eech, raising his staff. ‘Y give you fair warning, Uncle Benjamin, if you strike me with that stick, I shall so far forget that you are Mabel’s father as to punch your head. But come!’’ con- tinued the young man in aconciliatory tone; ‘‘why should we lose our tempers so foolishly? Everything can be settled nicely by my marriage with little Mabel. I’m as good a wood-carver as there is in the trade, and would be just the man for your business partner. What’s the objection to me ?”? “A pretty carver are you!’? growled the uncle, con- temptuously. “That I am! as my Uncle John, with whom I learned the trade, would be glad to attest to, were he alive,’’ said Jasper, bridling up. ‘The dolphin figurehead I carved and painted for the Dutch man-of-war was so natural that ali the porpoises in the harbor tried to jump upon the deck from the sea; and no Scotchman can pass the wood- en Highlander in front of Stephano, the cigar-maker’s shop—which was all my work, Uncle Benjamin—without dancing the sword-dance, or executing the Highland fling.” e old man see into a as of aoe maori t laugh as you please; but it is true,’’ said Jasper. Well, well, stick to your trade like a sober, industrious lad, and I may some day help you along in business; but think no more of Mabel.’? And with that he bowed and pushed Jasper out of the shop. Whom should the latter meet, upon turning the corner of the street, but pretty Mabel herself. She had been to the butcher shop, and, with her little basket on ‘her arm and her broad. straw hat upon her head, looked inexpres, sibly charming. “Well, Jasper ?’’ said she. : “Tf we were not upon the open thoroughfare, Mabel, how quickly I would kiss your pretty lips!’ said Jasper, forgetting all that had passed with his uncle in the con- templation of her beauty. Bit eare “You should do nothing of the kind, Mr. Impertinence. But what have you and my father been talking about ?” _ “Don’t you know ?”’ aA tied a .. “Not altogether. I listened at. the. keyhole, until com- pelled to run to market, which. must: have caused me to lose something.” 7 Jasper laughed, and then told her what had been said. “T have a proposition to make,’ said he. ‘‘With your assistance, | think I can alter Uncle Ben’s opposition to our marriage, and perhaps effect even more.”’ “T will do everything, Cousin Jasper.”’ “Well, Uncle Ben goes to Albany to-morrow, to remain two days and two nights. During those two nights, I want you to admit me and a fellow-workman of mine into the long salesroom where his completed images are. We will come provided with tools and various articles, and, though we May make some noise, no onein the house will be disturbed—Uncle Ben not occupying his room.’ “Gracious me, Jasper! would you destroy my father’s beautiful wooden images?” - “No; only mutilate a fewof them, and then, on the night of Uncle Ben’s return,so work upon his supersti- tious fears as to gain my point. That’s all.” Having gained Mabel’s consent, Jasper hurried away to find his friend, and make ready for th project he had in view. His friend was a very comical man, of very lugubrious appearance, who went by the sobriquet of ‘‘Jacob’s Lad- der;?? though it would be difficult to determine upon what qualifications he had gained such a title. Jasper unfolded his plans to the ‘‘Ladder’’ with con- siderable gusto. | ‘During these two nights,’’ said he, ‘‘by hard work, we can saw off the heads, arms, and legs of some of the images, and put them on again with wires, arranging so that they can be pulled behind, and be made to wag their heads, hit out from the shoulder, and kick, like live men.”’ ‘And what are you to gain by all this, my friend?” ‘““Mabel Beech, and a fortune.’? “And what am I to gain?”’ “ane enduring Satisfaction of having heed me to both.’ The Ladder of Jacob scratched his head thoughtfully, but at length assented to endeavor to win the enduring satisfaction to which his friend alluded. “‘Beside,’”? he added, brightening up a rung or two, ‘‘if you succeed, you’ll be able to stand the beer almost every night, won't you?”’ “Assuredly.”? The next evening, shortly after dusk—being first assured that the old man had set out upon his journey—Jasper and his friend, loaded with tools, wires, and various ap- paratus, were admitted at the street-door, alongside the image-maker’s shop, by Miss Mabel herself. ‘7 will let you into the salesroom by the side-door,’’ said she. ‘You can light the gas, but must make as little noise as possible.”’ “What's the difference, since Uncle Ben is gone into the country?’ asked Jasper. “Do you suppose I have no ears, Impudence ?”’ ‘“] ought to have remembered that you have, and that they are very intimate with keyholes.”’ She boxed his ears for this. “Let me introduce you to my friend, the Jacob’s Lad- der,’’ said Jasper. “What a funny name!’ cried Mabel, laughing. do you call him Jacob’s Ladder for ?”’ “Because he is the ladder by which I am to mount to success. Come, Jakey, we will to work.’’ Mabel admitted them into the business portion of the building, and, after they had lit the gas, left them to them- selves. The long salesroom was filled with ordered rows of painted wooden images for every branch of trade, and re- presenting, or rather burlesquing, almost every manner of man and woman. There were long-haired, primitively clad Indian maidens, with enormous bunches of cigars in one hand, and a mighty tobacco-leafin the other; stalwart Highlanders, bare-kneed, plaided and plumed; jumping Jim Crows; stoical Indian chieftains, smoking the calumet of inani- mation; red-turbaned, cross-legged Sultans and Grand Viziers; wonderful sailor-boys, depicted in the act of un- twisting coils of serpentine pigtail; Spanish brigands, Greek pirates; and Kris Kingles without number. There, too, were the embodiments of the popular airs of the day: Captain Jinks, with his chapeau under his arm; the pretty girl with the “‘tassels on her boots;’’ the bold female, swelling. down Broadway in all the ignominy of the Grecian Bend, and a host of others, There were also figureheads for ships of every variety, including all the mermen, mermaids, Atalantas, Amphi- trites and Tritons ever dreamed of. Jasper Blake and Jacob’s Ladder went ruthlessly to work among this gorgeous collection and soon made sad havoc with chisel, saw and knife. The images were de- capitated and dismembered, and then put together again with the most ridiculous inconsistency. They also suc- ceeded in attaching their wires so ingeniously to the heads, arms and legs thus dislocated, that they could be made to Obey the pleasure of an operator concealed behind. When day broke, they carefully cleaned up the debris of their work, and effected aretreat. On the following night their labor was complete. Luck had favored them, for business was so dull that none of the larger images had been disposed of during the day time, so that their secret was not discovered by the clerk who was in sole charge of the store during the proprietor’s absence. Old Beech returned home from the State Capital in high glee. He had been successfully lobbying and log-rolling some nefarious railroad monopoly, in which he was in- terested, and felt greatly elated. He enjoyed a late dinner, kissed his daughter with pa- ternal fondness, and retired to his couch, and to seraphic visions of corrupt legislation and successful public plunder. Old Beech’s bed-chamber communicated with a small work-shop, in the rear of his premises, and, through this, with the long salesroom, running the entire length of the building. “What At about an hour past midnight, he was awakened by a number of strange sounds proceeding from the salesroom, like the talking and laughing of men. Retaining his night-cap, and putting on his trowsers and slippers hastily, old Beech seized a time-worn pistol, and opened the door leading into the workshop, and en- tered it. To his amazement, he beheld the long salesroom iliu- minated by a strange bluish effulgence, in which the mul- titude of wooden images appeared to be moving about and gibbering in the most grotesque and idiotic manner imaginabie. Superstitious as he was, he could scarcely credit his senses, and, still grasping his antiquated shooting-iron, he | proceeded into the salesroom, and down through the rows of animated figures. He had no sooner done so, when a mighty Highlander of painted pine fetched him a thwack alongside the head, which made his ears buzz like a hornet’s-nest. He had hardly recovered from this before a jumping Jim Crow executed a wonderful maneuver of the leg and planted its heel in his stomach, causing him to double up, with a groan of pain; and simultaneously the lady with the tas- sels on her boots broke her parasol over his heaa. Though ready to expire with terror, old Beech raised his old pistol at a noble red man, who was advancing to- ward him with uplifted war-club. It flashed in the pan uselessly, and he let it drop. ‘Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho!”? shouted the zrial chorus of demons around him. “Oh, Heaven!’’ groaned the image-maker, falling upon his knees, with every feature the aspect of abject fear. The animated images now began to kick and culf him indiscriminately. The Indian maiden got in well on his nose, and then danced away to make room for the sailor- boy, who belabored him with the end of his pig tail, after the manner of arope’send. Spanish brigands sat upon, and rolled over him; one of the Grand Viziers whacked him over the shoulders with his long-stemmed pipe; and the Kris Kingles pounded him with their baskets of toys. “Oh! what have I done to deserve this?’’ roared old Beech, who was fast becoming black and blue under this violent treatment. “Thou hast defrauded thy nephew out of his rightful in- heritance,’’ exclaimed an awful, hollow voice. ‘‘Where hast thou hidden thy brother’s will?’ ‘Tt is behind the loose brick in the chimney-piece of my chamber,”’ groaned the image-maker. ‘Oh, Heaven, for- give me! release me!’’ p> IQS i i XS BI QO } SS \ NY { QW) “Not yet; thou art not sufficiently punished.” The cuffs and blows continued, but not so vlolently, nor in such rapid suceession, as before. _ Presently, they were discontinued altogether, and the awful voice was lard again: : —_ ‘Arise, oh, wretch!’ it said; ‘‘arise and return to thy bed, and there implore forgiveness of thy sins!” Still overpowered with terror and aching in every bone, old Beech managed to get upon his feet. As he did so, the irate images slid and trundled back into their re- spective places, and all was still, while the blnish radi- ance began to fade away. Old Beech would not have been left in the darkness for worlds. Despite his pangs, he made a bee-line for his apartment, hobbled into it, double locked the door behind him, and sank, pens and groaning, upon a chair. He sat there for a long time, till it was broad daylight, and then he suddenly started up with a cry, upon perceiv- ing a the loose brick in the chimney-place was dis- placed. ” ; He rushed frantically to the hole, to find that it contain- ed nothing. The will was gone! : “Help, help!’? halloed old Beech; “I’m tricked, robbed!”’ But his voice was too feeble to be heard, and he sank fainting upon the floor. I shall not dwell upon the details of the discovery of the means and appliances by which old Beech had been tricked, and by which Jasper Blake obtained the will that made him independently rich. Old Beech may have raved amply in secret, but he knew too well how far he had advanced within the shadow of the criminal law to be open in his complaints. : The marriage of Jasper and Mabel, to which no objec- tion could now be offered, took place in the due course of time; and the faithful Jacob's Ladder was not forgotten in their mutual bliss. . —_———_ > 9+ “NED'S” LAST ADVENTURE. IN CAMP, HEAD OF THE KIRASHI eer INDIAN TERRITORY. the readers of the NEw YORK WEEKLY. Ihave founda glorious mate for Buffalo Bill and Little Buckshot, a man known to his ew associates, for he is a free Rover of the Plains, as “DASHING CHARLIE.” His adventures will form the theme of anew story, which I shall hurry up as fast as I can—a story as wild as the jet black horse he rides, which no other man can master. I’ve been hunting with him, and he has been ‘‘a study”? for me for weeks, and I have learned to like him as I did and do like Buffalo Bill, for his manliness, his courage, his skill and his endurance. Men are not met with every day, either in the city, on the frontier, or on the plains. When, then, you meeta true man he Knits himself into your affections—at least, he does into mine, and I love to draw his picture for others to look at. Hunting in this section is fine—some buffalo, plenty of deer, a bear. now and then, and all the rattlesnakes one can pocket. Wild horses are not as plenty as they used to be, but DASHING CHARLIE has a passion for catching and taming them, and in the use of the lasso can leave behind every Comanche or Mexican that I ever saw. There is one animal here that is about as hard to kill and as dangerous to meddle with as an Asiatic lion. I mean the Southern panther or cowgar. it is much like the Californian lion, of the same species as our North American panther, but larger and more flerce. In saving my horse from the claws of one the other day I came very near costing a New York company the amount of my life insurance. . I had ridden along the river bank a couple of miles from camp to pick up a few turkies for a change of fare, and came to a rarity in these parts, a cool, delicious spring. I got. off my horse and let him nibble around on the soft, rich grass, while I took a lunch of cold venison and hard-tack. I was working off the contents of my haver- sack when all at once I heard a limb crack in a big tree overhead. I looked up and saw, not without a tremor, an immense cougar, the motion of its tail telling me but too plain it was about to leap. Grasping my revolver, for my rifle was hung at my saddle and my horse thirty feet away, I sprang to my feet, just in time to see that his aim was for the horse instead of myself. Iraised and fired, hitting him just as he sprung for the horse, probably shortening his leap a little, for he did not reach its neck, as such animals always do when they can, bee planted his claws on its haunch just back of the sad- e. The horse, with a scream of terror, plunged toward me, and threw the beast clear cf him, but in another instant it was again fastened on him, and I had but one chance for a shot before it was there. The horse now madly leaped up and down, trying to dislodge the creature, and fearing to fire lest I should hit the horse instead of the cougar, I drew my Knife and let him have the length of it in his body. The next instant the horse had again freed himself, and was now off, my rifle with him, and the maddened beast turning on me. I had dropped my revolver in the hurry, and only cold steel could save me, I think I was scared, I hadn’t time to know whether I was or not, for the beast with a scream was springing right at my face. Ned Buntline’s Last Adventure. Killing of the Cougar. - he that what little [had was fast leaving me. DEAR STREET & SMITH:—I have good news for you and WEE] I stepped a little one side, and he passed me, but gof, as he went, the full length of my sixteen-inch hunting- knife fairly in behind his shoulder. That, and his previ- ous wounds, seemed to sicken him—he plunged forward and fell, and before he could rise, I followed up my ad- vantage and gave him another knife’s length right be- tween his shoulders. That ‘‘settled his hash,’’? as they | in the Bowery when they have a man for breakfast. was glad when it was over, especially when I found that I had not a scratch, and my horse was not very badly hurt. I got to camp again, leading my horse in, and “Dashing Charlie’? went out for the ‘‘hide of the critter’ to make me a saddle-piece with. But no more at present. Ishall soon be at your sanc- tum with my new story in hand, and you'll say my hero is one of the right sort. He is calling me now—a gang of buifalo coming down the wind, and the horses saddled, he says. Good-by for the present, NED BUNTLINE. +e ROMANTIC INCIDENTS OF SOMNAMBULISM. A Romance of the Chio River, The habit of somnambulism ofcourse, in the great ma- jority of cases, is unaccompanied by anything more singu- lar than mere walking in sleep. There are other cases, how- ever, in which a startling and extraordinary condition of circumstances are exhibited. Undoubtedly these latter are far more numerous than most persons imagine. Our own investigations have brought out very remarkable facts. Among these, we do not think that any exceeds in interest the circumstances which we are now to relate. We were on boardone of the fine steamboats which ply the Ohio river. The weather was fine, and a group of persons were seated with the captain, looking out upon the scenery and chatting most agreeably. At this time a very beautiful girl of about twelve years of age passed through the saloon, She had a lovely complexion, dark, sparkling eyes, and a great profusion of hair, which hung in wavy masses over her gracefully rounded shoulders and down her back. Thecaptain called her, and intro- duced her as his ‘‘dear daughter.’? After many pleasant words from all, and several fond caresses from her father, she withdrew, in a most lady-like manner, remarking, with an arch smile: A . 5 umBos . wT et” ge eee r¢ iy tis tt “pata | “ve heard all of pa’s stories.*? . : aa “Oh, you little minx,” cried the captain, looking with admiring eyes after his daughter... ‘‘Well, gentlemen, f could tell you a story of which sve is the heroine, which wanli surprise you, I think.” — : Oe as wee “Tell it, captain, tell it,” was the cry on ail sides. “T wit,”’ replied the captain, as he settled himself more comfortably in his chair, ‘‘First ofall,” he continued, ‘I ch like romance this tale may seem, itis true, = eae writes one word rite on top of tother, which such kind of writing haint easy to read. ~ It’xmy opinion that it’s chawing so much terbacker that makes him tremble, but he sez it’s a decease of the narves brung on by hard aon Mebby it is, but Idon’t know when that hard wor was ° It is customary to put a picter of what you want to buy, or sell to the top of your advertisement. I haint no great drawer myself, but I did the best I could on the figger of a hoss, and if it don’t suit your idees of that annymile you needn’t putit in. It would have been a good deal more life like if I had struck out a little larger on the body, which didn’t seem to be long enuff to ut on the hind legs as big as they ort to be, and I had to scant em a little, as you see, otherways it’s a decent hoss, Jonathan laffed at it, and sed it looked like a rabbit, which shows he haint no eye for picters. “TAKE NOTICE.— WANTED a hoss that a woman sound and kind ean drive! And har- ness, too! With good bottom, and speed, and no ringbones and spa- vins, and scratches, and sich as that are. . Hemust have no bad habits. He must not \ be a biter, nora kicker, nor a jumper, and he mustn’t scratch his nose with his hind legs while into the harness. Must not be afeard of Six year old or a lit- Wh cars, nor baby kerrieges, nor wheelbarrers. tle more, and a tail like that in the picter. 3 “Call on Jonathan Perkins and his wife, to Pigeon Holler.” The notice was printed in the Daily Bullentine Tuesday fore- noon, and Wednesday morning airly I was waked out of a sound ween, by the awtullest pounding and rumbling that ever you neard! “Goodness gracious!” sez I, “Ill warrant it’s another of them airthquakes!”” for airthquakes has been gitting common lately— and I give Jonathan a poke in the side to wake him, and jumped out of bed. And when I lit I hit rite onto my best kurrosene pray Soe I’d sot on the floor the night afore, when I’d distin- guished it, and stove it all to flinders, and cut my toe nigh about off, an® it cost three dollars besides the chimbly! “Consarnation |” sez I, giving a leap furud on one foot, and on- fortinitly conning in contax with the wash-stand, I upsot it, pitcher and all rite over into Jonathan’s trouserloons, which, of course, was a laying sprawled out on the floor just as he jumped out of ’em, And I may as well say here that it ruinated ’em, for they was made out of cloth that shrunk with wetting, and when he come to put ’em on, which he did, with Mose White a oma at em till he was nigh about reddy to have the erro ex—he was so red in the face—they came jest to the tops of his boots. . ‘“‘Jerushy Perkins!” yelled Jonathan—flipping over on tother side—‘“‘ do take keer! You'll tear the house down sometime!”’ “Tf you warn’t dead in your shell you’d git up!’ sez I, “and yt lenre a poor unpurtected female to find out the cause of this racket.’ Irun to the winder and put back the curting, and goodness me! ou’d out to have seen thesight. That frunt yard was full of orses, and mén along with ’em, and as far as I could see the road leading to ours was full of ’em,and they was a coming down Pigeon hill by twos and threes, in a stiddy stream, like the funeral percession of a man that left a good deal of property. _ And don’t you think that one feller had the impedence to stick his head cluse up to the winder where I was, and yell out—— | “This is the very hors for ye, ma’m! Breda purpose. Trots in two minutes, and has——” I didn’t hear the rest of it, for I drop the curting to once, seeing as I had nothing on but my. nightgound, though it hada ruffle up and down the frunt, and was a very genteel looking garmint of its kind, I drest myself as quick as ever I could, and Jonathan he tumb- led out of bed; and gra up them trouserloons, and begun to git into ’em, but he dropped ’em again, consurned quick, for it was.a cold morning, and you can imagine how it was. “Darnation !”? sez he, and he slung ’em as far as. he could, and they went rite into the open buro draw, where I kept my _peaslee shawl and my lace undersleeyes and my ribbon bows and sashes. Nigh about ruinated of them all, for I didn’t notice where the trousers went till that night, and the water was all soaked through everything. ~ ; “Your hoss has cum, Jonathan,’ sez I, pinting out of the win- der; ‘‘and he’s brung all the hosses he knows along with him. Didn’t I tell you jest how it would be !” Jonathan growled out sumthin’ that sounded perfane, but of course it couldn’t be, for he sez he hain’t swore none sense he got rid of the Widder Spriggins. I hope he hain’t. He went rite to the door, and I follered as soon as I got my false front on, for a woman is liable to be left a widder any time, you _ know, and it stands her in hand to look as well as possible, for there’s never any knowing who she may captivate. I don’t think I ever seed so many horses of all kinds and de- scriptions together before in all my life. There was black ones white ones, red_ones, brown ones, gray ones, speckled ones, an piebald ones. Some had one eye, some two—some was going on three legs and some warn’t—some kicked up and looked as if the airth warn’t good enuff for ’em, and some was so fur gone that all ‘rer wanted was to git into the airth and rest a spell. They squealed, and kicked, and bit, and snorted, and cut up ginerally; and the men swore, and smoked, and praised each his own beast, clear up to the skies, and a peg or two above. When I apeared inthe door all them men set up a yellin chorius. { “This is your hoss!” “‘Here’s your animile!”’ ae in two-forty! Roads it ten miles an hour without puff- “Sound, kind. Here’s bottom for ye and speed. Never sick. No colic; no lingbone, no spayin, no botts, no scratches, no going back on this beast. Ambles, trots, paces. Ain’t afraid of cars, nor verlocipedes, nor——” “Nor the devil!” roared a tall, long-legged feller, with a gray hoss that Pll warrant hedn’t,seen a quart of oats at a time in his life; and he had a beard as long as his hoss’ head and jest the color of Mose White’s new flannil undergarments that I colored with hemlock bark and-allum. “TJ shouldn’t think he would be, if he hain’t afeard of you!” sez I, “‘the’ll never see nothing more to skeer him.” they all crowded round, and all talked together, and all is re er he a hoss that would jest suit us. ~All the h was sound; all of ’em was kind; all of °em would stand without hitching; all of.’em was little eaters; and all of ’em was jést six year old! Six year ago must have been an awful ar for colts." And here jest lét me observe that hosses that is e never live to be over nine year old’ I don’t understand eriosophy oc apace tig en . We looked ’em all over,and Jonathan he sot his mind o: agre one, as long | as ever you seed a hoss, and_bones tha stuell out rite and left. ‘Good frame,” the man sed that had him, and to be shure he was; he was all frame. Isot my mind onto a brown hoss, with a tail like that in the pic- ter, and after an awful sight of fying and swearing, it was reed that me‘anud Jonathan should keep the two hosses a day Curiosity was now pre’ the listeners, ae 5 “Most of you, gentle ar confinued the captain, “know thet Fam a widower. My little girl lost her mo- ther when only two years of age, and since that time, when not at school, she sails the river with me. She likes to be on board, and you may be ass that I like to haveher. More especially is this true in regard to both of us since the event I am going to relate. It was in the summer of 1866 that it occurred. One night I was walk- ing on the main deck, when I went tothe rail to look over. I mounted on a coil of rope to have a better view. It was a bright beautiful night—I shali never forget it. The shores on both sides were perfectly plain, and even moving objects about the farm houses and landings. “T think for a steamboat captain I am of rather a ro- mantic turn. I stood there, anyhow, admiring the scene, and feeling considerable pride, as 1 saw how my noble boat was flying through the water. Suddenly something struck me on the head,and I went overboard like a shot. From that moment I was likeadeadman. I was plunged into the water, as it came boiling and surging from under the starboard wheel, and how itcame that I was not drowned is one of the greatest mysteries of the case. But I was not drowned, nor was I swept down the river past the boat. I floated near the rudder, and there caught. By this time I revived a little, and before my clothes broke loose from the rudder I caught hold with my hand. “But who was tosave me? There was no one on that part of the boat, for it was late, and all the passengers had retired. My strength was very feeble, and I became aware I tried to shout, but could not. Gentiemen, it seemed as if my last hour had come. Vivid recollections of my life passed ra- pidly before me, and I thought—oh how sadly—of my poor child, sleeping unconsciously not many feet from where I was about to be swept into eternity. “Just then Ilooked up. It wasto be, I thought, my last look at the noble craft, and then I expected to fall back into the embrace of the rushing waters. But just above me I saw the figure of my child. Ah! it seemed as ifan angel from God stood there to save me. Never, never can I forget the impression made upon me. ‘My child looked down upon me, but she did not seem alarmed. She did not shout that her father was over- board and cry for help. Butshe looked down upon me with her angelic face, which I could see with great dis- tinctness. “T realized the whole in a moment. My child is a som- nambulist. She was now asleep, and unless I could awaken her before she turned away, I was lost. You may be sure that I made the effort. But the noise of the boat and the waters completely destroyed all the sound I could make. I wasindespair. She continued to look down upon me; there was a smile on her face, and I could almost imagine that she pronounced my name. “Gentlemen,” said the captain, taking off his hat, and showing a head of perfectly gray hair, ‘‘see the effects of that short time of horror.’ My hair was entirely black before that. But my story is growing too long. Suffice to say that after many efforts, I did manage to make my child hear me, orit may have been simply her own act, wisely ordered. Her confusion and alarm was such on discovering me that she has never been able altogether to account for her first awakening. She gave the alarm, and I was rescued by my erew. “I could not have held on a minute longer. I was Without strength and nearly drowned. When they got me on board, I fainted away directly. A great wound was found in my head. It was found that I had been struck with a heavy iron bolt, which had been carelessly left on the upper deck, and been blown about by the wind, had fallen upon me. It was several months before I fully re- covered, and at times my head troubles me yet. _ “Such is the story, gentlemen. It is wonderful, and it is true. Such was the manner in which my dear little girl saved my life. Had shenot have been a sommambu- list, I should have gone to an untimely grave beneath the waters of the Ohio.”’ will state that however on the part of ail PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS. THE RUGG DOCUMENTS—No. 63. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. Seeing as Victory Jerushy isgetting well down in the yale of years, and asin the course of natur she must soon shuffle off—as the oet sez; and the colt haint hardly big enuff to use, me and ofathan has decided to buy another hoss. We've argyfied and qua more’n twenty times over it. Jonathan wanted a y hoss with a black mane and tail, and I wanted a chestnut hoss with a black mane and tail. As far asthe mane and tale was consarned we agreed, which is about as nigh to agreeing as merried folks ginerally git. Jonathan, he thought it was best to advertise for a hoss, and have it brung to us without any trouble; and I ms gy it was best for us to sarch out the hoss without advertising. I told him that if we advertised, everybody that had a hoss that could stand on four legs would bring it here to sell; and all the turf round the house would be tramped up, and we and our hosses should be a nuisance to society. But Jonathan is awful sot, and was bound to advertise. ‘ So after awhile I give in, forI was well sattersfied that he'd wish his cake dough afore he got through with it. I writ the advertisement, for my husband’s hand trembles so o ‘try, and that, if'we warn’t suited, the sellers might cum agin. , Then they departed. , ‘plin Our front yard looks like a circus ring. We've just Rt the hosses in the barn, and are going to eat our breakfasts. It is half past three o’ciock in the afternoon. After we’ve tried them animiles I’ll write agin. Yours truly, J. R. PERKINS. N. B. That grey hoss has bust open the barn door, and is a alivanting across Jonathan’s field of winter rye, tearing it all up y the roots. Ive got to go and help Jonathan chase va sb HUMOROUS ESSAYS ON ANIMATED NATURE. Cimex Lectularius—The Bedbug. Like the tiger, pare and other predatory insects that prefer the darkness to the light, because their deeds are evil, the de- praved and remorseless bedbug sallies forth at night, intent, like a stage Othello, on ‘‘blud! blud! blud!’? The leading feature in the cimex lectularius—so called for shortness by the aureencloaiene a wild desire for human gore. To enable it to gratify this horrible propensity with neatness and dispatch, kind Nature has furnished it with a bristly proboscis, the end of which it plungesinto the bodies of sleeping Christians, and then proceeds to pump into its little brown carcass as much of “the wine of life’ as that recep’ will contain. Some flowers when crushed exhale a delicious fragrance. The bedbug, when thus maltreated, also becomes odoriferous—the flavor eva orated from its flattened corpse being that of prussic acid. Hence it is supposed by Liebig and other eminent chemists of the same veracious school, that if the creature were cultivated on a grand scale, large quantities of that costly poison might be manufactured from it, and magnificent fortunes realized thereby. The chief difficulty would be the procurement of provender for the bedbug herds; because if the festive insect was fostered, in- stead of being destroyed, it would speedily exterminate the hu- man race, and then become extinct in consequence of being deprived of its natural food. f the cimex were a vocalist, ‘‘Welcome to your gory bed,” would be the appropriate burden of its song, for this butchering cannibal of private life takes a ferocious delight in crimsoning Bes 7 a 1. \. <= , ° 38 = that he can’t hit with a pen nowheres nigh the line, and ginerally | sorely feels the need of some light, interesting reading. What d you advise me to procure, calculated to interest, amuse and ir struct a sick person ?” Procure a volume of Internal Revenu Reports, and acopy of the Session Laws of the State of Ne York. The annual report of the South Trenton Cheese Facto might prove a source of amusement, and Story’s Equity of Juri prudence has often drawn tears from the eyes of students. Happy Sal asks: “Is cheese a vegetable, animal, or minerz production?” Ans. Yes, we think it is. _ Slim Jim.—We are unable to form an opinion as to how lon side of beef ought to last you and your wife. The question 4 often been propounded in marrepeners and debating clubs, but ha never been satisfactorily settled. We do not hesitateto say, how ever, that, as a usual thing,a side of beef may be safely calculate upon to last until it is all gone, Send us the dimensions of th mouths of you and your wite,tellus how many teeth you both hav: whether they are in good repair or otherwise, whether your se: vant gal has any ‘“‘cousins’ or not, and if so, how often the visit her, and we may possibly beable to form as correct a gue; as the next man, MART, ; MIRTHFUL MORSELS., _ THE “National Game” becomes familiar to the youth of Ame ica at an early age. There is always a bawl inthe nursery whe the nurse brings the pitcher and bas(e)in, » Some horsemen say that bleeding will sometimes restore tt sight to a horse partially blind. Not being well up in equir matters we cannot endorse the assertion, but we do know thatt Open a man’s eyes you hayeonly to bleed his pockets. - Wuy does the Government place the head of an Indian on tk nickels instead of a white man’s or a negro’s? Because the I dian is on the scent. A YOUNG lady who was boasting of her teeth was asked if the were natural or artificial’ ‘“Neither,’? was the reply, “they ai gutta percha.” A MATRIMONIALLY inclined wag says that a girl with thre thousand dollars a year, or more, is always an object of interes because she has so much principal. Good News for Story Readers, Winter, with its long evenings, is fast approachin; when in-door entertainments become especially attra tive, the cheerful fireside, contrasting with the bitir cold without, serving as the magnet which attracts ar unites the members of the family in a happy group. One of the chief delights of home, after the duties of tt day, is afforded by the family paper, teeming with ment entertainment for old and young. The. father forgets tl perplexities of business while reading its attractive page the mother becomes oblivious of household cares, h mind being diverted by the contemplation of novel ar charming scenes; and the young folks are enthralled t the ever-varying pictures of life, as illustrated by t) noveiist’s pen. Truly, the benefits. derived from a fir class literary paper are inestimable. aye That the NEw YORK WEEKLY may continue to deser the proud distinction which it has won as the popular lite ary favorite, and ‘‘the best story and sketch paper of t) age,” we have revised for publication during the fall a1 winter the following ies FIRST-CLASS STORIES - FROM NEW AND OLD CONTRIBUTORS WINIFRED’S DIAMOND: By MARGARET BLOUNT,_ We have a number of charming stories by Margaret Blow which will be published from time to time. BEAUTIFUL ATE. By HELEN CORWIN PIERCE, Author of ‘THE CURSE OF EVERLEIG H, “INJURED HUSBAND,” ete, — HEREWARD & LA MORT; oR, er THE WOLF OF THE TOWEF By ANNIE ASHMORE. THE FORGER’S SISTER. By MRS. M. V. VICTOR, Author of “‘THE PHANTOM WIFE,’ “TH WIFE’S FOE,’? ete. WHOSE WIFE IS SHE? OR, 4 BETTINA, THE ITALIAN NURS) By ANNIE LISLE, (4 New Contrivutor). A SILVER BRAND; OR the midnight coebawith the blood of its victims. Being furtiv fugacious, as well as sanguinary, it is pro- vokingly successful in evading the condign punishment due its crimes. No sooner does it hear the c crow, and scent the morning air, than like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, it disap- pears. The wakeful naturalist throws open his shutters, and hunts for it with scientific eagerness, but in vain. The bedbug has spotted him but he cannot “spot”? the bedbug Anxious for specimens, he causes a more elaborate hunt to be or- ganized. Nimrods of both sexes volunteer for the dattue. The covers are beaten,and the discovered game becomes food for powder. Household air-guns, loaded to the muzzle with sudden death, are discharged into the cornered coveys. and hundreds upon hundreds bite the dust. Yetstrange to say the havoc, though tremendous, is not total. ‘Truth crushed to earth re- vives again,” and so does the impressible bedbug. Lions may be extirpated, but the cimex never! It is indestructible as the eter- nal hills, and will attend the march of Civilization as long as Civilization can put one foot before the other and has a bed to sleep on. There are two ways in which adult humanity may escape the. rsecutions of this inveterateenemy of mankind, viz.: by slee ing in a lime-kiln and by using a tencer infant as bait. The lat- ter method is preferable. If you live in a buggy house, and don’t happen to have a baby on hand, adopt one. Sleep with it, and you will find that the epicurean “‘succubee” concentrate their at- tention upon its tender and juicy flesh, leaving oe, tougher fiber unmolested. When they have eaten up one baby, procure another. Babies abound in the market—you will see them ad- yertised in the Herald every day. There are, it must be conceded, some inconveniences inseparable from sleeping with these well- springs of joy, but as they are mere trifles as compared with the nuisance abated, it is hardly worth while to mention them. Within the last few years the bedbug has hit upon a remarkably sagacious dodge for obtaining a foothold in hotels and private families. Formerly when it wanted to “locate” in a new build- ing, it always adopted the old Greek plan of concealing itself in some piece of portable pro rty that afforded no outward evi- dence of containing such a formidable intruder. The Hellenic strategists were introduced into Troy in a wooden horse. The Cimex Lectularius not unfrequently, got into a dwell- ing in the same way; for example, between the joints of a clothes- horse, on which infested linen had been hi . nks, however, were (and it may be added stillare) the favorite coverts of the in- sect. But the dodge referred to is this: the bedbug of the period actually establishes itselt in the lumber used in the construction of dwellings and public oe and in spite of saws, planes, broad-axes and mortising chisels, maintains its post, and becomes the first living tenant of the new edifice. Nothingcan be more ridiculously futile than any attempts to dislodge a swarm of bed- bugs that have obtained their pre-emption rights in this original way. They laugh a siege toscorn. No form of blow-pipe can pro- ject death into their dee ed dens. Not even the Universalist ellows could make them squirm. f It is said that the “‘half-reasoning elephant” is the most saga- cious of creatures, after man; but the insect foe of our domestic happiness is a far shrewder fellow than the animal with two tails. Would the elephant if cut off from all other eoporeaae for con- tact with man, ever think of mounting to the ceiling and drop- ping down upon him at the midnight hour?) Scarcely. Hence the thoughtful naturalist is justified in considering the smaller of the brace of insects supplied by Providence with a proboscis, the wiser and,cuter of the twain. ©. ¥. iA. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. Peter Kinimble.—It is necessary to skin the oyster before swal- lowing him, as therind is conducive to dyspepsia, and_renders the person who eats liable to an attack of indigestion. However, as we do not find your name on our subscription books, we are indifferent as to whether you devour the peel or not. A ure.—We do not think that you can raise a crop of peach trees by sowing a can of preserved Fon es. : as Smith. —You were guilty of a breach of etiquette in declining to comply with the young lady’s request for the fifteenth plate of ice cream. When you escorted her to the Fair, you took her un- der your protection, and you were morally bound to supply her with all the necessaries of life. Don’t write again to us wit liquid shoe-blacking. You are evidently a novice in literary accomplish- ments, as we can easily see, from the looks of your letter, that vas write with the wrong end of your pen. The sharp end is the right one. | THE SECRETS OF SCHWARZENBUR( z By CHARLES T. MANNERS. A delightful story, even superior to “The Lord of Lyle,’ frc the same writer. MOCCASIN MOSE; a OR; THE TRAIL OF .DE4A Ti By BURKE BRENTFORD. The hero of this serial is likely to excite both admiration a sympathy. Foully wronged, he pursues his enemy night and dé forever sleepless on the “‘trail of death,’’ his faithful dog his cc stant companion. Only one idea rules his mind and controls | actions—that of vengeance. Conflicts on land and wave occ during the progress of the story, and several novel complicatic are introduced to connect the main incidents of the work. All< described with that vigor of diction which was such a mark feature in the author’s previous productions—‘‘Gold-Dust Darre “Squirrel Cap,’ etc. THE FOREST CASTLE ; OR, THE BARON'S DAUGHTEF By P. HAMILTON MYERS. A TALE OF NEW YORK AND CANADA IN 1708, DURING “QUEEN ANNE'S WAR.” This story is rife with the most stirring adventures, andi glowing picture of those early and romantic days when the pro gate Lord Cornbury was Governor of New York—when the c quered Dutch grumbled and smoked on their long ‘‘stoops’ when pirates and slavers visited the coast, and when Engli: Dutch and Swedes, negroes and Indians made up the motley pc ulation of the infant city and colony. To give even an outline sketch of this story with its ever-shifti scenes of most exciting adventures would be to forestall the de interest with which we are sure our readers will peruse it. LADY LEONORA; OR, THE. FAT HERS: CDRs = By CARRIE CONELIN, Author of CHILD-BRIDE and TRUE AS LOVE COULD MAKE HER. So charmingly is this story written that it seems a series of pi tures from life. The characters are boldly and naturally draw) the incidents devoid of anything improbable, yet startlingly inte esting. We cannot recall a more attractive story than ‘Lac Leonora,” and are certain that it will be eagerly perused. RENA PERCIVAL’S FATE; ; OR, THE MYSTERY of GLENHAMPTON CASTLI By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. This story is artistically constructed, the plot being remarkabl ingenious and mysterious. The language is chaste, yet vigorous while the characters are all boldly sketched. THREE TIMES at the ALTAR. By MRS. VAN PEARSE. A well-told story of life in the West, true to nature in its de scriptions of scenery and character, and based on a plot ingenious and mysterious. Mrs. Van Pearse is a new contributor, but des. tined to become at once a favorite with the readers of the NEw York WEEKLY, through the merit of her first serial, ‘Three Times at the Altar.” The above are only afew of the novelties we have in store for our friends. Others will be presented as rapidly as we can find space, to keep up an endless feast of liter- ary attractions, and thus merit a continuance of that patronage which has given the NEW YORK WEEKLY a Grazy Jane, says: “My beloved sister, being a convaleseent, circulation of over 300,000 copies. ——— $$$ Pd Stn eo lenis Mien e ral >