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VoL. XXX.

Fintered

STREET & SMITH, ) Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
Proprietors. 3 P.O. Box 4896, New York,

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year. So aaa S. STREET.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

cme aor

OUR SUMMER WORK.

BY MRS. M. A, KIDDER.

Because the summer time has come,
The season of sweet flowers,

Oh! let us not lay by our work,
Nor idiy waste the hours,

Because the lily totleth not,
In whitest garments drest,

Let us not waste the golden time
That we may take our rest.

Though we may seek the gountry air,
That health and joy imparts,

We'll still work on In all good faith
With tongues, and hands, and hearta

We'll always do a kindly act
To others when we can,

And not forget that pleasant words
Are due to every man.

 

We'll sympathize with those who mourn
And sorrow day by day;

Albeit we have to step aside—
Turn out our beaten way.

We'll sing with those whose hearts are full
Of music and of song,

And try to render to each soul
What may to him belong.

NORAH GLENN ;

has OP, Salas

».

 

THE ROSE OF SLIGO.

 

By John F. Cowan,

Author of “O°CONNOR’S CHILD,” “CHARLEY
GALE’S PLUCK,’ etc., etc.

(“Norah Glenn” was commenced last week. Ask any News
Dealer for No. 38, and you wiil get the opening chapters.}

CHAPTER II.

“How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play,
oa And all the village train from labor free,
up their sports beneath the spreading tree.”
GOLDSMITH.

 

 

 

It was along and rugged tramp that Looney
Lorton led Robert Alton. Although the artist’s
rengtheaed by several years wan-

dering afoot through the different countries of

Europe, not to mention his ramblings over the
plains and mountains of his native land, he found
them severely tested in keeping up with his pres-
ent guide.

Loeney seemed to despise the comfort of the
lazy roads, with their windings around diffi-
culties, and went, like tha eagle, straight for his
objective point. Right ahead he kept his way
over lofty hill and rocky barrier, clambering
down and up the sides of bouldered ravines, and
leaping mountain-streams and chasms. Alton
followed as best he might, astonished at the peas-
ant’s untiring strength and agility, and wonder-
ing still more where he got the breath to talk so
incessantly; for his tongue never lay still, while
the young man could scarcely command wind
enough to gasp occasionally yes or no.

At last, after toiling up a heatherly height and
bursting through a furzy barrier on its ridge,
Looney cried out:

“Here we are,” and Alton devoutly responded:

“Thank Heaven!’

Before them lay a long, green valley, with the
gray road running through its length, and cut-
ting it into two semi-circular sections, which were
checkered by green hedge lines and dotted with
yellow, thatched cottages. Most of these last
were low-roofed and incommodious, but taken

‘with the surroundings were exceedingly pictur-

esque. The small flocks grazing upon the green
slopes, and the groups of children about the cot-
tage doors, with here and there a woman in a
bright-colored gown, gave life and gayety to the
scene, and Robert Alton, induced by love of the
beautiful—strongly assisted by weariness—was
about to throw himself on the hillside, when the
spirit of unrest at hiselbow gripped him by the
guard of the arm, and bawled in a voice that was
very dissonant with the rural quiet:

“There they are! Be gob, sir, we’re just in
time. They’ve peeled to their work. An’ a brave
gatherin’, too. Yer in luck, sir, it’s the hurlin’ of
two baronies the day.”

Alton’s eyes followed the direction of the point-
ing stick. Two large parties of men in their shirt
sleeves, and distinguished from each other by
green aud red bows of ribbon on their left breasts,
were drawn up like two little armies on the
largest green common in the valley. Crowds of
men, women and children were seated beneath’
the shades of the trees, or on knolls advan-
tageous for the viewing of the friendly contest.
There was an exciting lull like that before a bat-
tle, and then two men stepped out from the rest,
and stood back to back in the center. One bore
two small, red flags, and the other two of green.

“They’re the leaders goin’ to set the goals,”
said Looney. “Do you tally the green man’s
paces, and I’ll keep my eye onthe red. Whist!
Off they go!”

Ata signal the two captains started off with
long strides, walked one hundred paces in a
straight line in opposite directions, and then
stopped and fixed the flags a few yards apart in
the ground. Two men from either party then
started on a run toward the goals, and Looney, in
his descriptive manner, cried:

“See, there go the coolbaras, the goal-keepers,
the sintinels, and look—look how the tridaks, the
alert-men, are scatterin’ out. Now for it. There
she goes! A lovely clip, by the powers!”

“Where?” cried Alton, taking his eyes off the
struggling, flying figures, and staring around for
he thought that “lovely clip” was Irish for the
beautiful girl he desired to see.

 

“Awh, it’s down now. Don’t ye see them fitin’

 

eC oe teres ak so amtcoeec a

ee eed

No, 39.

 

FRANCIS S. SMITH,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OA

FET

     

Looney seized the biggest in the cw#erd, and off they went in the dance.

 

 

for it. Keep yereyes sharp. Yemight have seen it
flyin’ likea bird. Hooray There it goes again.
Well done ye light-heeled rogue! That ye may
niver want shins to toast!” roared Looney, as a
swift runner started far ahead with the ball, but
unfortunately for his place in Looney’s good
opinion, he tripped and fell, and the whole pur-
suing party ran over him. ‘‘Divil’s cure to ye,
ye clump-clooted cadger; that ye may break yer
neck the next trip,’ bellowed the angry critic,
dashing his hat on the ground, and shaking his
stick at the unfortunate hurler, who was gather-
ing himself up with sore bones.

Alton had readily recognized the game which
he had so often played at school under the name
of “‘shinney,” but he had never seen it on so large
ascale before. The earnestness of the contest-
ants, the fleetness of their movements, the -ap-
parent fierceness of their struggles for the cov-
eted ‘‘puck,” and the wild cries of praise or dis-
approval from both players and spectators, made
the scene exciting in the extreme, and Alton
could searcely divest himself of the opinion that
it was an actual fight instead of a friendly field
game.

But his excitement was mild compared to that
of Looney Lorton. It was soon evident that the
peasant was not an impartial spectator; every
ery and movement told this. Changing with
every fluctuation of the strife, now he screamed
with delight and twirled his shillelah aloft on the
tips of his fingers, then a deep roar of anger and
the stick was brought to his side and clutched
with head-breaking earnestness, until at last, as
the men with the green badges burst through the
red goals, carrying the ball with them, he seized
his hat from the ground, threw it aloft, and be-
gan to darce wildly, making the hill ring with
his loud hurrahs.

The next game was even more vigorously con-
tested than the first, with the same running com-
mentary by Looney, but this time, as fate and
strong arms decreed, the red men won, and the
critical cap was again debased to the earth, and
triumphant shouts were changed to a gnashing
of the critical teeth.

Now came the tug of war. The third game was
to tell the victors of the day, and Looney’s ex-
citement would not allow him to stand longer
ata distance. So he started down the slope on a
rur, calling on his companion to follow him.
Alton would sooner have stayed where he was,
but he walked slowly down after the wild, run-
ning figure, and the consequence of the two rates
of speed was that he was soon left far behind,
and lost sight of Looney as the latter burst into
the center of the resting crowd of players, ges-
ticulating wildly.

The young man paused at the cordon of spec-
tators, beyond which no one presumed to advance
upon the ground of the players—but Looney.
It was perhaps on account of the importance of
this closing trial that the opening of the play
was longer delayed than before, and Alton, who
was parched by his late exertion, seeing a small
wayside inn at a short distance, which was
being patronized by both players and sight-seers,
concluded to go thither in search of refreshments.
He could not but notice the looks of inquiry that
greeted him as he went. Some of the men
scowled angrily at the stranger, and whispered
to their companions, but others gave way to the
bent of hospitality, and smiled upon him in a
welcoming manner.

A piper and a fiddler were wheezling away at
the little tavern, to the delight of a mixed crowd

 

of men and children, but the attention of Robert
Alton was drawn toward a group of gayly dressed
women and girls assembled around the door of
a cabin beyond the tavern, from which issued the
notes of a harp and the voice of a female singer.
The air was wild and plaintive, and sweet withal,
and, led by a vague thought that the singer
might be his beautiful peasant girl, the young
man passed through the crowd at the inn, and
approached the cabin.

As he did so, a stalwart, soldierly-looking man,
who had been standing in the tavern-door,
pushed through the crowd and followed him.
This was Martin Blake. A low wall surrounded
the cottage door-yard, and at this the artist
paused, struck by the picture before him.

A young girl sat, or rather lay, in arustic arm-
chair, propped up with quilts and pillows. Her
hands were like those of a skeleton, her face was
much wasted, and her brow marble white; her
eyes were brilliant, and her cheeks rosy red, but
it was the fire of fever and the hectic flush of
consumption. A woman sat on a low stool by the
side of the sick girl, playing a smal, often-mend-
ed harp, which seemed to be an heirloom. The
hair of the musician was gray, and her face worn,
but rather prematurely so, for she bore still the
traces of beauty; her voice had not lost its full-
ness, nor her eyes their fire.

The appearance of the two strangers (for Blake
was only a step or two in the rear of Alton) at-
tracted the attention of the women audience, and
the sick girl raised her great lustrous eyes, and
after one glance at Alton, whispered to the wo-
man with the harp:

“Mother, darlin’, there’s a stranger.
he look like a docther ?”

The mother ceased her music, witha start, and
looked up.

‘Peace and the blessing of Heaven be with the
strangers!” she said. ‘‘Won’t they step into the
house of the widow and rest themselves? Wel-
come they are.”

Alton, used to the hospitalities of the country,
bowed his acknowledgements, and moved toward
the gate of the inclosure, the bystanders making
way for him with courteous salutations. Justas
he was entering, he turned to see the person who
was included with him in the invitation, but he
only saw his back, for Blake was walking stiffly
away. He was rather surprised at this, but he
advanced to the place where the invalid sat, with
the usual greeting.

The sick girl held out her wasted hand, and
smiled faintly, and the mother arose from her
stool to welcome him,

“Heaven be good to you, sir!” she said, pressing
his hand warmly; but he noticed that her eyes
followed Blake with a troubled expression. “It's
a bad heart, sir,” she said, “that turns back from
the words of peace; and he looks like a soldier,
too. Excuse me, sir, and take a geat. It’s the
spay woman that puts such thoughts in my head.
She said that a soldier would bring sorrow to our
door, but that a stranger coming from beyant the
sea would bring rest to poor Aileen.”

The woman had dropped the harp, and taking
the girl’s hand, wound her own about it affection-
ately, viewing Alton, as he took the offered seat,
with questioning and appealing eyes.

The young man felt an emotion of pity as he
gazed at them, for he knew that there was but
one Physician who could give rest to poor Aileen,
and that that rest would be in the silent grave.

“T am from beyond the seas, madam,” he said;
“but, lam sorry tosay, I am not a physician.

Doesn’t

 

However, I may say,” he continued, hastily, as
he caught the look of disappointment on the pa-
tient’s face, ‘that I know something of the treat-
ment of your daughter’s case. This sickness is
common in my country.”

“Oh, I’m glad o’ that!” said the mother, heart-
ily. “I beg pardon, sir—not for the disease bein’
common in your country, (Heaven forbid!) but
for you knowin’ how to treat it. The docther
lives.so far away, and the visits cost so high, and
now, since my husband (God rest him!) was
killed—he was steward to the squire, sir, and was
found on the home grounds, sir, shot through
the heart, and no one ever knew who did it,
though they think it was poachers—since he is
gone, as I was sayin’, and nobody but Norah and |
me to do a hand’s turn (Norah is my oldest girl,
sir); and though the neighbors, (Heaven reward
them !) are very good, they have too much to do
for themselves.”

“You have a neat little place here,” said Alton,
as she stopped for breath.

“Yes,” she said; “the squire (God bless him!)
has never asked us for any rent, and that helps
us. Itis small, sir; but any shed is good enough
for one to break one’s heart under. But you must
excuse me, sir,” she said, rapidly wiping her
eyes with her apron; “I’m forgettin’ myself with
my talk.”

She called a girl from the party, which had
modestly retired on Alton taking his seat, and
bade her bring a bowl of milk from the dresser
within. The bowl was brought, and Alton ac-
cepted the simple hospitality with the same free-
dom with which it was offered. He thought he
had never drank a more refreshing draught in
his life.

“You won’t think bad of me, sir, for not rising
to wait on you, myself,” the mother said, point-
ing mournfully to a sort of crutch that lay by
her side. “I was hurt some time ago, and can-
not walk much now. I am little use for any-
thing,’”’ she whispered, “‘but to sing to my Aileen,
who, I fear me, is wasting away to join the
angels.”

Robert Alton spoke some words of encourage-
ment, and asked some questions about the longth
of the girl’s sickness, and the mother answered
with ready volubility. In a few minutes she had
detailed to him all the troubles and events of her
life, and he learned, among other things, that his
inamorata, Norah Glenn, was the daughter ab-
sent.

During this conversation, Blake strode past the
gate, and scowled at the group, and in a few mo-
ments returned, and passed, with the same of-
fensive look.

The old woman and the sick girl were agitated
by this, and Alton immediately got the opinion
that the scowling looks were meant for him, not
them. He arose, and took his leave, promising
to return on the morrow with some medicines
for Aileen, and then started in the direction of
the inn.

He felt uneasy, for he thought of his affair with
Hansard, and had no doubt but this man, who
seemed to be dogging him, was in some way con-
cerned with it. He thought it best to seek out
Looney, lest he should be assailed.

As he*came to the door of the inn he thought
from the uproar within that Looney Lorton must
surely be there, and turned in. But just on the
threshold he was metand rudely jostled by Blake.
He looked at the man, and the man looked him

 

 

 

sirous of avoiding a quarrel whore there was so
excitable a crowd, passed on into the room with-
out speaking. - He looked around for Looney but
could not see him, and taking a small glass of
liquor he turned to leave the place. Blake was
standing in the doorway with his back against
one of the jambs, and his arms folded on his broad
chest. His very attitude was aggressive, and as
Alton tried to pass him he protruded one of his
feet slightly and tripped him, so that he stagger-
ed two or three steps before recovering his bal-
ance. There could be no doubt about the inten-
tion of the act. The young man’s blood boiled
when he heard the laughing of several girls and
boys who were passing, and he turned fiercely on
his assailant.

“What do you mean by this rowdyism ?” he
cried.

“What do you mean by rowdyism ?” exclaimed
the other, drawing himself up to his full height.

“What elseis it for you to trip a gentleman in
passing ?”

“Oh, you’rea gentleman, are you ?” said Blake,
in an insulting tone, then taking a card from his
waistcoat pocket, “My name is Blake,” he said,
“Major Martin Blake. You or your friend will
hear of me at Lysaught House.”

Alton looked from the card to the man in angry

= | astonishment, and was about to speak when the
challenger, stepping forward, slapped him sharp-

ly over the face with the card and the back of his
hand, saying:

“This is our old country way of inviting a ‘gen-
tleman’ to a meeting.”

Like lightning Alton’s hand was behind him,
and his revolver was out and levelled.

“This is our American way of treating a ruf-
fian!” he cried.

Blake sprang toward him, as did several others,
but the bullet was too quick for them, and the
stalwart challenger, clapping his hand to his
breast, reeled and fell, uttering an oath in Irish.

Then cries of anger and vengeance arose from
the crowd. and they rushed savagely nnon the
artist. This he had not anticipated, and his first.
impulse was to shoot in self-defense, but before
he could pull trigger a stroke of a shillelah sent
his weapon out of his hand, and another felled
him to the earth.

“Kill him! Beatthe head off the cowardly ras-
cal!” roared the excited gamesters as they rushed
in striking wildly at him, for all were assured
that it was one of their own that had been shot
down.

Many blows rained upon the prostrate man-~
enough to have destroyed him but that their
force was broken by the nearness and eagerness
of the assailants. He tried to call aloud to ex- ©
plain to them, but his voice was lost. in the gene-
ral tumult, and hope deserted him when he saw
the angry faces glaring above him. But it came
back again as he heard the roar of Looney Lor-
ton’s rough voice, and saw that eccentric being
burst into the circle and bestriding him likea
Colossus, drive back his infuriated assailants by
a sweep of his ponderous club.

“Back! back! ye squad of omadhauns!’’ he
roared; ‘“‘yer killing the protector of Norah
Glenn,” and even at the name, the girl herself,
with flushed cheek and flashing eyes, her dark
hair and bright dress fluttering from the speed of
her motion, rushed in, and waving them back
with one arm, threw herself on her knees and
clasped Alton’s bleeding head with the other.
‘“Don’t—don’t dare to touch him, one of you?”
she cried, excitedly, “unless you’d murder Norah
Glenn!”

“Norah! Who’d murder Norah Glenn?” ex-
claimed a young man, springing forward and
gazing around with gleaming eyes.

His appearance had a sudden and wonderful
effect, for the girl sprang up with a cry cf joy
and threw her arms around his neck, while the
excited men waved their sticks and hats aloft or
rushed forward with extended hands, crying:
“Welcome, Con Conroy!”

And Martin Blake, raising his head from the
doorstep, where it had been laid, said, huskily:
‘What Conroy—the escaped Fenian ?”

 

CHAPTER IV.
“Gome anc see

The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm,
The virtues that are placed in nerve and bone.”—AwNON.

The words of Martin Blake attracted attention
toward him, and now the tide of fury turned, but
his helpless state and the interposition of the
women saved him. He was removed into the lit-
tle inn, at the door of which he lay,and whispered
orders given for them to keep eye on him for the
sake of the safety of Con Conroy. Meantime
Alton was led back to the cabin of the Widow
Glenn, and his bruises deftly dressed by the hands
of the fair Norah herself. Luckily they proved
to be but slight, and he felt less inconvenience
from them than from the lavish praises showered
on him for his protection of Norah in the morn-
ing.

The game was suspended, for the combatants
were more eager to hear the story of Conroy’s
escape from prison, and it was listened to with
compressed lips and glistening eyes, with execra-
tions for official severity, and tears for the suffer-
ings of the accused and convicted. After this,
and after the aged father and mother of the nar-
rator had come from their neighboring cottage
to embrace and weep joyful tears over their son’s
return, the interrupted games and sports recom-
meneed, and what had merely been intended for
a village festival was turned into a jubilee, and

 

straight in the eyes, without the slightest motion
or word of apology for the collision. Alton, de-

Alton and Conroy were the honored guests. The
enjoyment of the former was indeed much less-

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

}
®

 

 

 

 

wea mati

ened by his remembrance of Norah Glenn’s re-
ception of the returned prisoner, but it was im-
possible for any one to resist the genial hospitali-
ty of the people one and all. é

He was listening to the music of the widow’s
harp and the singing of Norah, when loud cheers
burst on the air, and Looney Lorton came run-
ning, waving his iat like a madman. ;

“Fly, fly, Conrad!” cried the women, with white
faces.

“Por what?” he said, witha smile. “It’s only
the closing of the hurlin’, and at all events,” he
said, nodding his head toward the crowd of men,
“Pd be safer here than flyin’, Though God for-
bid I should bring trouble on the village.” ,

“Hooray? they've won! they’ye won!” eried
Looney, rushing up with acaper like an elephant.
“The green boys have won. The green’s above
the red!”

“Tt’s a good omen, Looney,” said Conroy.

“By my faith, I hope so,” said the other. “The
red boys are able, too; but how could they ex-
pect to play or fight well under a red badge.
Come, they’re going to start the wrestling.” |

The little party, all but the widow and the sick
girl, went out to where the sports were progress-
ing.* ’
The wrestling was carried on with singular
skill and adroitness, Con Conray, in spite of the
wear of his prison life, proving himself one of
the most expert, Many a stalwart form met the
green sward, but not a frown nor ill word was
seen or heard, and the mortification which the
conquered must have felt at being overthrown be-
fore the eyes of beauty was hidden by the smile
of good nature.

After the wrestling they resorted to the cathn-
clogh or “flinging of the stone.” .The stone
chosen was of immense weight, and varying
was the success of the competitors, but they all
had to succumb to Looney Lorton, who, throw-
ing aside hiscoat and hat, advanced and seized
the ponderous mass, raised it on high, advanced
one foot, and with a balancing motion and a quick
propulsion of the arm, hurled it far beyond the
farthest mark.

“Whisht cat!” he exclaimed, as the applause
arose at his feat. ‘‘None 0’ yer palaver, but let
us get to the cake. That’s what I passed ye all
for. My shins are aching fora jig.”

He caught up his hat and coat, putting them on
as he ran, and the others followed with cheers
and laughter to join t

“Phose tiealthful sports that grace the peaceful scene,
Live in each look, and brighten ali the green.”

Out of consideration forthe widow and her sick
child the scene of the festivities had been placed
near the door of their cottage. A distaff was
stuck in the sod perpendicularly, and on the top
of this was fastened a large wooden dish heaped
with flowers and with bright ribbons hanging
from its eage. 5

“That's where the cake is hid,’’ said Looney in
answer to Robert Alton’s question. ‘‘{n the olden
days it used to be hid in a shield instead of a plat-
ter and raised on a spear point in place of a
woman’s spinning staff But the utinsils are
changed like the people.”

“But what is the object—the meaning of the
ceremony?” asked Alton.

“Tt’s the middJe of the merriment~—in the dish
under the flowers is where the cake is hid. But
maybe yer wond’rin’ what the cake’s for. It’s
the prize for the best dancer or prank-player. If
they’re all aiqual whoever can make the ugliest
face gets it. [can win at that any hour o’ the
day, barrin’ Corney Lafferty isn’t about, for his
frontispiece was made for aither a banshee ora
secare-crow. But there’s little fear of its passing
by the daneers when the Roseis here.”

Laughing at this whimsical description of the
central object, Alton looked around him at the
other preparations and could not help contrast-
ing the gay scene and laughing’ faces with the
staid figures and hushed Sabbaths of the villages
of New England. In every direction parties
were chatting or laughing, or side games were
going on, while near the dancing trophy, on
either side of a hole dug in the sod, sat a fiddler
and 2 piper, tuning up with all sorts of hideous
sounds.

Alton wondered what the freshly dug hole be-
tween them was.for, but he soon discovered that
into it the centributions of the dancers to the
musicians were thrown. ,

“Come! cried Looney, suddenly, as the music
whisked off into a lively reel. “‘There’s the
seraper and blower. Let’s get our partners.”

Alton felt mo.e awkward than he had ever done
in a ball-room as he was led toward the crowd of
rosy-cheeked damsels.where Norah Glenn was
standing by the side of Conroy, but as the artist
approached she laughingly snapped her hand
away from Se Irishman, and renning for-
ward to meet Alton put it in his. The crowd
laughed, and Cenroy laughed, and even the sick
girl clapped her hands weakly in approval. Con-
roy chose the next prettiest girl, and it was hard
to choose. Looney seized upon the biggest dow-
dy.in the crowd—every one else that could, at-
tached himself toa piece of beauty—and off they
went twe dozen couples at a time.

Never was so spirited a danceasthat, The
Rose was perfection and grace itself, and Alton
forgot pain and scruples and yielded himself to
the wild enjoyment of the time. Never was there
such an uproarious display of the dancing art as
Looney Lorton and his heavy-limbed, light-foot-
ed partner made, and never was merriment more
suddenly hushed than when the keeper of the inn
tushed up with flabby face and frightened eyes
to tell them that the wounded man, Blake, had
disappeared during the games, and that a body
of horsemen, which he took for mounted police,
we riding through the groves at the bend of the
road.

Zhe generai cry was for Conroy to make his escape, for
there was no doubt that the force was in pursuit of nim.
The women wished him either to fly while there was time,
or to hide in the cottages, and the men, seizing their sticks,
vowed to defend him against all odds where he stood.
Lorton settled the argument.

<‘What,’?? he eried, ‘‘could ye do with a batch o° sticks
again carbines and swords? Would ye give them an ex-
cuse for burning the cabins, and leaving the women and
weanocks shelterless among the beasts of the fiela? No.
Come, Con, my boy, let. us take to the mountans. It’s little
speed their horses will give to them there, and there’s
many a pitfall that the clumsy foot’ll find and never rise
from. Come to the mountains.’’ .

“Looney is right,” cried Conroy, taking rapid leave of
his parents and the others; ‘“‘to the mountains be it.
Come, Lorton, let as try our speed!??

And waving their hands to the weeping females and
angry men, they bounded off toward the hills with the
fleetness of deers. Looney turned as he ran, and roared
through his hands:

‘Mr. American, if you. want to make pictures of the
glen of Corydun or the Ox Mountains, ye’ll maybe run
acrost us there.’

“T willl’? cried Alton.

And the two ran on, with the friends anxiously watch-
ing them, But they had only begun toascend the mountain
slope, when the dreaded horsemen burst from the shadow
of the trees at some distance, riding at furious speed, but
as they came in view, instead of riding toward the cot-
tages, they tarned from the road, and dashed across the
fields to intercept the fugitives, and at the sight the hurl-
ers, with loud cries and waving sticks, rushedon by one
commor impulse to intercept them.

Alton would have followed to see the up-shot of this
strange affray, but that the distressing cries of the sick
girl callea him thither. The sudden fear and excitement
had perfectly overcome poor Aileen, and her mother and
sister were hanging in anguish Over her when he came
up. Such-simpie restoratives as were at hand were hur-
riedly brought by the kind-hearted women, and Alton
was stooping to feel her pulse, when he felt a heavy hand
slapped on.each shoulder, aud starting around found him-
self in the grasp of two grim officers. :

“Our prisoner!’’ said one of them.

“What for?” he asked,

“Two charges,’’ said the officer. ‘First ag an enemy of
ithe government—second for murderous assault.’

“Why I ”

“No time to talk, sir,’’ said the officer, roughiy; and
immediately the handcuffs were on his wrists and hie was

marched away amid cries of pity and execration from the
women.

is wonder was to see Norah Glenn following him.

CHAPTER VY.
“What crime of villain dye is this
That helds his mind iu\thrall ?”—MARtLowe.
Several days after this, John Lysanght paced his library
with moody brow. His mind was full of troubled and

 

* “Even. the amusements.of the Irish peasantry are calculated
Co strengthen their frames and inure them in supporting the
greatast burthens and the greatest fatigue. These exercises may
render them less pious men, but certainly form them to be more
serviceable members of the community. Inthe Sabbath of an
Irish peasant the first hours of the day are devoted to. religion
the rest to the enjoyment of such pleasures as lie within the
limited scope of his acquisition. Sotmetimesled by the light of
nature, sometimes restrained by the shades of prejudice, alter-
nately governed by truth and error, his conduct 1s only to be
judged, by the circumstances under which ne is reared. The
rigid principles of Calvinistical faith, the strict observances of
Lutheran piety, may condemn his festal mode of passing the
day devoted to the Being who made it the sacred season of His
oWn repose; but whether the happy overflowings of a cheerful
humble heart, blest and blessing in the short, sweet season of its
transient felicity or the somber meditations of systematic piety,
er a jndulged seconde. to the letter of the law, is the in-

at ‘gmells sweetest eaven’ is for Him alon
to Whom alf hearts are known.”—Lapy MORGAY, iy nie

 

 

ro Ae Pe en mn

 

terrible thoughts, and their
his face. ;

‘Lysaught was a man of strong mind, and had ever been
a Kind master and Jandlord, much liked by servants and
tenants, but of late he had greatly changed. It has al-
ready been hinted that even Lhe servants had noticed the
strange power which Herbert Hansard seemed to hold
over him. Now the disguise was thrown off, and Hansard
had left Lysaught House declaring open war, This was
the cause,

Robert Alton was too well acquainted with his own
righ(s aud the workings of the laws of tue land to lie a
tame prisoner in jail until’ Hansard had carried out his
amiable piaus against Norah Glenn, and saw fit to set him
free. He insisted on seeing the charges upon which he
was arrested, and demanded the earliest investigation
that the lay permitted,

Norah Gleun had followed him to make sure of the
place of his incarceration, Her gratitude for his gallant
act led her to this, aud she did it the more readily that sie
had seen the small body of police beaten back by the clubs
aud stones of the mountaineers, and Looney aud Couroy
reach the hills in safety. :

It was a Jong and weary way, but she held on with un-
tiring energy, and Alton was adroit enough on divining
ier intention to detain his captors all he could, until at a
divergeance of roads she took the Opposite one from that
along which he was marched, calling outs

“dam going to the squire’s.”?

And at the same moment he became aware that a
country boy was trotting along in her place at his heels.
fhe policeman saw Unis too, and ordered the lad away,
buthe only lengthened the distance between them, and
sull followed, and, when one of them tried to catch him,
lhe Look te the fields and fled before him like a hare, laugh-
ing at his heavy-footed endeavor, aud returning to the
road as soon as he returned.

If Alton had before admired the Rose for her beauty, his
admiration was increased tenfold at this evidence of her
thouglitfalness and tact, and he watched the graceful
figure until the fluttering skirt aud waving hair were lost
in the distance,

Tie consequence of her visit to the Lysaught House,
where she denounced Hansard with all the vehement elo-
quence of an angered and insulted woman, was that early
next morning Robert Alton was brought up for examina-
tion, as & mere matter of form, and discharged. His
credentials proved the unpolitical nature of his presence
in the country, and on Martin Blake being cailed and ex-
amined he acknowledged iu his bluf! manner that he was
the aggressor, so the charge of murderous assault was
dismissed, and Alton left the court after a reprimand for
30 read$a use of firearms. Thus defeated, Ransard flew
into a rage and left the house, where -his: presence was a
horror. But thoughin his anger he threatened immedi-
ate exposure of whatever secret he held, cool reflection
conviuced him that this would be against his own inter-
ests, for his extravagance and need had made him turn
his knowledge into asource of money, and the income of
Lysaught suffered severely from the drain of this black-
mail So his anger had abated sufficiently to permit him
to send “Wretched? Wiuder to. the squire with an in-
solent demand for money; but there was a deeper villainy
in this demand than the mere desire of money.- Lysaught
had crushed the offensive missive in his clenched hand in
his angry strides across the roont. At length he struck a
bell, and on a servant appearing, he said, ina voice of sup-
pressed scorn and anger:

“Send in the wretclied sneak that brought this.”

In 2 Moment Wretched Winder appeared with a smirk
and.a bow, and advanced with out-held hand.

“All my dear sir——”

“No Bp pitino, sir,” said Lysaught, contemptuously,
not nog ng the hand. ‘Youare hereon business, Keep
to that!’? .

Wretched Winder drew himself up with pursed lips and
offended dignity.

“Business be it then!’’ he said, with mild insolence,

“You can tell Captain Hansard that it is not convenient
at present for me to pay him this—debt.”

There was a long pause before the word ‘‘debt,”? and &
tone of bitterness in its enunciation.

“Awht that’s unpleasant—bad,”’ said Winder,

“You ean add,”? continued :he squire, not heeding him,
‘that I think it strange he should press me so Close alter
the large sum I—paid him lately.”

“‘He needs money, sir,”’ said Winder, with a French lift
of the eyebrows and the shoulders, “Tne expenses of
Frolic Hall are immense, sir—im-mense, Hausard’s a
very expensive man, sir—very. Cigar bill alone is fab-u-
lous. Besides, sir, where should aman look for money
but where it’s due?”

Lysaughit stopped in the walk which he had resumed,
and-cast asavage glance at the speaker—so savage that
the little man was struck with an idea that he was going
to be kicked out of the house, aud backed discreetly to-
ward the room door.

“Tell him,’? said the squire, huskily, ‘that when I col-
lect my rents, Which-will bein two or three days, I will
see what I can do,’”? e

“But, my dear——”

“Gol? thundered the passion-wrought squire, and
Wretched Winder went precipitately, but turned when he
was safely out, toshake his fist back and growl venom-
ously:

“Er-r-r! You'll sup sorrow for this!”

Thus having arrauged the future evening diet of his lin-
miliator, he hurried off, but returned 1m the coursc vf an
hour or tivo, aud sent in the following letter to the tor-
tured squire:

“JoHN LySAUGHT, Esquirz—Sir: When I send to you
for money, | need it aud expect it. Iam not used to Gis-
appointments, and lame excuses will notsatisfy me, Ifit
was niggardliness on your part that caused your insolent
rebuff to my agent, let me ask you if you have ever set a
valuation on your neck? Would you sooner give up all
your wealth and your life to boot, than pay me a few pal-
iry thousands for leaving you in the enjoyment of both?
Reflect well. Hemp makes a harsh cravat, and a beggared
family is an unpleasautdying thought. If, as you say,
you are really without money, I will compromise. Send
me an instrument giving me full and unlimited power
over the Highvale farms, with right of collection of ar-
rearage as well as future rental, also the account books
pertaining thereto. That's the way Winder talksit. He
is my attorney, and will draw up the document for your
signature. (Please don’t snub him, for he is extremely
sensitive.) You see Iam very moderate, as these farms
only forma small patch of your immense estate.

“sae Nodelay! Let this besent at once, or by my
honor as @ gentleman, Ill send you to Sligo Jail before
night. Yours in earnest,

“HERBERT HANSARD.”’

It would be very difficult, if not impossible, to describe
the emotions that passed through the miud of John Ly-
saught while reading this threatening and mocking letter.
His face, which flushed atthe insolence of the opening,
grew pale asdeathas heread on. A sickly pain over-
spread it, and his lips twitched nervously. But the levity
of the closing sentences made his blood boil with indigna-
tion and his eyes blaze madly, and, tearing the sheet to
shreds, he cast it on the floor and trampled on it fiercely.

“Curse him! curse him! curse him!’ he cried, striding
the room; but his eyes fellon one of the scraps of paper
with a couple of words upon it, and his rage was turned
to a paroxysm of grief.

“4 beggared fumily!’? he sobbed, leaning on the man-
tel-shelf aud dashing his forehead into his hands, the hot
tears raining on the hearth. ‘My God! my God! and the
disgrace—the disgrace! It must not be! It shall not!
he said, hoarsely, dashing the tears from his wild eyes and
staggering toward the desk.

He grasped at the leaf for support and paused awhile,
guipiug down the sobs that arose from his deep chest,
then wiped his face, took a long, long breath, and struck
the bell with firm hand. The servant appeared.

“Tell—tell that man to come in.”

The next minute Wretched Winder appeared and paused
on the threshold with a smirk of malicious triumph, but
it disappeared, and a look of trepidation took its place as
he noted the stern wildness of the eyes that met his.

“Well, sir, you are to draw up this paper?’ said the
squire in a tone that Winder had never heard before.

He tried to make asmiling reply, but the smile died
on his face, and he merely nodded his head. The
squire’s manner was so different from the humble be-
havior he had expected.

“There is my desk.
there.”?

“Thank you for the pens—also the ink,’’ said Wretched,
sliding toward the desk. “I have brought the forms—
always carry afew such things with me for fear of acci-
dent.

Lysaught waved his hand as he sank into a chair, and
the chatterer ceased and began to write. After a long
pause, during which the squire sat gazing al the carpet,
Winder turned his head and said:

“Awhl. What shall I say is the consideration, sir? The
sum I came for a while ago?’

“No!” cried Lysaught, suddenly and savagely. ‘The
consideration is a quittance ofall dues and demands
whatsoever hitherto heid against me by Hansard.”

As he spoke he sprang up and strode the floor with an
ores that made the globeson the chandelier shake
noisily.

“That was not in my instruetions, sir,’ said Winder.

‘Write that! or leave the housel’’? cried the squire in a

workings could be seen on

You will find forms and pens

perfect roar of anger.

‘*Ag you please, sir,’? said Winder, turning to the desk
with a shiver, but, for all his shiver, there was a strange
smile upon his face as he did so,

After a while’s very audible scratching Winder said
once more, but without turning his head:

“Now, sir, if you please, we'll have the list of tenants
and description of boundaries."

Lysaught went lo a closet, and unlocking it took thence
a bundie of documents and threw them on the desk be-
fore Wretched Winder, 80 that the dust of them made
him sneeze.

Wretched untied the parcel and spread the papers out
before him like a fortune-teller’s cards, reading off the
names Of the tenants as he took them down. Lysaught
trod the floor the while, apparently unheeding, but he
started and stood suddenly still as he heard the name of
Widow Glenn.

“My God!’ he said, ina deep despair, ‘Have I not al-
ready done harm enough to her and hers? °Tis against
them this villainy is planned—against the girl Norah.
The black-hearted scoundrel, I’ll step between him and
his prey!’

The ear of Wretched Winder bent toward the whisper
with an eagerness that made the muscles of his neck
tremble, and his shoulders heaved witha chuckle of de-
light. as he caught the words.

“Try to step between,” he said to himself. Try it!”

Another long pause, except for the scratching of
Wretched’s pen and the noise of unfolding and folding
pareliments and papers, and the creaking of his chair as
he turned from side to side to compare his copy with the

“boys!

 

2 «wang. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

eS EAE

 

originals, and then he arose and said, with a professional
assumption of politeness:

Ready for signing, sir.”

The squire turned sharply in his fretful walk, went to-
ward the desk and lifted a pen.

**Witnesses,’”? said Winder.

Lysaught threw down the pen and struck the bell.

“Burke,’? he said, ‘call Dennis and come yourself.”

The servant disappeard, and the squire stood until his
return with sucti culin steadiness as made Wretched Win-
der admire the man hecame to triumphover. The ser-
vants came and he signed the deed with steady hand,
They affixed their marks where Winder directed, and that
personage attached his acknowledgement and bundled up
the old leases and the new. The servants left the room.in
the meantime.

“Now the books, sir,’? said Winder, getting near the
door, for he feared that this dreadful calm was the prelude
of a storm.

The squire went to the closet once more With the same
stony coldness, and selecting some time-stained account
books threw them at the man’s feet. Wretched gathered
them up and packed them beneath his arm.

“Good day, sir,” he said, rapidly, as he turned in the
room door. ‘Blow me if [don’t admire your nerve, but
if you imagine that the full quittance clause is going to
benefit you any, you had better come into court and tell
what all Hansard’s dues and demands were !

Lysaught’s face became livid, He.uttered a gutteral
ery, his hands clenched, and he tried to rush at the man,
but he had already disappeared, aud he sank heavily into
achair, gasping:

“Fool! fool! I might have known the knave! This will
never end. There is no way but one!”?

A little girl with sunny hair ran from the door of
another room, and skipping across the carpet caught him
by the hand. He snatched it away as if her touch had
burned him.

“Ol, papa, what is the matter?? she cried. ‘Are you
sick? Your face is 80 white, and your lips so blue, and
your eyes so big. What is the matter?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing,” he said, looking at her
with the tears welling up ii his eyes. But he suddenly
sprang to his feet with one land on the child’s head and
the other clenched in the air, and cried in a terrible under-
tone:

11] kill him! By Heaven, I'll kill him!’?

(T0 BE CONTENUED.)

>

 

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

THE SCALP-TAKER.

By Ned Buntline.
[‘*The Sealp-Taker”’ was commenced in No. 33. Back Nos. can
be obtained from any News Deuier in the United States. }

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Ten days out, ovef two hundred miles from San An-
tonio, and nary scalp yet! Tiis looks bad for the rangers,
We've got to sing a different ‘tune before long, or
Pi think we're either going blind, or all the reds are like
the Phantom Chief, old Big Foot—they leave no trail.’

This was said by Captain Burleson, as he was going into
camp on the tenth night out, away up on the edge of the
far-famed Liano Estacado, or Staked Plain, near the head
of the Big Wichita, in Bexas county, a perfectly wild and
unsettled region, roamed over only by wild Indians, aud
animals not wilder than they.

“—There comes the “Little Yank,’? cried Old Rocky.
He rides as if Black Cloud hadthe bitin lismouth. Maybe
he has seen something.”

In a second or tio, the great black horse which once
had carried Post Oak Bill over plain and mountain dashed
into camp, white with foam, carrying our hero, Buckskin
Sam upou his back. He had been permitted by the cap-
tain. to make a detour from the line of march about three
hours before—being told to steer for a peak then in sight
when he wanted to resch their camping place for the
night, as the captain would halt by a well kuown spring
at its feot on the north-west. ~ :

“What news, Mr. Hall??? cried the captain, for he read
excitement in the face of the young Ranger.

“Black Cloud has done me good service, sir; he has
brought me out of abad scrape. 1 was all but surround.
ed by a gang of Reds—too many for me to tackie—aud 1
thought one time they’d have me sure.”?

‘‘Reds!”? cried Charley Bragg, a regular Yankee hater,
who could not bear Sam because the captain seemed to
like him and favor him as muchaslhé did areal Texan.
1 reckon your Reds were coyotes! Why didn’t you bring
in a scalp to prove your words?”

And he followed his remarks with a sneering laugh.

‘What dues that feel like?’ cried Sam, white with an-
ger, and he threw a fresh, bleeding scalp full in the bully’s
face. o

And quick as thought Sam cocked and raised his re-
volver, for he knew-that Bragg would shoot certain if he
could get ‘the drop” on him.

Old Rocky roared, aud Reckless Joe shouted:

“There is confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ!?

“Keep your hands off your tools, Charley Bragg, or I'll
drop you where you stand!’? said Sam, sternly. ‘I’ve
borne your jeers and a. aslongasI] meantlo. If you

 

want to die, Say sor”

The Texan, really ein hits way, knew it was death
to offer Lo draw a weapon, but he said:

“If you Want my hair, take it. You puiled first, or I'd
show you what I’m made ofl”?

“You can have achance,’’ said Sam, putting his pistol
back in his belt. “When you want tosettle this difficulty,
send your frieud and he'll fiud me ready.”’

Gentlemen, this must go no further,’? said Captain
Burleson, sternly. ‘Charley Bragg, you have repeatedly
insulted this young man without cause, and he did right
just now to retaliate as he did. If you attemptagain to
insult or injure his person or feelings, 1’ll degrade ama dis-
miss youonthe spot. I want men, not bullies, in my
ranks,”?

Bragg colored to the temples, buf the manhood in him
rose, and he said, after a brief pause:

“Captain, I was wrong, and Lbeg your pardon. AndI
beg yours, too, Mr. Hall,’? he added, as he stooped, picked
up the scalp, and hauded it back to Sam.

Sam at once extended his hand, and said:

“It’s allright, Mr. Bragg. limean todo my duty, and
be friendly to all.’

Every one was glad to seethe two men shake hands,
and now Sam was called upon totell how he took the
scalp, and how tnany Indians there were.

“After I'd left the line,’”? said Sam, ‘1 took over toward
the timber on our left, thinking ’'a see some game there.
It was further off than I thought. fall seven er eight miles;
but when I got close to it I saw seyeral deer feeding close
in tosome cottonwoods, and I disinounted and crept in
through the grass to geta shot. Icrepton till l wasin
sure range, and was just going to fire, when a big Indian
rose right between me and the deer with a bow and arrow
in highand. I didn’t wait to think if there were more
around; I drew a beadon his head and let him have it.
He yelled and fell, and I sprang for his hair. I gotit, but
even while ltore thescalpoff it seemed to measif the
woods was alive with reds, and they came a tearing and
screeching for me on their ponies as if they’deat me. If
Black Cloud hadu’t come bounding up to me then, they’d
have got me sure. Buton he galloped, aud ina second I
was on his back, making tracks forthe peak. They fol-
lowed me till 1 struck your trail, and there they stopped,
for I looked back and saw them huddled together on it.’?

“How many do you think there were?’ asked Captain
Burleson,

“Not over twenty that followed me; but in the woods,
yelling, it seemed as if there were a hundred.”

“They’re not very strong, or they’d have kept on after
you, even if they did see our trail!’ said the captain.
“We've got to keep a good look out for our horses io-
night. If they got them we could sing good-by, John! I
am glad, Mr. Hall, that you've taken the first sca!p on the
scout. You have madea good begiuniug, aud L'il bet
you'll make even a better ending!”

“Thank you, captain, J reckon every manin the com-
pany will do just as well if he gets the chance!”

“That's right, my boy—no pride aud no exultation.
You'll do to tie to. But camp, boys, camp, and get to
cooking at once. I shall allow no fire after dark!”

Sam now unsaddiled aud picketed Black Cloud in the
best grass he could find, and then stuck the scalp on a
stick near oue of the Camp-fires to dry it before he put it
away,

The men soon made coffee and got supper, and every-
thing was over, 80 that the fires were all out when the
first watch was set just before dark, and the horses
brought in to short picket ropes close to the sleeping-
place.

As usual, a single sentinel stood watch over all, for
they were circled on the ground within a radias of two
hundred yards, the horses all picketed in a line, and the
men sleeping in boots, spurs and clothes, their arms by
their side. The reliefs came every two hours, each man
calling his relief when the time was up.

The night was still—scarce a breath of wind to shake
leaf or grass blade. The stars.ouly shone out, for the old
moon was just gone, and the new rose too early to be
seen after night set in. The men talked in low tones till
eight or nine o’clock, then all but the watch turned in.

The night passed on—no alarm, no attack. The reds
which Sam had seen must Know by the trail that the
party was there—were they too wise to risK an attack?
We will see,

Old Rocky had the last wateh but one, and the watch
that followed his would be most dangerous of ali—for In-
dians argue that men sleep soundest just before day, and
that is the time they always creep in on their victims.
The one to follow himoin that doubly dangerous time was
ae Sam, the “Little Yank,’ as they almost all call-
ed him.

When Roeky woke him, he said:

“Young ’un, iv’s your watch now, and you've just got
to keep your eyes peeled. The horses all act uneasy, and
oid Black Cloud, your horse, has been snuffing aud laying
his ears back this hour past. I know there’s Indiaus
somewhere around, though they haven’t showed any
sign yet. Lay low and watch, boy, as you never watched
before!”?

“All right, Rocky; I'll do my ievel best!"

“T Know you will, lad. Lay low, for yon may ketch ’em
a creepin’ iu, if they don’t see you up and around!’

Rocky now turned in, and in spite of his predictions of
danger, was asleep in five minutes,

Sam was a little nervous, forhe saw at a glance that
the horses were very uneasy, but he determined to do his

\ duty at all hazards,

For an hour or more he kept a steady watch, but heard
no sound, saw no more to indicate an enemy. But all at
once, he saw that‘a horse was out of place, feeding fur-
ther from the picket line than he should be. Sam knew

 

‘until he came to the last one.

Hal hal? -

‘that red wretch fell.

 

 

2 6y

: 52D CN

 

something was wrong there, and he crept along in the
grass toward the horse, holding his rifle ready for instant
use.

Suddenly, between him and the sky he saw something
raiseup. Achill ran through every vein—he saw the
head, tne long hair, the flaunting feathers of a red war-
rior. Sam was about to raise his rifle, when the head
sunk down Close to tlle next horse on the picket line,

In & second, Sam thought what the Indian was doing.
Ile was cutting the horses loose one after another froin
the picket pins, intending to stampede them and. ruu
them off when the last horse was loose.

Probably nine out of ten of those rangers would have
given the alarm at once. Sam did no such thing, Drop-
ping his rifle, and depending on his revolvers, if he had
to shoot, he crept up to the picket line of the first horse.
He found it cut. Noiselessly he secured it again to the
picket-pin, and then crept on to the next horse, doing the
same thing. Twice while he was at this work, he saw
that Indian raise upto see if he was watched. Each
time Sam could have dropped,him with his revolver, but
he was not ready yet. Tre Indian cut lariatafter lariat

That fastened Black Cloud,
and the horse seemed wild with rage. He snorted and
pawed, and the Indian hesitated to approach his pin. The
rest, he thought, were loose—whal was one horse, if he
startled andrun off all the rest? Without horses the
rangers could never get out of the Indian country—they
would become the red man’s prey! The warrior rose to
his full height, unloosed his robe, and gave the yell which
his comrades had long waited to hear.

It was his death cry, for Sam sent a bullet from his re-
volver through his heart, then boanded forward, knife in

‘hand, and tere the reeking scalp frem the redskin’s head,

In a second the Gamp was all astir, and as a few yelling
Indians poured in a harmless fire from outside a volley
from the rangers sentthem flying. Nota horse was loose
—not one could leave his picket pin.

Day was just breaking, too, and while Sam told his brief
story, the cut and re-kKnotted picket ropes told the rangers
how he had saved their horses and with them their lives,

When the muster roll was Called, Captain Ed Burleson
cried out:

“Sergeant Sam Hall to the front!’

“Promoted! Three cheers for the little Yank!" shouted
old Rocky, aud they came, Captaiu Burleson joining in
the shout.

“Sergeant Hall, i congratulate you on having taken the
first two scalps, of this scout, and I promote you for your
coo: heroism in saving the horses of the entire commana.
Go on, sir, as you have begun, and you will win friends
by the.thousaud in the Lone Siar State, and raise yourself
to the lighest post of honor. J] now Call for three-times-
three for the YOUNG SCALP-TAKER!”’

“A bully pame!’’ shouted old Rocky, swinging his broad-
rimmed hatin thésair, aud then Captain Burleson led off,
and the rafiigers gavenine cheers, which rung loud over
the plains audechioed away up in the peaks above their
camp. -

Then the captain gave Orders to hurry up breakfast.
He would trail the red fiendswho had come after their
horses to their villages and play them «game that none
knew better than the rangers how to play.

Sam went out to get the arms fromthe dead warrior
and Rocky went with him. As the old scout’s eyes fell
on the body of the Indian he gave a yell of excitement
and delight that bronght more than twenty rangers, with
the captain himself, to the spot.

*dtis ‘One-Eye,’ a Comanche chief, known all along
the border!’ cried old Rocky. ‘He was one of the worst
Indians on the plains. Where he led, fire and blood
marked his way. His scalp is worth the hair of twenty
common wartriors!”’

“Rocky is right—I know the enss well. He lost that
eye at Palo Pinto, and Ben McCullough did the job. Ben
and Jack Hays were corraled there, and cut their way
out. After they had fired their lastshot this old cuss got
Ben’s horse by the rein, but Ben struck him in tlie face
with the butt of his empty revolver and downed him.
The blow cost the red his eye, and ever after that he fought
and murdered more like a tiger than a man!’?

It was indeed a glorious shot for the Texan border when
He was almost as much dreaded as
the Phantom Chief himself, aud he belonged to the same
tribe. ,

“We'll hurry up breakfast and trail his party!’’ cried
Captain Burleson. “Losing him they'll fall back dis-
heartened toward their villages, and we’ll be sure to make
a big haul of scalps and plunder. To your messes, men,
and be quick!? =

The rangers needed no second bidding. In the eye of
their brave and experienced leader they could read,
“work ahead,’ and they wanted to be at it.

In twenty minutes, with old. Rocky, Colorado Turner,
aud Hogey Bennett in the lead, as the best trailers in the
crowd, the rangers started On a lope. Sam was called to
the side of the captain, who rode next beliind the trailers.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

For a time after leaving his village, the Phantom Chief,
with Julia near him, rode on in silence toward the hunt-
ing-ground where bears were always to be found—in the
Wichita canyons, and in the mesquite and pecan groves
along the branches,

Julia, who had kept her eye on that distant smoke as:

long as she could see it, sighed when it utterly faded from
view, forin some way, she could nottell why, she had felt
asii she had init a personalinterest. Poor girl) day alter

day she thought and hoped for, night after night she’

prayed for and then dreamed of, rescue from her captivily ;
but it came not. :

She knew that Big Foot was in earnest when he said he
would make her his squaw, and the young girl’s heart
almost broke when she thought how wholly she was in
his power.

Often she thought—and eyen as they went on that hunt,
the idea occurred to Irer—oT availing herself of the speed
of Snow Flake, and darting away from her captor, trust-
ing to Providence to reach the settlements on the border.

But she did not know what course to take, and she
knew also, that between her and the border there were
thousands of Indians who would treat her far worse than
the Phantom Chief had done, if she fell into their power;
and how could she avoid it? One-Eye, Big Tree, Lone
Wolf and other sub-chiefs were continually out with war
parties—even then, Oue-Eye, with a hundred braves, had
gone toward the settlements. And-sle dreaded and fear-
ed One-Eye more than all the rest; for nO matter what
others did, he sever took a captive—he slew all that fell
into his power,

For full twenty miles the Phantom Chief rode on, in-
creasing his speed after the first three or four miles, and,
at noon, he and Julia were in front of a deep gorge that
made up from the right bank of the Wichita, in which the
chief said they would be sure to flud bears—for roots and
berries which they loved, grew there.

Into this gorge they rode, the Phantom Chief leading
the way. The bettom was level, though narrow—ouly a
pistol shot wide—and a small stream rippled over a sandy
bed, interspersed with pebbles and small boulders of
quartz, and gray and blue limestone. On either hand
rose lofty cliffs of sandstone, worn into all shapes by the
action of the water, working like castellated wulls pierced
for artillery, grown over in places wilh vines and slirub-
bery, but infinitely grand and beautiful.

Julia, with an eye that could appreciate its beauty, and
a soul full of refinement and a love of nature, enjoyed the
scenery, but old Big Foot came for bears, aud he was look-
Ing fer their tracks.

He bade the squaws with the pack horses keep back out
of the canyon till the hunt was over. ;

Suddenly he halted, and Julia, who had dropped behind,
rode up to his side.

*“Lookl? said the chief, pointing down to the sand
where the brook had widened out into a pool—look!

here is the track of the Big Bear of the Wichita. I have
tried to kill him a great many limes, but he always got
away!"?

Julia saw an immense track—larger than she had ever
seen before. Beside this, there were several smaller
tracks.

“There have been many bears here!’’ she said.

“Yes; the old bear is like a big chief—lhe has a good
many squaws and plenty of papooses! But his day has
come. The Phantom Chief wit kill the Big Bear, and all
his braves will feel bad, because many have tried to kill
him, and said he was bad medicine—lle could not be
killed!
~ “Big Foot must be careful, or he wil get hurtl’? said

alia.

‘Does the White Lily care? Would she feel bad if the
Phantom Chief was hurt ?? he asked, eagerly.

“Yes; you have been kind to me, and I do not want, to
see you hiurtl’’ she answered.

A look of joy, 80 strange on his usually harsh looking
face, beamed out, and he said:

“The Phantom Chiefis glad. The White Lily may learn
to Jove him some time.”

He urged his horse on up.thecanyon, while he took his
bow from his back and strung an arrow, ready for use,

Coming up where a clump of mesquite bushes almost
blocked the way, the chief rode through a narrow opening
made by the stream, Julia following close behind,

_ As the chief was iost to her sight for an instant, she
heard a sharp, loud growl, and then the twang of his bow
as he shot an arrow With all his force.

Urging her horse forward by a single word, she emerged
from the bushes just as the chief sent a second arrow in
the flank of amonstrous bear, which with six more, two
old and four young or half-grown ones, blocked the way,

As the arrow went into his body, the largest bear, with
a cry that seemed almost haman in its anger, turned and
sprang upon the chiefs horse, striking itin the throat
with one of its great claws, and literally tearing half its
neck away. The horse plunged wildly forward and fell,
ana before the old chief could clear himself from the horse
the monstrous bear was upon him, and lie was borne down
under its fearful weight.

Julia saw his deadly peril, saw the bear with its mon-
strous jaws make an effort to reach the chiefs head and
neck, and without a thought of her own peril, sprang
from her horse and plunged her spear directly down the
animal’s red throat with all her strength, inmaking surely
a fearful wound, for the bear, with a terrible roar, spil-
ting up torrents of blood, turned from the failen chief
upon her, breaking the spear staff short off as if it had
been only a straw.

Lithe and swift of foot, Julia bounded to one side, drew
an arrow to its head on her bow, and sent it deep in the
side of the ferocious monster as it plunged past her with
its great unwieldly form.

With.a scream of rage and agony tue bear wheeled
around once more, while the chiel, held down by his fall-
en horse, yelled also in pain and rage, for he feared poor
Julia would be torn in pieces before he could rise to help
her,

But the heroic girl sent another arrow fall in the bear’s
throat as it rose on its hind legs to grasp her in its terri-
ble clutch, and then she drew her sharp hatchet in one
hand aud her Knife in the other,

Se SA —
But feeble indeed would have been her defense against
the monstrous beast, which would have overwhelmed her
with its weiguit, or crushed her toa pulp in its tremen-
dous paws, had not help come like a miracle from a most
unexpected quarter.

Snowflake, her beautiful horse, wiweh, snorting with
terror at first, stodd and trembled wider the fearful sight,
suddenly seemed to realize the danger of his fair mistress,
and with a w’'d neigh beunded with all four of its feet
upon the huge animal, aud actually tore one of the bear's
ears olf in his teeth, :

The bear, struck down by this novelattack, rose, turned
and strove to clutch the horse by the neck, but now Julia,
quick as lightning flashing from the ¢c.oud, drove her
hatchet fairly through the back bone oF the beast, just
over the kidueys.

Utterly disabled, with its spine broken, and uttering a
scream Of agony, the bear sunk down, and Julia, seizing
the chief’s spear from his hand, finished her exploit by
driving it into the monster’s heart.

The work was over—the great bear of the Wichita was
dead, slain by a slender girl of fifteen years. It had been
the victor ina hundred fights, aud the terror of ali the
red hunters on the plains,

Julia now patted Snowflake on his arched neck to show
the noble horse that she appreciated the part he had taken
in the battle, while the old chief struggled hard to extri-
cate himself from his dead horse which with its whole
weight held him down by oue leg.

Jnlia saw his situation and helped him to rise.

He stood on his feet and looked at the dead monster,
and then at the slender form of that lovely girl, a thou-
sand times more beautiful with her flushed face aud eyes
yel,fiashing from excitement.

“You have saved the life of Big Foot!’? was the first
sound that left his lips.

She smiled.

“You have killed the great bear which no warrior of all
my tribe would have dared to face alone. Yuu have doue
what the phantom chief could not do.”

“Where are the other bears? Let us go and kill them
tool’? was her answer.

“No, this one is more to us than all the rest. I will call
up the squaws and let them skin it. The skin shall be
shown to all my nation, and the people willlook upon the
White Lily as a queen. The Great Spirit has made her
strong—He has given hera great lieart—she kuows no’
fear.??

“The meat of this bear is strong and not fit to eat—I
will go and kill some of the young ones that have hidden
in the caves near by,” said Julia, still paying no attention
to his praises.

“Wait. I will call the squaws Lo skin the bear and then
we will go together.”?

aoe chief uttered ashrill, whistling cry—an imitation of
a hawk.

‘The old squaws rode in with their pack horses and stood
in awe when they dismounted by the side of the dead ~
monster. When the’chief'told:them to take off the skin
they were almost afraic to touch it for fear some life might
remain,

The chief smiled, and told them they should not fear to
touch dead, what the White Lily had met and fought
alone while it was alive, when he could not help her.

The red hags shook their heads, muttered something
about ‘Big Medicine,’? and then went to work to skin the
bear.

- “Now we will go for the others,’’ said the Phantom
hief, ;

Julia was already on the back of Snow Flake, leading
the way up the gorge. '

In a little while, some ways ahead, they saw the other
bears climbing up a ravine that was made by a torrent
when rains fell heavily, but now it was dry.

Urg®d to full speed by achirrup from Julia's lips, the
white horse bounded forward to the foot of the ravine and
there she dismounted. lt was sosteep and narrow thata
horse could not go up the pass, and even the bears had to
stop alittie way up on a shelying rock at/the foot of a
steep precipice.

Though her spear was broken, Julia, a full rifle shot
ahead of the old chief, never hesitated a second, but
sprung lightly up the chasm, her bow in her hand and her
quiver of arrows drawn to the front so as to be handy.

The bears, missing their giantmate, iuddled. together
in seeming terror, and before Big Foot had commenced
the ascent Julia had sent an arrow apiece through the
kidneys of two of the half-grown bears, it being a fatal
spot and easily reached by a well-directed arrow.» These
two dropped whining to the rock, and rolled down almost
to her feet, uttering piteous cries, growing weaker each
moment; but her heart was steeled to pily—she was a
huntress now, fit for Diana’s vestal train.

Another arrow was set and then drawn to its head, but
‘this time it went whizzing with fearful force into the blaz-
ing eye of one of the old she bears, the mother of the cubs
she just had slain.

Well was it her hand did not tremble, for this bear, too,
was very large and wild with rage, but her arrow went
fullinto the brain of the shaggy monster, and she rolled
over and over till she fell dying beside her cubs.

“Let the Phantom Chief kill the rest—I have done
enougli,”’ said Julia, quietly, and she sat down as he came
up.
Big Foot smiled grimly. When he had killed the other
three she would still be ahead of him. But he went to his
work far more cautiously than she. He took post as near
the bears as he Could get, but behind a point of rocks and
bushes which partly sheltered him. From this covert he
sent arrow after arrowdnto the vitals of the old bear first,
until she fell, and them he easily dispatched the young —
oues. ; >
“The White Lily was kind to leave the Phantom Chief 2
chance to kill any of the game,’ he said. ‘*When the
great hunters in Big Foot’s village hear of what she has
done to-day, they will hang their heads and say they are
only squaws!l"?

“Look, the sun is far down in the west.
back to-night??? asked Julia,

“No,” said the chief. “it willtake along time for the
squaws to skin the bears and pack the meat. We will
camp here to-night and go back in the moruing. Look,
there is a house made by the Great Spirit!”

The chief pointed to a great cave in the side of the cliff,
full forty feet in height, and full as broad and long, cut by
the mighty hand of nature in the roek, with a floor as
level and dry a8 if ithad been laid in marble. From one
side a small spring, as Clear as crystal, bubbled out and |
ran down &@ worn groove in the rock to the stream below.

Neither wind nor rain could make it untenable, and
Julia thought it indeed a splendid place to camp.

So she called to Snow Flake, and led him up the gorge
to a place where the grass was plenty, and told him to
eat fast, When night came she wauted him for a pillow,
foreven when she slept away from. the village she lay
with her head upon Snow Flake’s neck, sure that he
would guard her from danger.

The noble horse seemed to understand her, and went to
cropping the short grama aud mesquite grasses witl»
avidity, while she returned and collected fuel for a good
camp fire to cook and sleep by in the lofty cane,

The phantom chief had gone to get the trapping from
his dead. horse, and Julia’s brokeu spear, that he might
make another staff for its steel head, amd tell the squaws
where there was more work for them up tle canyon.

When he came back Julia had another surprise. She
had killed @ stray autelope, and was dressing it for
supper.

CE
aero a

Shall we go

[To BE CONTINUED.]}
ae ‘ 2
Items of Interest.

 

a@ Extraordinary earthquakes took place in va-
rious parts of Asia Minor ir the early part of May last. The vil-
lage ot Sheikli had, out of 320 houses, 200 leveled with the ground,
and 100 so much shattered as to become uninhabitable, Thirty-
one persons were killed outright, and seventeen more or less in-
jured. At Tchoril, 285 dwellings were destroyed out of 300; 130
people were killed, and 170 wounded. The total namber of lives
lost in the different localities where the shocks proved destruc-
tive, is not yet officially known.

kas Spectacles to prevent snow-blindness, bué
more especially for use by Arctic explorers, have been invented
recently by a London  oeulist. They are made of- ebony, and
are tied on the head with acord. They somewhat resemble two
half-wainut shelis fastened over the eyes. The wearer sees
through a small slit in tront of the pupil of theeye. The sides of
each eye-box are perforated with minute holes, in order that the
wearer may get a side yiew of objects.

ga In Florida it is not uncommon for ripe
oranges to hang on trees for a whole year without decaying. A
correspondent writes: “I, myself, have eaten sweet oranges that
have nung on the tree the year round, and have eaten sour
oranges that have hung on a tree furtwosummers. Florida
oranges that hang after the new crop starts, lose their juice,
which returns to the tree, and in the fall fill up with the juice
like the new crop.”

gaz The eighty-one ton gun in course of man-
ufacture at, Woolwich, ene is rapidly approaching com-
pletion.’ The bore is being rifled at the boring mills, and the only
other process required to finish the gun in the rough isthe
shrinking on of the trunnion rings. Considering’ the immense
size of the gun, il is worthy of remark that the work has been .
performed without the slightest hitch or accident. r

nas A foot-sore marcher in the recent procession
in Boston in honor of the battle of Bunker Hill, before ‘retiring
for the night, put his feet in a tub Otel a solution of alco-
hol and water, and while enjoying the soothing effect fell asieep
in his chair. Five hours afterward he woke up to find his body
so stiffand celd as to require another solution of alcohol and
wale to restore animation. But this time it was taken in-
wardly.

aa The most singularly named man in New York
is Walter R. T. Jones—the middle iniuals standing tor Restored
Twice. His parents first had a son called, Walter, who died.
Another boy was born to them, and christened alter the first
with an addition—Walter Restored. He died,:and a third mak

child was born, and received the name he now bears—Walter Re-
stored Twice Jones.

xa Many of the Chinese in San Francisco have
gone into the money-brokerage business. Success has attended
them so far, and they do a large business in buying and selling
the new American.trade dollar, which is almost entirely super-
seding tlhe Mexican coin of the same denomination; and they al-

so exchange much paper currency. ' .

gaz A disastrous storm occurred in Buda-Pestlr,
(Hungary,) on the 29th of June. ‘The fall of water was extraor-_
dinary. Yorrents swept through the streets, carryi men,
vehicles and everything movabie down into the river Manabe.
Houses were flooded before the iumates could escape. At least
a hundred jives were lost.

ke The Colorado potato beetle, which has been
committing such ravages in certain portions of the eountry,
lately, was described, it is said, by scientific men.as long ago as
1832, but at that time it was only of interest to entomologists.
Ra The oldest horse in the world is now living in
Jackson, Mich. He was foaled in 1824, and 1s consequeutly tifty-
one years old.

na The Court of Inquiry in London on the loss of
es Scuiller ascribe the wreck to failure to use the
ead.

aay The N, Y, Evening Post has reduced its

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a corsa —
10 MONTHLY,
A GRAND OPPORTUNITY FOR

Prudent Persons of Moderate Means,

Profit by the Millions of Capital

Famous Garden City

BY
Mr. A. T. STEWART, the Merchant Millionaire.

. Necessity is said to be the Mether of Invention, and the
great and growing necessity that has caused thousands to
seek homes in the suburbs, away from the overcrowded tene-
ments and unhealthy apartments which they occupied in the
city, led us to adopt the plan of mouthly payments, as 4 means to
induce the multitude to seek the pure and health-given atmos-
phere of the immediate suburbs. We were the first to offer the
facilities, and the thousands wno have patronized us can attest
the value of our plan, and its benefit to themselves.

While we are still largely engaged 1n the sale of finely-improved
property, at higher prices, nearer this city, we huve decided, af-
ter much consideration, to offer the splendid property at

GARDEN CITY PARK
Those who Desire io Speculate,

AND TO THOSE
WHO DESIRE CHEAP HOMES,

AT THE VERY

small Qutlay, $10 a Month

FOR EACH LOT PURCIIASED.
2 MOR ON ES I

Having noticed the eagerness with which the thoughtless

and inexperienced buy at random under the excitements of
auctions, and the foolish manner in which many are duped by
designing men, who offer lots which are inthe wilderuess (and
might as well bein the moonso far as utility and value are
concerned) tor ridiculous prices, which should warn iastead of
alluring persons of medium sense. We take pleasure in pre-
senting our new plan, and Calling attention to its features
We do not deem it necessary to enter into a history of Mr.
Stewart’s laudable and gigantic enterprise, as the press has exten-
Sively commented upon it. We assume that with his acknowl-
edged business taci, sagacity and capital, he has projected a
feasible, systematic undertaking which cannottail. Already he
has added to his original purchases, at very large advances upon
first prices. Land near his improvements has increased several
hundreds per cent., and: as his plans are developed the rise wil!
continue, untilland contiguous will. be increased almost incred-
ibly. Wesubmit tharif any class of tue community deserves to
ke benefitted by thatimmense outlay, it is the industrious and
prucént, Who Manage toseye something of their small income.
We have plaged the prices of OM Garden City Park upon a basis
of fair value for today, and we propose to receive $10 per month
from purchasers, so tyat they. cau buy one or more lots, accord-
ing to their means. Tig Jand is excellent, and has been under
cultivation, and is Jocated ia & well settled community.

AsMr. Stewart's operations progress this property will be large-
ly benefitted by them. Very mauy persons engaged during the
day in New York City, reside at a greater distance; and to those
who have work at home, this location being very healthful, pre-
sents An opportunity whereby they can live comfortably in a cozy
home at asuall cost.

SECOND DISTRIBUTION

OF

TEN DWELLINCS

AMONG THE

LOT OW NHFHES,

ON OCTOBER 30th, 1875.

NO EXTRA CHARGE
BUT ALL
FREE GIFTS TO OUR PATRONS.

~On last Christmas Eve we distributed among those who pur-
chased lots last season, ten newly built dwelliags; (the fortunate
possessors of which are named below and to whom we with plea-
sure refer), and to still further advance the interests of GARDEN
CITY PARK, we are now erecting ten more two story dwellings,
each containing five comfortable rooms, neatly finished inside
and well palnted outside, which, together with the lots they stand
on, designated on the Mup as follows: Lots Nos. 96, 195, 226, 306,
358, 398, 597, 642, 712, 884, are to be given as

PRESENTS TO PURCHASERS

who buy between May Wth to October 30th, 1875, and shall have
paid one quarter of tne amouut of their purchase money pre-
Vious to that date. Thus each purchaser will have an equal
chance with the others to receive a warranty deed for a house
and lot, and also will receive a warranty deed tor the lot orlois
he or she may liave purchased as expressed in the contract issued
attime of purchasing. By this plan each of our patrons receives
full value for their investment, and if they areawarded a House
and Lot in addition to what they pay for and receive, so much
the better for themselves. Each person selects one or more
lots as they may desire, and for each lot purcuased, a chance will
be had in the distribution. There will be

NO POSTPONEMENT
_anderany circumstances, but the plan will be carried out as stated
above. ‘To those who have never deali with us and are therefore
not familiar with our i0de of doing business, we give the follow-
ing report of our

DISTIBUTION OF DECEMBER 24, 1874.
(From N. Y. News of Dee. 29th.)
The Christmas Presents and who Got them.

The great distribution of dwelling-houses took place on Christ-
mas Eve, aceording to previous annouucement, at Real Estate
Hall, 355 Third Avenue, with the followiug resuits, viz:

BE. H. Rowland, No. 95 Clermont Avenue, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No. 2,505.

W. F. Meehan, No. 29 Henry Street, N. Y., drew house and lot

 

 

 

0. 2,259. :

James McAnespie, No. 158 West Fifty-third Street, N. Y., drew
house ond iot No. 2,350. ie

H. H. Heinrich, No. 8 John Street, N. ¥., drew house and lot
No. 2,197.

Miss M. Sheridan, No. 496 First Avenue, N. Y., drew house and
lot No 2,238.

James M. Putnam, No. 61 Carondelet Street, New Orleans, drew
house aud lot No. 2,113. f

Miss M. Maloney, No. 68 Remson Street, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No, 2,178. ,

Joseph Lawson, No. 140 West One Hundred and Twenty fourth
Street, N. Y., drew_house and lot No. 2,417.

F. ear No. 182 High Street, Brookiyn, drew house and lot
No. 2,066.

R. S. Seabery, No. 48 East Fourteenth Street, N. Y., drew house
and lot No. 2,006,

PRICES OF THE LOTS.

 

 

Ch SIR ORE BPs clon ona eh® Snobheser- on $120 each $10 Monthly.

On Stewart Avenue...................6 Bak | ell once | dies

‘On Conteee Myemeer es food 2. a Ske 120 .,, 10 a)

On First Street and First Place........... 10-5) 10 ty

Db Sebond Biveet, os 62. gael dds 130... 55 Le

Pik iE I kn ce wate pie se conan ae i a

On Fourth Sireet...........- hatvies Pena 100, 10 oy

COD Wee I si rks fo sh nc ad swine rie asese Oe ee,

On Sixth Street......... wy 10 3

Os Seventy BirOet, du). ane. -- gig n cs sodue wap oft a ae Bk) ies
Plois at Special Terms. ALL CORNER LOTS

  

ARE FIFTY DULLAKRS EXTRA,
® On Jericho Boulevard...........2......., $250 each $10 Monthly
Od “Broaweeawses ius caihy bei 35 Git nniesswies S00 11 45 10 a
On Dennis Street...... Ae awe ee ean Lae mn: 10 of
On Railroad, Avenue. ..... 0.2 cece eee poe i, YR Sy
On Denton Avenne, and First, Second,
Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth anf mo“ 10 —
Seventh Avenues,

Ten Per Cent. Discount when allis paid at time
of Purchase.

Send Stamp for Map and full Paruculars.

SPECIAL NOTICE.
Garden City Park Lots are conveyed in every instance by full
covenant warranty deeds (free of all incumbrances) by the under-
signed, who owns the property remaining unsold.

BENJ. W. HITCHCOCK,

MUSIC PUBLISHER,
STORE, 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK, COR. TWENTY-
w32 9t SIXTH STREET.

 

Scovill’s Blood and Liver Syrup.—Scrofula,
Rheumatism, Pimpies, Gout, and Kidney Disorders, and all dis-
tempers which affect the external portiens of the body indicate
an unclean condition of the venous fluid. SCOVILL’S BLOOD AND
ALIVER SYRUP nay be relied upon as a swift und certain remedy.
Zhe concentrated extracts of Sarsaparilla, Stillingia, and other
invaluable antiseptic and alterative plants and herbs torm the
Dasis of this poweriul remedy. Price $1 per bottle.

Edey's Carbolic Troches,—Among the various
remedies for coughs, none enjoy a higher reputation than EpEy’s
CARBOLIC TROCHES. This fact places them above the ordinary
list ot medicinal preparatious. For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, and
as a disinfectant and preventive against eontagious diseases they
are aspecific. Invaluable to Singers and public speakers. Sold

everywhere. Price 25 cents per box.

 

 

 

The Great American Consumption Remedy.
Dr. WM. HALL’s BALSAM FOR THE LUNGS cures the worst cases
of Coughs, Colds, and all the diseases ot the Lungs, Throat and
Chest. For Whooping Cough and Croup it is a certain specific.
The most obstinate cases surely yield to Hall’s Baisam, when
used perseveringly. Stauds at the head of all cough preparations,
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Dr. Mott’s Liver Pills,—It ts easy enough to
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About Bitters,—At ceriain periods of life a tonic
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the organs of digestion while giving temporary relief. To obviate
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Dr. GREENE propane the OXYGHNATED BITTERS, a sure cure for
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Henry’s Carbolic Salve,—Tiis article is so well
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| dients to prodace a salve that may be relied upon. The genuine
' only guaranteed., See that it bears the fac-simile signature and
. private propre, stamp of John F. Henry, Sold everywhere.
_ Price 25 cents per box.

Townsley’s Toothache Anodyne.—a sure cure.

| S10 T O 8500 leads to fortune.

A 72 4
* neyi explaining everything, and copy of the WALL STRE T
és {

na SUNT FREE

 

 

invested in Wall street often

1), JOHN HICKLING & CO.,

 

HATRED AND LOVE AS SHOWN IN NATURE,

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE,

 

 

It is but folly or a very fear Hix FF
That makes us fly to history’s doubtful sage,
Wrapt in his own proud, partial self, when here
The past is stamped on nature’s ample page,
Over whose full line the bigot’s cloudy rage
Rolls vainly; even while he looks, some cave
Waning with sunlight, but reflects the cage
Of his own heart where passion’s torrents rave,
And deepest darkness broods on beauty’s gelid grave.

Hast fle not shown it dark and horrent pass ?
Who With a loving heart can gaze on thee
Walled ȴ the scowling precipice ? Alas!
There is a terror in the very tree
That shakes his savage arms menacingly
At the lone wanderer who starts in fear
Amid the darkness that must always be
Spread like a pall upon that region drear,
And sees for murder’s blow prepared the victim's bier

But thou wast gentle, Indiana’s glen,
Where Summer’s gurland of selectest flowers
Made sacred covert from the eyes of men,
And birds were choiring in the fragrant bowers,
Swathed with glad moonlight, and the rapturous hours
Brought joy and thee, young, beautiful Aveline!
O, how afar from restless marts and towers
Would I thy radiance in white roses twine,
Then sing, with arms clasped round my heart’s own holiest
shrine!

 

> @+-——_—_-—

LOVE
WORKS WONDERS!

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

MisS Hastings laid down the pewspaper, with a quick
glauce of pleased surprise.

“Tam glad that Il caine to Omberleigh,*’ she said. ‘Im-
agine, Pauline, whois here. You have heard me speak
of the St. Lawrences. I educated Laura St. Lawrence,
and she married well and went to India. Her husband
holds avery high appointment there. Lady St. Lawrence
is here with her son, Sir Vane. I ain so pleased.’

“Aud lam pleased for you,’’ respouded Pauline, with
the new gentieness that sat so Well upon her.

“I must go and see theim,’’ continued Miss Hastings.
“They are staying at Sea View. We cau svon find out
where Sea View is.”

“St. Lawrence!” said Pauline, musingly; “I like the
name; iv has a pleasant suund.”

“They are noble people who bear it,’’ observed Miss
Flastings. ‘Lady St. Lawrence was always my ideal of a
thoroughbred Euglish gentiewoman, 1 never heard low
it was, but the greater part of their fortune was lost when
Sir Arthur died. He leit but this one son, Vane; and, al-
though he has the title, he has but liltie lo support it
with. i Kuow their family estates were all suld. Lacy
St. Lawrence has a small fortune of her own; but it is not
much.”?

Again Pauline repeated the name to hersel[—“Vane St.
Lawrence!l’’—thinking there was a sound as of half-for-
gotten music init. That was a@ bume that would have
suiteu the face she had walclied ou the sands.

‘Vane St. Lawrence!’

Uncousciously to herself she had suid the words aleud.
Miss Hastings looked up quickly.

“Did you speak, my deur??? she asked; and Pauline
wondered to find ler face suddenly grow warm with a
burning blush.

 

 

“| think,’? said Miss Hastings, presently, ‘‘Lhat I shouid
like to visit them at once. Lady St. Lawrence may not
be slayibg long, and I should never forgive myself if E
were to miss her. Will you come will me, Pauline ?”?

“Yes, willingly.”

She was ready to go anywhere, to do anytuing, with
that great, wouderlul love, that great, grand calm, fiiling
her heart aud soul. -

For the first time the sight of her own magnificent love-
liness pleased her.

“IT may see him again,’? she thonght to herself with
almost childlike simplicity, ‘‘and i should like him to
think of me.?’”

She took mere pains than she had ever taken before;
and Ute picturesque taste that was part of her character
greatly assisted her. Her dress was of purple silk, plain,
rich, aud graceful; her hat, with ils drooping purple
piume, looked like a crown on the beautiful head. Ste
could no more help looking royal and queenly than she
could help tie color of lier eyes and hair. Miss Hastings
looked up wil a smile of surprise, the proud face was so
wonderfully beautiful—the light that never yet slioue on
land or sea was Shiuing on it.

“Why Pauline,’? she said, laughing, “Lady St. Law-
rence Will Link lam taking the Queeu, of Sheba in dis-
guise! What strange Chauge is coming over you, child?”

What indeed? Was it the shadow of the love that was
(o redeem her—to work wonders iu her eharacter? Wus
it the light that came from the haH-awakening soul?
Wiser women than good, kindly, siuple-hearted Miss
Hastings might have been puzzled.

They were not long in finding Sea View—a pretty villa
a little way out of Lhe Lown, Sianding at the foot of a cliff,
surrounded by trees and flowers—one of the prettiest
spots 1n Omberleigh. They were shown into the drawing-
room, the windows of wiich commanded a magnificent
view of the sea.

Before they lad been there many minutes there entered
a fair, gentle, gracious lady, whose eyes filied with tears
as slie greeted Miss Hastings waruily.

“You are like a spirit from the: past,” she said.
see Luura a litle cuild again asllook at you.
could have pleased me SO much as seeing you.””

Then she looked admiringly at the beautiful girl by her
side. Miss Hastings introduced ler.

“Miss - Darrell,’ she said, ‘it seems strange that I
should meet you. My husbaud in his youth Knew Sir
Oswald well.’

Lady St. Lawrence was just what Miss Hastings had
described her—a thoroughly higu-bred Euglish lady. In
figure she was tail and upright; her face had been beau-
tiful in its youth, and was even now Comely and fair; the
luxuriant brown hair was streaked here und there with
silver. She wore adress of ricli brocade, with some be-
coming arrangement of flowers and lace on her head; she
was Charming in lier ladylike simplicity and gentieness.
Pauline, kuowing that the two ladies would have much to
talk about, asked permission lo amuse herself with some
books she saw upon the tabie.

“They beloug to my son,” said Lady St. Lawrence, with
a smile.

Tuere were Tennyson, Keats, and Byron, and wrilten
inside of each, im a bold clear hand, was the nanie **Vane
St. Lawrence.”? Paulipe lost herself again in the sweet
story of Elaine, from which she was aroused at intervals
by the repetition of the words—*-My son Vane.”

She could not help heariug some part of Lady St. Law-
rence’s confidential communication, and it was to the
effect how deeply she deplored the blindness of her son,
who might marry iis cousin Lillitth Davenant, one of the
wealthiest heiresses iu Hugluud. Miss Hastings was all
kindly sympathy.

“It would be such an excellent thing for him,’ con-
tinued Lady St. Lawrence; ‘and Lillith is a very nice girl.
But itis useless counseliug him; Vane is like his fatuer.
Sir Arthur, you know, always would have his own way.’?

Pauline began to jeel interested in this Vane St. Law-
rence, wlio refused tO larry tle wealthy heiress because
tie did not love her.”

‘He niust be somewhat like me,’’ she said to herself
with a sinile.

Then the conversation changed, and Lady St. Lawrence
began to speak of her daughter Luura aud her children.
Pauline returned to Elaine, aud svon forgot everything
else,

She was aroused by a slight stir.
Lawrence say:

“My dear Vane, how you startled mel”

Looking up, she saw before her the same face that had
engrossed her thoughts and fancy!

Sie waS nearer to it now, and could see more plainly
the exquisite refinement of the beautiful mouth, the clear,
ardent expression of the bold, frank eyes, the gracious
lines of the Clustering hair. Her heart seemed aimost to
stund still—it was though she lad suddeuly been brought
lace LO face wilh a phantom,

He was bending over Lady St. Lawrence, talking eager-
ly to her—he was greeting Miss Hastings with much
warmth and cordiality. Pauline had time to recover her-
self before Lady St. Lawrence remembered her. She had
time to still the wild beating of her heart—to steady her
trembling lips—but the flush was still on her beautiful
face aud the light in her eyes when he came up to her.

Lady St. Lawrence spoke, but the words sounded to
Pauline as though they came from afar off; yet they were
very simple.

‘*Miss Darrell,’ she said, ‘‘let me introduce my son to

ou.”’

Then she went back to Miss Hastings, eager to renew
the conversation interrupted by the eutrance of her gon.

What did Sir Vane see iu those dark eyes that held hiin
captive? What was looking at him through that most
beautiful face? What was it that seemed to draw his
heart aud soul from him, never to become his own again?
To any other strauger lhe would have spoken indifferent
words of greeting aud welcome; to this dark-eyed girl
he could say nothing. When souis have spoken, lips huve
uot Inuch to say.

They were both silent forsome minutes; and then Sir
Vane tried to recover himself, What had happened to
him? What strange magic influence was upon him? Ten
minutes since, lie had entered that room heart-whole,
fancy-free, with laughter on his lips, and no thougit of
coming fate. Ten minutes had worked wonders of
change; he was standing now in a kind of trance, looking
into the grand depths of those dark eyes wherein he had
lost himself, They said but few words; the calm and
silence that fell over (hem during that first interval was
uot to be broken; it was more eloquent than words, He
sat down by her side; she still held the book open in her
hands. He glanced at it.

“‘Blaine,”’ he said, ‘‘do you like that story ?””

She told him ‘Yes,”? and, taking the book from her
hands, he read the noble words wherein Sir Lancelot tells
the Lily Maid how he will dower her when she weds some

“IT can
Nothing

She heard Lady St.

 

 

 

 

 

Was ita dream that she should sit there listening to
those words from his lips—she had fancied him Sir Lance-
lot without stain, and herself Elaine? There was a sense
of unreality about ite she would not have been surprised
at any moment to awake and find herself in the pretty
drawing-room at Marine Terrace—all this beautiful fairy
tale a dream—only a dream. The musical voice ceased at
last; and it was to her as though some charm had been
broken. ae :

“Do you Jike poetry, Miss Datreil?* inquired Sir Vane.

“Yes,"? she replied; ‘it seems to me part of myself. 1
cannot explain clearly what I mean, but when I hearsuch
grand thoughts read, or when I read them for myself, it
is to me as though they were my own.”

‘I understand,’? he responded—‘‘indeed [ believe that
I should understand anything you said. I could almost
fancy that I had lived before, and had kuown you in
another life.”?

Then Lady St. Lawrence said something about Sea View,
and they left fairly-land for a more commonplace spliere

of existence, worst SR
CHAPTER XXXVI. j

ae

 

“If anything éaii tedecm her, it will be love.) Sod Miss
Hastings had said of Paullié log months ago, when she
had first seen the grand nature Watped and soured by dis-
appointment, shadowed. by the fierce desire of revenge.
Now she was to see the fulfillment of hef words.

_ With a nature like Pauline’s, love was no ordinary pas-
Sion; all the romance, the fervor, the poetry of her heart and
soul were aroused. Her love took her out of herself,
transformed and transfigured her, softened and beautified
her, She was not of those wiio could love moderately,
and, if one attachment was not Satisfactory, take refuge
in another, For such as®her there was but one love, and
it would make or mar her life.

Had Sir Vane St. Lawrence been merely a handsome
man she would never have cared for him; but his soul aud
mlud had mastered her. He was a noble gentleman,
princely in his tastes and culture, geuerous, pure, gifted
With an intellect magnificent in self, and cultivated to
the highest degree of perfection. ‘Fhe inuate nobility of
his character at once influeuced hers She acknowledged
its Superiority; she bowed her heart and soul before it,
proud of the very chains that bound her.

How smail and insignificant everything else now ap-
peared! Even the loss o! Darreil Court seemed trifting to
her. Life had suddenly assumed another agpect. She
was in an unknowa land; she was happy beyond every-
thing that she had ever conceived or imagines it possi-
ble to be. If was a quiet, subdued happiness, ene that
was dissolving her pride rapidly as the sunshiue dissolves
snow—happiuess that was rounding off the angies of her
character, that was taking away scorn and defiance, and
bringing sweet and gracious huniility, womanly grace
and tenderness in their stead.

While Sir Vane was studying her as the most difficult
problem he had ever met with, he heard from Miss Hast-
ings the story of her life. He couk} wnoderstand how the
innate strength and truth of the girs characier had re-
belled agaiust poiite insincerities and conventional
untruth-; le coutd understand that a-seul so gifted, pure,
and eager Could find no resting-place and no delight; he’
could understand, too, how the stately old. baronet, the
genUleman of the eld school, had been firrghtened at his
niece’s originality, and scared by her uneonipromising
love of tiruth. ;

Miss Uastings, whose favorite theme in Pauline’s ab-
seuce was praise of her, had told both mother aud son the
story Of S:v Oswaid’s project and its failure—how Pauline
would have beeu mistress of Darrell Court and ail her
uncle’s imimeuse Wealth if ske would but have compro-
niised inatters and have married. Aubrey Langton.

“Langton? questioned Sir Vane. ‘i know him—that
is, l have heard of him; but I c2unot remember anything
more than that he is a great 7oue, and a man whose word
is never to be beheved.”

“Then my pwpil was right iu her estimate of his charac-
ter,’? said Miss Hastings. “She seemed to guess it by jn-
Stiuct. She always treated him withthe ulmoust coutempt
and scorn. I have often spoken to her about it.”

**You may rely upon it, Miss Hastings, that the instinet
of a good woman, iu the opimion she forms of men, is
never wrong,’’? observed Sir Vane, gravely; and then he
tarned to Lady St. Lawrence wiih the sweet smile his face
always Wore for her.

“Mother,” he said, gently, “after hearing of such hero-
ism as that, you must not be angry about Lillith Dave-
nané again.”

‘“‘Fhat is a very different matter,’ opposed Lady St.
Lawrence; but it seemed to hersonu very much the same
kind of thing.

Before he had known Pauline long he was net ashamed
to own to himself that he loved her far better than ali the
world beside—that life for him, unless she would share it,
was all blank and hopeless. Sue was to him as part of
his Own soul, the ceuter of his existence; he knew she
was beautiful beyoud most women, he believed her nobier
and truer than most women had everbeen. His faith in
her was implicit; he loved her as only noble men are ca-
pable of loving.

As time passed on his influence o¥er her begame un-
bounded. Quite unconscionsly to herself she worshiped
him; unconsciously to herself ier thoughts, her ideas, all
took their eoloring from his. She whohad delighted-in
cynicism, whose beautiful lips had uttered such hard and
cruel words, now took from him a broader, Clearer, kinder
view of mankind and human pature. If at times the old
habit was too strong for her, and some biting sarcasm
would fall from her, some cold €ynical snegr, he would re-
prove her quite fearlessly.

“You are wrong, Miss Darrell—quite wrong,” he would
say. ‘The noblest men have not been those who sneered
at their fellow-men, but those who have done their best to
aid them. There is little nobility in a deriding spirit.’

Aud then her face would flush, her lips quiver, her eyes
take the grieved expression of a child who has been hurt.

“Can I heip it,” she would say, ‘‘when-1 hear what is
faise ?°?

“Your ridicule will not remedy it,’ he would reply.
“You must take a broader, more kindly view of matters,
You think Mrs. Leigh deceitful, Mrs. Vernon worldly; but,
my dear Miss Darrell, do you remember this, thatin every
woman and man there is something geod, something to
be admired, some grand or noble quality? It may be
half-hidden by faults, but itis there, and for the sake of
the good we must tolerate the bad. -No one is: all bad,
Men and women are, after all, created by God; and there
is some trace of the Divine image left in every one.”’

This was a new and startling theory to the girl who had
looked down with contempt not unmixed with seorn on
her felluw-creatures—judging them by a standard to
which few ever attain.

‘And you really believe there is something good in every
one ?’? she asked.

“Something not merely good, but noble. My secret con-
viction is that in every soul thereis the germ of something
noble, even though circumstances may Lever Call it forth.
As you grow older and see more of the world, you will
know that lam right.”

“J believe you!’ she cried, eagerly.
every word you say!”

Her face flushed at the warmth of her words,

“You do me justice,” he said. “I have faults by the
Million, but waut of sincerity is not among them.’?

So, little by little, love redeemed Pauline, took away
her faults, and placed virtues in their stead. It was al-
most marvelous to note how all Sweet, womanly graces
came to her, how the proud face Ccieared and grew tender,
how pride died from the dark eyes, and a giorious love-
light came in its stead, how she became patient and gen-
tle, considerate and thoughtful, always anxious to avoid
giving pain to others It would have been difficult for
any one to recognize the brilliant, willful Pauline Darrell
in the loving, quiet, thoughtful girl whom love haa trans-
formed into something unlike herself.

There came a new world to her, a new life. Instead of
problems difficult to solve, life became full of sweet and
gracious harmonies, full of the very warmth and light of
Heaven, full of unutterable beauty and happiness; her
soul reveled in it, her heart was filled with it.

All the poetry, the romance, had come true—nay, more
than true. Her girlish dreams had not shown her sueh
liappiness as that which dawned upon her now. She had
dove what she had always said she should do—recognized
her superior, and yielded full reverence to him. If any-
thing had happened to disenchant her, if it had been pos-
sible for her to find herself mistaken iu him, the sun of
the girl’s life would have set forever, would have gone
down in utter darkness, leaving her without hope.

This beautiful love-idyll did not remain a secret Jong;
perhaps those most interrested were the last to see it.
Miss Hastings, however, liad watched its progress, thank.
ful that her prophecy about her favorite was to come true.
Later on Lady St. Lawrence saw it, and, though she could
not help mourning over Lillith Davenant’s fortune, she
owned that Pauline Darrell was the most beautiful, the
most noble, the most accomplished girl she had ever met.
She had a moderate fortune, too; mot much, it was true;
yet it was better than nothing.

“And, if dear Vane has made up his mind,” said the
lady, meekly, “‘it will, of course, be quite useless for me to
interfere.”

Sir Vane and Pauline were always together; but hith-
erto no word of love had been spoken between them.
Sir Vane always went to Marine Terrace the first thing in
the morning; he liked to see tle beautiful face that had
all the bloom and freshness of a flower. He always con-
trived to make such arrangements as would insure that
Pauline and he spent the morning together. The after-
noon was a privileged time; it was devoted by the elder
ladies, who were both invalids, torest. During that in-
terval Sir Vane read to Pauline, or they sat under the
shadow of the great cliffs, talking until the two souls were
so firmly knit that they could never be severed again. In
the eveuing they walked on the sands, and the waves
sang to them of love that was immorial, of hope that
would never die—sang of the sweet story that would nev-
er grow old,

“T always believe

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Pauline could have passed her life in the happy dream
that was come to her; she did not go beyond it—the gold-
en present was enough for her. The fall, happy, glorious
life that beatin her heart and thrilled in her veius ceuld
surely never be more gladsone. She loved aud was be-
loved, and her iover was a king among men—a noble, true-
hearted gentleman, the very ideal of thatof which she
had altvays dreamed; she did not wish for any change.
The sunrise was blessed because it brought him to her;
the suuset was as dear, for it gave her time to dream of
him. She had a secret longing that this might go on for-
ever; she hada shy fearand almost childlike dread of
words that must: be spoken, seeing that, let them be said
when they would, they must bring a great change into
her life.

Jn this she was unlike Sir Vane; the prize he hoped to
win seemed to him so’ beautiful, so valuable, that he was

Fand 1 will love you—] will cherish you—I will spend my

‘light on the seas: the western wind sighed‘ around them.

pand sunny day, his love was not to meet a cruel death
‘His voice was se full ef this fear when he-spoke again

 

im hourly dread lest others should step in and try to. take
it from him—lest by some mischance he should lose rom

He understood the girlish shyness and sweet fear that
had changed the queenly woman intoa timid girj; he
Joved her all the more for it, and he was determined to
win her if she was to be won. Perhaps she read that de-
termination in his manner, for of late she had avuided
him. She remained with Miss Hastings, and, when that
refuge was denied her, she sought Lady St. Lawrence;
but nothing could shield her long.

‘Miss Darrell,’? said Sir Vane, one afternoon, “1 have a
poem that I want fo read to you,”

She was seated on a low stool at Lady St. Lawrence’s
feet, her beautifal face flushing at his words, her eyes
drooping with shy, sweet pleasure that was almost fear.

“Will you notread it to me now, and here?’ she
asked.

“No; it must be read by the sea. Itis like asong, and
the rush of the waves is the accompaniment. Miss Has-
lungs, if you have brought up your pupil with any notion
of obedience, inforce it now, please. Tell Miss Darrell to
put on her hat and come down to'the shore.”

Miss Hastings smiled. :

“You are too old now, Pauline, to be dictated to in such
matters,’? said Miss Hastings; “but if Sir Vane wishes

you. to go out, there 13 ho reason why you should not
oimige hit.?? ;
oy St. Lawrence laid her hand on the beautiful head.

“My on has few pleasures,” she said; “give him this
one.”? fiat ee Sot hen anything like

Pauline cOMplied: Timé nal Raye r a iit of rebsuiont
a command 4a itistantiy raise 5? had fallen upon
within her; but ii tis Clearer lights” though hersoul
her she saw things so differently; it was», P
had eyes and they were just opened, ~

She rose and put on the pretty, plumed haf Wha
Hastings brought for her; she drew an Indian shaw? &,
her shoulders, She never once looked at Sir- Vane,

“Your goodness is not only an act of charity,’ he said
“but it is also a case in which virtue will be its own re-
ward. You have no notion how beautifully the sun is
shining on the sea.’? .

So they went out together, and Lady St. Lawrence
Jooked after them with a sigh.

“She isa most beautiful girl, certainly, and I admire
her. Jf she only had Lilith Davenant’s money)?!

Sir Vane and Pauline walked in silence @own to the
shore, and then the former turned to his companion.

‘Miss Darrell,” he said, ‘will you tell me why you were
not willing to come out with me—why you have avoided
me and turned the hight of your beautiful face from me?”

Her face flushed, and her heart beat, but she made no
answer.

“I have borne my impatience well for the last three
days,” he said; “now I must speak to you, for I can bear
it uo longer, Pauline. Oh, do not turn away from mel I
love you, and 1 want you to be my wife—my wife, darling;

whole life in working for you. J} have no hope so great,
so sweet, So dear, as the hope of winning you.”?

She made him no answer. Yet her silence was more
eloquent than words.

“It seems a strange thing to say, but, Pauline, I joved
you the first moment I saw you. Du you remember, Jove ?
You were sitting with one ef my books in your hand, and
the justant my eyes fell upon yeur beautHul face a great
calm eame’over me. | could not describe it; I felt that in
that minute my life was completed. My whole heart went
out to you, and I kucw, whether you ever learned to care
for me ©r not, that you were the only Womaw in all the
world for me.??

She listened witha happy smile playing reund her
beautiful lips; ey dark eyes drooping,-her flower-like face
flushed amu: turued from his.

“You are my fate—my destiny! Ah! if you love me,
Pauline—if you wilt only love me, 1 shall not have lived
in vain! Your love would incite me to win name and
fame—not for inyself, but for you. Your Jove would erown
& King—whaé would jt not do for me? urn your face to
me, Pauline? You are not angry? Surely great love
wins great loye—-and there could be no leve greater than
nine.

Still the beautiful face was averted, There was the sun-

A great fear came over him. Surely, on this most faic

that she, in surprise, turned and looked at him.

“Pauline,” he cried,.‘tyou cannot mean to be cruel to
Ine. Iam no coward, but I would rather face’death than:
your rejection.”

Then it was that their eyes met; and that whieh he saw
in hers was a revelation to him. Tne next moment he
had clasped her to his heart, and was pouring out a tor-
rent of passionate words—such words, so tender, so lov-
ing, so full of passion and hope, that her face grew pale
as she hstened, and the veautiful figure trembled.

“I have frightened: you, my darling, he said, suddenly.
“Ahf do forgive me. Il was half mad with joy. You do
not know how I have longed to tell you this, yet feared—J
Knew not what—you seemed'so far above me, sweet. See,
you are trembling now! Iam ascruel asaman who
catches in-his hands a white deve that he has tamed, and
hurts it by his grasp. Sit\dowm here and rest, while I tell
you over and over again,.in every fashion, in every way,
iow I love you.’

The sun never shone wpon-happier Jovers than those.
The golden doors of Love’s paradise were open to them.

“T never knew until now,’ said Vane, “how beautiful
life is, Why, Pauline, love is the very center of it; it is
not money or rank—it ig love that makes life. Only to
think, my darling, that you and E may spend every hour
of it together.”’

She raised her eyes to the fair, calm heavens, and in-
finite happiness filled her soul to overfiowing; a deep, si-
leut prayer ascended unspoken from. her heart.

Suddenly she sprang from his side with a startled cry.

“Ob, Vane!’ she said, with outstretched hands, ‘I had
forgotten that Tam unworthy... Ll cam never marry you!”

He saw such wild despair in her face, such. sudden,
keen anguish, that he was half startled; and, kneeling by
her side, he asked:

“Why, my darling? Tell me why. You, Pauline,’ he
cried—*‘you not worthy of me! My darling, what fancy is
it—what foolish idea—what freak ef the imagination ?
You are the noblest, the truest, the dearest woman in the
whole wide world! Pauline, why are you weeping so?
My darling, trust me—tell me.?

She had siirank shuddering from him, and had buried
her face in her hands; deep, bitter sebs came from her
lips; there was the very eloguence of despair in her atti-
tude.

Pauline,” said her lover, ‘‘you cannot shake my faith
in you; you cannot make me think you have done wrong;
but will you try, sweet, to tell me what it is ?”’

He never forgot the despairing face raised to his, the
shadow of such unutterable sorrow in she dark eyes, the
quivering of the pale lips, the tears that rained duwn her
fuce—it was Such a Change from the radiant, happy girl of
but a few minutes ago that he could hardly believe it was
the same Pauline. He bent over her as though he would
fain kiss away the fast falling tears;.but she shrank from
him.

“Do not touch me, Vane!’ she eried; ‘I am not wor-
thy. I had forgotten; in the happiness of loving you,
and knowing that 1 was beloved, I. lad forgotten it—my
own deed has dishonored me! We must part, for lam
not worthy of you.”

He took both her hands in his own, and his influence
over her was so great that even in that hour she obeyed
him implicitly, as though she had been a child.

“You must let me judge, Pauline,’ he said, gently.
“You are mine by right of the promise you gave mea few
minutes since—the promise to be thy wile; (hat makes
you mine—no one Can release you from it. By virtue of
that promise you must trust ine, and tell me what you
have done,”

Hie saw that there was a desperate struggle in her mind
—a struggle between the pride that bade her rise in rebel-
lion and Jeave him with her secret uutold, and the love
that, bringing with it sweet and gracious hamility,
prompted her to confess all to him.. He watched her with
loving eyes; as that struggle ended, so wéuld her life take
its sliape.

He saw the dark eyes grow soft with good thoughts; he
saw the silent, proud defiance die out of the beautiful
lace; the lips quivered, sweet lhuuwility seemed to fall over
her and infold her.

“T have done a cruei deed, Vane,’ she said—‘‘an act of
vengeance that cuts me off from the roll of noble women,
and dishonors me,”?

Still keeping his hold of the white hand, le said:

“Tell me what it was—I can judge far better than
you.”’

It seemed to her fevered fancy that the song of the
waves died away, as though they were listening; thatthe
wind fell with a low sigh, and the birds ceased their song
—a silence that was almost terrible fell around her—the
blue sky seemed nearer to her.

“Speak tome, Vane!’ she cried; ‘I ana frightened!”?

He drew her nearer to him.

“Itis only fancy, my darling. When one has anything
weighty to say, it seems as though earth and sky were
listening. Look at me, thluk of me, aud tell me all.”

(t0 BE CONTINUED)
——- > @-4

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

“Rose Orville’? writes: “How is. it that you are able to
guarantee that your patterns of waists, polonaises, bas-
ques, etc, shall fit each person who merely sends you her
bust Measure? My mobtiier’s bust measures the same us
mine, aud yet her waist is two iuches the shorter. So, of
course, her pattern would net do for me, Would it not
be best to give size and leugih of waist and sleeves as
well as bust measure?!’ Should you ever visit New York
we would take you into the cutting and fitting rooms of
our large pattern establishmeut, and you could then see
and appreciate the magnitade of the business. You would
see there ‘‘models” of all ages and sizes upou Whom ile
patterns ure fitted. The niodels are the best proportioned
women and children that can be found, and uuless.a hidy
has some peculiarily or deformity, it is to be supposed
that if her bust measures 30 inches her waist will be about
two inches smaller, and about the length of a perfect
model’s waist. We can have patterns cut to fit any kind
of waist, by measure, but for ordered patterns to be pre-
pared to fit peculiar formis, we have to pay at least $1
for what we can get for 26 cts,-if the lady’s form is well
proportioned. In ordering patterus for boys and girls we
require both measures and ages, for often we find a gar-
meut fora full-grown girl of eight years of age, will be
even too large for a delicate girl of ten. In ordering
gloves, state whether your hand is broad or slender or if
your fingers are long, short, or of medium length, for
how gloves are of all grades of sizes, shoes too
of the same length. are made upou broad or
narrow lasts, for fleshy or slim feet. Yes,
your kat can be utilized for summer wear. Put a
bias fold of black velvet on the under side of the rim of

 

‘*h Miss
ver

velvet. Above this have a garland or wild flowers, and

on the side of your hat underneath the rim also place a

few sprays of clusters of the flowers. This style is very be-

coming to young ladies. Wear the hat so that at least an

inch of the hair above the forehead will show. For over-

skirts, the plain aprons, or aprons with drapery backs are

used. When the weather is very warm, a basqgge or

jacket of the dress material will be sufficient without other

covering. The neckties you mention are still worn, but

the ends are a little wider than they used tu be. You can

get a good quality of mohair de bege how for 30, 35 and 40
cts. per yard.

“Mrs. Lizzie Smith.’’—The material of your dress is cer-
tainly very pretty, and we should think worth going to
the expense of drab silk for trimming. Navy bye will
serve just as well, and if you get the right shade, may look
more elegant and stylish than the drab. Yes, the black
silk shell trimming is still worn.

_ “FE, G. P.,”! Greenville, Conn.—Fourteen yards is a rather
scant pattern for skirt, oversKirt and basque, sifl you
may be able to get the suit out of that quantity of material
by using the patterns we will mention, and trimming with
de bege, a lighter shaGe than the brown in your dress.
“The skirt is 3,900, price 30 cents, overskirt, No. 3,952,
price 25 cents, basque No. 3,950, price 20 cents, will haud-
somely complete the suit. Justead of de bege, you can
trim with silk, if you care to go to the expense. Still we
hardly think your material worth any unnecessary expen-
diture, and de bege really trims very prettily. ,

“Maggie E..—Yes, we can get you the materials for
making wax flowers, and also a book treating upon the
subject.

“Mrs. Regenstein.”—The garnets, setin gold, ate how
very difficuit to find in the full sets. We can get the ear-
rings and pin (but not the bracelets,) for from $15 to $30.
‘They are really very haudsome, and not by any means un-
£ *anable.
128m. Adair.’—The dotted white muslin costs from

MIPe ‘© yard. The iron mesh grenadine is de-
20 fo 78 celitS pe. “tant, and comes in all qualities, cost-
cidedly the most &®> “d, The figured grenadines are

oT ‘7eQQ

; : ens .
eel ee ie ae een selling at from 25 cents w e- .
rl, aud are D. ” averskirt, but the basque should
yard. Do not line your. "COStitt, ane SR
be made over sik. You 1.27 use basque paitern No.
ead vita OM aia? 3 igig “aeceedingly pretty, made
3,950; price 20 cents, AS this is . Aecorat For
in such materials, with suitable  °OT! uni ive nd
skiri use No. 83,9887 price 30 cents, 1 1° jrORt lab LNCS
gores, and is shirred at five places, one “Ne 0) SUInnge
being at the center, owe at each seam, andi. © ene
two just far enough removed from the back edy ° gl
the ruflies that Cover the puffed drapery of the bac. * ;
back is im one breadth, eft on the fold of the goods, an
is puffed and gathered. Jtis very stylish when trimmeu
with Jace, or ii may be Cecorated with the material, put
om in knife plaitings, of gathered ruffles. In sending
your order to us, you have only to say what price we
must pay for the grenadine, aud we will do the best we
can for the amount named.

“L, C. Pickard.’’—We can get the navy blue broadeloth
for you to Cost anywhere from $2:50' te $6 per yard.

“L. P. M.,” Gainsville, @a., wants a handsome ward-
robe for a small amount of money.- Wel, we will be hap-
py lo serve her, and feel sure that we cam give satisfac-
tion. First, a summer silk already made, must cost frem
$35 to $75; the price depending upon tye quality of the
Silk, the manner of making, aud the trimming. The de
bege suits, poplins, mohairs, and other de beges, range
from $10 to $35'and $50. We can get you real good, use~
ful and pretty suils to cost from $15>to $25; suet as will do
for traveling- costumes or Church and visiting purposes,
Linen suits cost from $$ to $20; cambrics from $6 to $8,
and whitesuits from $5 to $20. We ean get your bonnet
or hat to cost from $7 to $12; shoes from $23i5to $7;
gloves from $% to $2.50 per pair; neck ties in al) coloss from
30 cents to $1.50 each.

“C. A. S.’—MNot very long ago a gentleman in the hotel
where we were staying for a few days, died a mos® Horri-
ble death from the effects of poison in hair dye. Tha:pre-
paration was used in the afiernoon, aud the next morning
tie died, after hours of agony. We cannot give any in-
formation upon such subjects, for we are’sure that dyes,
cosmetics, etc., are all more or Jess injurious.

‘Mrs, Flora D. A.’? Reno.—The Buffalo brand alpaca
will answer your psrpose; while itis haungsomely ftaish-
ed, it has not the silken luster of the beaver mohair or the
Purkish brilliantine, which make up as huadsomely as
rieh silks. Cost 75 cents per yard.

PS -t--

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Bae GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRDBUTORS.—

Stefano.—The iron crown of Italy is made of gold, having inside
wring of iron, said. to have been forged from the rails of the
cross of Christ. It was made by order of Theulinde for her hus-
} band, Agilult, king of the Longobards, A. D. 591. She presented
it-to the church at Monza, with the prevision that it was to be
kept by them. Charlemagne wasecrew 4d with it. au@ all the
emberors who were kings of Lombardy. Napoleon! at Milan;
on May 26, 1805, put it on his head, saying, “God hay miven it to
me;. woe to him who shall touch it,” He founded tre order of
the Iron Crown, which still continues. ‘he crown was removed
from Monza to Mantua, by the Austrians, April 23, 1859.
Splkekead.—1st. Trademarks, labels, envelopes, boxes and bot-
tles. ior goods are patented, not copyrighted. The term fomwhich
the patent may be granted is optional! with the patentee. The
rates are, for three and a half. years, $19; seven years, $15% four-
teem years, $30. Revenue stamps are not required on bottles of
ink ee 2d. We cannot say how much capital would be
required.

Nellie G. N.—“A Day Too Late” will be furnished for $1.48.
Ajox.—The German languuge is spoken in Germany and+Anus-
tria. Russia, Denmark, Sweden and Norway have distiuct lan-
guages of their own.
Speller,—The first attempt to publish a complete dictionary of
the werds of the English language was made by Nathan Bazley,
of London, itv 1726. It was the standard work until Dr. Jobnsen
issued his dictionary, in 1755.. During the previous ceutary
several smaller works had beem-issued, but the authors made no
pretensions to define other than what were considered the
“hardest words.”
Old Salt.—The school ship St. Marys is. under the supervision
of the Board of Education. Boys from other States or cities are
not eligible to scholarship.
Navigator.—We have seen no announcement of the launch of
such a vessel, and think you are mistaken.
Juno and Echo,—An illegitimate child does not inherit from its:
father, in case of the latter dying intestate. Provision must be
made for such by will. In most of the States the laws have been
so moditied as to allow an illegitimate child to inherit from its
ye as next of kin, and the mother may also inherit from tle
chiid.
“at Adeler”? is the: nom de plume of Chas’ Hebos
ar
L, L. G.—Address a letter to the office of the Western Uniom
Telegraph Cv., corner of Broadway and Dey street, this city.

S. J. C.—Embody the facts in ap affidavit, and torward it to the:
Second Auditor, ‘lreasury Department, Washington. D. C.
Pedesivian.—We cannot give the distances from city to city ex»
cept by raiiroad or river routes.

Soldier,—Audress a letter tothe “‘Land Commissioner, Ger~
eral Land Office, Washington, D. C.,” and you will receive tha»
information desired, with the necessary forms.

Wm. Watis.—See reply to “A Friend,” in No. 38,
Subscriber.—The original Trinity Church was built upon the site ~
of the present edifice, in 1696. It was twice enlarged, in 1735 and
in 1737. In-W76it was destroyed by fire, and a pew church, bear-
ing the Same name, was erected in 1790. In 1827 that buiiding
was torn:down, and the present Frinity commenced, which was
completedtin 1846. The building is 192 feet long and 80 feet wide.
The spire is 284 feet high—some authorities say 283 feet.

S. S. C.—We have no recollection. of the parody, although it
may have been published in the New YorRE WEEKLY. You will
proballly, find it in some one of the many Dutch burlesque song
books.

Robinson.—As you are of age, you cannot be compelled to work
at a trade you dislike.

No Name.—Jenny Lind was married in Boston, in February,
1852, to Otto Goldschmidt, a young pianist, who had accompanied
her in her professional tour through this country. She returned
soon after to Europe, and in 1858took up her permanent resi-
dence in London. She seldom appears in public, and then only
in aid of some charity. 2d. See “Etiquette Deyurtment.” 3d.
The address.of the Mammoth Monthly Reader is ut this office, 25
to 3l Rose street, P. O. Box 4896. The subscription price is 75 -
centsper. year. Send for a premium circular.

Sam S.-—-The word ‘‘fogy” is said to be derived from a body of
men who, at the end of the last century, existed in Edinburgh
Castle, ané were called “Fogies.”” They were old men, dressed
in ved Coats.with green facings, and eocked hats, and were a
sort of invalid company, who performed various trivial duties,
Others derive this word from the Swedish, meaning bailiff.. Oth-
ers, again,, derive it from ‘‘folk.”’

Anxious Inquirer.—If the facts are as you have stated. there is
no cause for anxiety on your part. Be more curefui in the
future, and you will not be placed in such ai awkward position.
Coke.—The seat of the lord chancellor of England in the House
of Lords is called ‘‘woolsack,’’ it being a large, square bag of
wool, wuhout backs or arms, and covered with red cloth.

Jack and Gill.—Tempo is an ltahan word, meaning time. The
Spanish word of the same meaning is tiempo. Hit is the definite
article “the.”

John B.—The suggestion has already been acted upon, our de-
sign being to make the New Yow?x WKEKLY during the summer
months the sketch paper, par excellence, of the country. We
have accordingly seleceed the very best sketches of our leading
writers 1 the yarious styles, and shall publish each week all our
columns Will possibly admit,

Esculapius.—Cupping, a8 a means of blood-letting, is scarcely,
if ever, employed at the present day. The operatson was per-
formed by scaritying the skin with a lancet, and a glass. cup, in
which the air has been rarefied by Name, was immediately applie
to it, when the bloou flowed into the cup. The Operation was.
well known to the ancients, and was quite common in the early
part of the present century.

Reader,—We do not know whether there was such an organiza-
tion at the place designated. For information is, regard to the
gentleman’s connection with the movement and the leader of it,
read the Beecher trial. If you are able to receucile the asser-
tions and cuntradictions, it is more than we can do.

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS.
In response to the queries of our correspoudents who send ne.
addresses, we give the prices at which the following articles may
be: procured through the New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agen-
cy: “The Banjo, and How to Play it,” 50 centa; Russell’s. “duve-
nile Speaker,” $1.25; “‘Webster’s Reciter,’”’ 50.cents.

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT,

W. J. E.—You would be very uawise to munifest the preference
you have for the gentleman’s society until he has expressed his
for youim words. He evidently likes you asa. friend, but the fact
that he visits another young lady on Sunday und Wednesdays
evenings indicates that his affectiams are engaged in that quar-
ter. As he does not call upon yom asa lover, you can hardly
dismiss him without making. it Sppaten’ that youhave looked
upon him as such, thereby acknowledging that you. have bestow-
ed your affections unsought, The proper course would be to. find
it couvenient to be “not at home’ when he calls. The remark
in convection with the acceptance of the rose was merely a
graceful compliment, to which neo significance stiould be attached,
No Name.—lt is customary, mniess you are well acquainted
with the lady, to ask her to dawce with you &).rougbh her partner.
If well acquainted you may 2 her for a certain danee, and she
may refer you to her partner, who may wish her hund for that
particular dance or set t

Constant Reader.—If tlie person calling at the hotel te see a
friend be a gentleman, he Slwould apply to the clerk, who will tell
him whether the friend is in,. It a lady she should go to the
ladies’ parlor and ring for a bell boy, who wiil obtain the infor-
mation from the clerk for her. The porter at the ladies’ entrance
will show her to the parlor.

Little Birdie.—You have no reason to suppose! that the gentle-
man is trifling with you becuuse you are uot formally engaged.
The tact that he has told you repeatedly that he loves you and&
bopes.at some future time to call you more than sweetheart, is im
itself a tacit acknowledgment of an engagement, and show
remove all doubts from your mind.

A. & @, R, T:-—If the lady will not accept your explanation, we
fail to see what

 

 

 

 

you can do nrore in the matter, unless you se-
eure undoubted proof that your handwtling was imitated. by
eng so-called friend. She may, after further deliber. tion, See
| how unreasonable her decision is, and acknowledge the injustice

 

 

 

~ M4 Bankers and Brokers, 7 BROADWAY, N. Y. worthy Kuight, but that le can do no more for her. which his whole soul was bent upon winning. your hat, trim around the crown with band or coll of | of ber decision,
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NEW YORK, AUGUST 2, 1875.

POPOL” PAP LAPRAAAIE™

Terms to Subscribers:

 

One month (postage free) 25c. | One Year—1 copy (postage Sree). $3
Two months,.......... -- 5c. OF 46 HOF SB BOD chnc.svccces
Three months,........+. 75¢. Bien #8 Saute gs's «os a
Four months.......... AE A i Paice tes ws raseaiig ais cian ces saat

 

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

 

 

SENSE AND NONSENSE.

There is a saying that no man is at all times wise, which
is as venerabie for its truth as for its antiquity, and we do
Dot hesitate to say that no man ought at all times to be
wise. Thatis, there are times when the powers of the
mind demand complete relaxation, and when a little non-
sense may be safely indulged in. The bow that is never
unstrung loses its elasticity, and the mind whose pewers
are kept up to the extremest tension, will break down
utterly at last. A certain clever German philesopher says:
“We wid lives without folly is not as wise as he
thinks himsell.”? Shakespeare says: “A man may
smile and smile, and be a villain; bat it is questionable
whether a man who can indoalge in a good hearty laugh,
is capable of committing & really base or criminal action.
A littie unadulterarea nonsense is both desirable and
praiseworthy, People Jaugh at and enjoy with more
gusto, vonsdusicul pranks, witty repartee, practical jokes,
and the like, than they do those sallies of wit which are
purely intellectual. This well-known fact is quite sul-
ficient authority for an occasional descent into the
pleasant realm of nonsense, joility and mirth. The
human mind, like the food we eat, requires ils proper
seasoning. Mirth is the sugar of life, and sweetens
our otherwise dullcup of existence. It makes us all
young again. Who does not delight in the oft repeated
jokes of the clown in tue ring ?—familiar as the alphabet,
yet never stale. Beware of the man who frowus upon
ap April fool hoax, or who gels angry over a Capital
‘seil,’? It doesn’t pay to shake your fist at Punch; he
will get the best of it, and laugh you out of countenance.
When we find one thus Inclined we are apt to “write him
down an ass.’?

“Sense” is very well in its proper time and place; but,
after all, it is a stupid, dull, and churlish quality, strug-
gling through life with a load upon its back, like Sinbad
and the Ola Man of the Sea; while nonsense trips over
the surface of things with gay and laughing aspect, enjoys
everything, makes friends everywhere, is caressed by the
world, and is not only itself happy but exudes happiness,
Sense and wisdom are well enough in their way, but they
should not absorb all our other faculties. Soloman, the
wisest of mortals, decided that everything was ‘‘mere
vanity ;? and Socrates, aiter a whole life devoted to wis-
dom, discovered that the extent of his knowledge taught
hima that he knew nothing.

aE AG 2

The New Hast River Bridge.

A second bridge, to connect New York cily with Long
island, is gout to be commenced, thanks to the enter-
prise of some public-spirited capitalists, who are deter-
mined to construct it without waiting for municipal aid.
The bridge is to cross Black well’s Island, and will be of
iron, the four piers resting on already existing solid rock
foundations. ‘The two spans are respectively 680 and 576
feet. The New York terminus will be at Third avenue and
Seventy-seventh street, and that on the Long Island side
on Astoria Heights, close to the Steinway property, This
bridge wiil connect all the Long Island railroads in Brook-
lyn and all the roads centering at the Forty-second Street
Depot. It is confidently believed that the bridge will be
completed aud ready for traffic withiu two years, This is
& graad undertaking, and of course the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, which has so long aud earnestly advocated
rapid transit, hails the euterprise as a boon to working-
men who desire to escape from the densely thronged tene-
ments of New York city,-and secure healthy habitations
within easy reach of their places of employment.

a

THE SLAVE OF A HORSE.

We are well aware that the individual who says a word
derogatory to “that most noble of animals,” the horse,
runs a risk of forfeiting the good opinion of the public.

It has been the fashion, from time immemorial, to laud
the horse to the skies, as the type of brute fidelity aud
nobility.

He is a favorite character in all the novels, and he per-
ferms wonderful feats of sagacity aud prowess, and
delivers heroes from deadly jeopardy, and rescues he-
roiues from haunted casules, und prison dungeons; and
carries pardons to innocent men who are standing on the
scaffold with the rope around their necks, and he generally
drops dead at the foot of the gallows, When the pardon is
presented to the attending officer.

Oh, we have ali read acres of printed eulogiums of the
horse, and we believe tue most of them, and we all ad-
Imire a good horse, and loug to be the owner of one.

But it is, nevertheless, a fact that the horse is the most
timid and silly in many things, of all created animals. A
turkey gobbler in full strat, a while stone by the wayside,
an old paper bag, a school girl in a while apron; a brokeu
bil of harness touching his seusitive heels, the report of a
rifle, the whistle of a locomotive—any of these trifies will
oftentimes frighten this nobie and faithful animal to such
an extent that he will run away and put in peril, often
destroy, the life of his kind and affectionate master, with-

 

 

 

* outa scruple of his equine conscience.

He will Kick his best friend, frequently on no more
provocation than a fly on his leg, or a touch of clothing
against him; and he will lay back his ears, and bile the
groom who cares for him, when out of temper or patience.
Will the ox do any of these things? Will the dog? Who-
ever heard tell of the Arabian camei’s kililng iis master?
Even that muen abused animal, the cat, wili not wound
the hand which feeds her, though her tail be stepped on,
and her kittens are flupg into the creek with bricks al-
tached,

What says the Scripture on the subject ?

“A horse ig a vain thing for safely, nor shall he save
any by his great strength.”’

Again, though in some respects a powerful animal, he
is a helpless one, and a delicate oue. If he sweats he
takes cold. If he strains a limb, he has spavin. If he
overeats, he is foundered. If his feet are Kept dry, he has
thrush. if he gets sand into his hoof, be has quittor, or
something of that nature; and if he eats clover (which he
likes better than anything else), he will slaver; and us he
approaches middle life he is liable to a catalogue of dis-
eases, the names of which would “floor” auy spelling
sciool from Maine to the Sandwich Islands.

The Cat and the dog groom themselves, and are always
tidy and ciean; the horse must have his dressing-inaid of
the male persuasion, in order to be presentable. It is as
mueh trouble to take care of a horse properly as itis to
bring up a colicky baby.

But jn spite of all these “onts” the horse is, and always
will be, a prime favorite. Treacherous and uastabie horses
there will be, and lives will be lost, and valuable bones
Mashed by them, tl the end of time; but the horse which
is fuithful and true is a prince of the blood! No matter
whether he can go in 2:16, or whether he drags his mas-
ter’s plow on some western prairie, or some barren New
England hillside—if he do his duty faithfully—all honor to
him. And in his old age may the gods grant hin rest in
green pastures and beside still waters, where gad-fiies
come not, and gnats do not molest!

Buta man who owns a horse of the nervous, flighty
kind, and has not a sufiicieucy of hard work to put him
to, is the slave of a horse.

Mr. Binks, one of our neighbors, is a case in point.

Two years ago he got rich in the tallow business, and he
bought a horse, and at that time his liberty and peace of
mind came toanend. Mr. Binks’ horse was fast—every-
bDody craves a fast horse—and, like all other horses, he
was ‘warranted sound and kind,’ and perfectly safe for
jadies and childrea. Mrs. Binks was delighted with the
idea of how she would drive by Mra, Jéiks, who was her
rival, aud who wore more ruffles on her dress than Mrs,
Binks sported, and whose husband owned a piebald nag
With a wall eye, and a pleten something after the pattern
of the dleacon’s one-hoss-shay,

Mr, Binks found that his constant attention was required
to keep his horse's spirits within the proper bounds. His
store had to be neglected, and hig business was at loose
euds generally, because of ‘that horse.’ Let any man
inquire for Binks and he was invariably informed that he
Was occupied with ‘that horse.’?

If Mrs. Binks wanted to clean Louse, and needed Binks
to move the stoves and nail dowk Carpsis, Binks couldn't
possibty »ccommodale her. He had ‘got to exercise Lhal
horse, iny dear. ?

He had always been @ regular church goer, aud kis pas-

 

tor had often pointed him out to the sinful young men in
his congregation as a model, a man to be copied after; but
now all that was changed. Binks couldn’t go to chureh
because if “that horse” stood in the stable over Sunday
without being driven, he would be unconquerably
“Kinky?! Monday morning.

Aud then the amount of dosing and doctoring ‘that
horse”? received! Mr. Binks became a regular veterinary
surgeon. He studied inuumerable books on horses, and
learned all the horsey phrases, and smelled of the stable
continually. “That horse’? must have his hoofs rubbed
in camphor and opium to ward off spavin, and he must
be walked about the yard for an hour or two every morn-
ing to prevent swelled legs, or apoplexy, and in conse-
quence Mr. Binks Could not attend to family prayers, and
the religious standing of the Binkses sank below zero,

Mr. Binks, also, suffered in the conjugal relatious. He
was so much engaged with “that horse’ that he couldiu’t
stop to kiss his wife properly when he went away from
the house of a morning, and he never brought home von
vons or peanuts to the children, because his pockets were
fully occupied with bottles of horse liniments and boxes
of condition powders,

In consequence of so much attention “that horse” grew
important, and indulged himself in various liltle harmless
freaks, such as driving Mr. Binks from the stall, with geu-
tle elevation of hind quarters, and playful chawing of
arms and legs inside of broadcloth, by sharp equine wheat
crackers, ’

“That horse’ likewise formed the somewhat unpleasant
habit of going off before anybody eise was ready, aad the
spectacle of Binks, with hig wife in the wagon, a couple
of children screaming be&ind, and ‘that herse’? execut-
ing. & series of redgwas with Binks, hatless, clinging to
the lines, had be¢come so Common on thestreet of the
Binkses tat the smal boys did not even leave off playing
Inarbles to see the fun,

Of course, these freaks on the part of ‘that horse” have
not always been harmless to his unfortunate master, He
has had an arm broken, a shoulder put out of place, an
eye blackened, a knee badly demoralized, and any quan-
lily of cuts and bruises, administered by “that horse.’?
He has had three buggies smashed beyond repair, and a
two hundred dollar sleigh converted into kindling wood;
aud as for mangers gobbied up, and backs of stalls kicked
to pieces—why enumerate them?

And still Binks clings to him, and tells his friends about
what a fine family horse he is the owner of, and when
once he is mounted on the seat of a buggy, behind ‘that
horse, though expecting momentarily to be dashed to
pieces, he is happy! He owns a fast horse! He does!
And we all love the horse, and jong may he flourish—but
from the treacherous, runaway, vicious old villain we
know, good Lord deliver us! KATE THORN.

ot
A Goose.

The medical quacks of San Francisco have been sorely
vexed by the exposures of the News Letler, which has
shown them up in their true colors, and thas damaged their
business. One of them, and probably the least culpable
of all, was selected to act us plaintiff in a ‘test case”? of
libel against the publisher of the News Letier, Ouly one
witness was examined—the plaintit®? himself; and his
cross-exaiination by the defendant’s counsel was as
adroitly managed as though Judge Fullerton were putting
the questions to him. The facts were elicited that the
self-styled physician had been a cook in a miners’ board-
ing house, the chief bottle-washer ina jank-shop, and a
forger, as he had forged the diploma which he claimed
gave him the right to experiment with human life as a
physician. The ‘‘test case’? ended ingloriousiy for the
quack, as he went.to jail as a perjurer. By going to law,
that quack made a goose of himself,

DRIVER BILLS STORY.

BY FREDERIC HOWE MARION.

 

 

 

How long have I been lame, sir? Well, nigh onto twenty
years. I used to drive stage. Hoss stepped on my foot}
mushed it ail to pieces. Doctors tried to patch it up, and
save it, but inflammation set in, aud they (ook it off.

Rather rough on a man that’s got his heart sot on a gal,
and is just going to be married, eh? But Sal, she stood
by me. Sal was one of the steady kind, thank the Lord!
1 sez to Sal, sez [—* You don’t want to marry a crippled
man, my gal. You just jet old Bill slide, aud look out for
another feller.” I said it off-taud like, but my heart was
heavy, I tell you, sir, But what does Saldo? Why, she
just put her arms round my neck, and, **No, Bill,’ said
she, ‘you Chose me out o’ a hundred liklier gals when you
Was comely aud smart, and now you’ve met with misfor-
tune, Pil stand by you, my lad!’ Then, sir, 1 Knowed
What my Sal was, the blessedest thing on the face of the
hull earth—a true woman]

“Weill, we were married, sir, pretty shortly. Sal’s
father helped us toa little house, anda bit ofa garden
spot, and [spent about all 1 was worth fora nice spring
wagon, and a pair of good horses. You see Sai had got
it ail planned for us. North Conway wasn’t much then
like what it is now—no big hotels and livery stabies, and
crowds of su:inmer visitors, but some people come here
every {sunimer, Cause, of Course, it’s always been right on
the way to the mouniains, And the falls, and the big
ledges, and the cathedral, and the Devil’s Den, and all the
fine scenery have always been tnieresting to strangers.
Now my light) wagon was planned Lo take these people
round sight-seeiug.

There wasn’t another team to be hired for love or
money, hardly then—they mostly came up in their own
carriages, and some had bo go afoot, sir, so 1 reckoned. I
could always make a pretty penny by this company dur-
ing the summer season. I Could drive twoin hand as
wellas ever | could, and then I was at some part of the
time to do our bit of farming. Aud tie good Lurd pros-
pered us, sir!

l’ve seen lots of queer people in my line. All kinds of
folks gets thrown together, going to the mountains. City
people, and foreigners, and even some great men have
ridden with me, sir,—a-seeiu’ North Conway, aud travel-
ing to the White Mountains,

Lots of gates all along the way—yes, sir! Not turn-
pikes, but we usually pay a little toll tothe children as
opens em. That makes me think of a story concern-
ing that very gate we’ve been a passin’, sir.

There used to be an old hut stand where that nice
house now stands, sir. It was a tumble-down, crazy, old
concern, and there was an oid Woman lived there alone,
people called Mother Dartie. She lived by fortune-tel-
jin’. Lots of silly girls would go to her, and sie used
sometimes to be visited by the merry-making parties of
strangers, Who seemed to Cousider hier oue of tie curi-
osities of the place,

She was a curiosity, sure enough. You never saw such
a queer, bluck-wizened little thing! Why, she looked like
piciures of them muuimies I’ve seen. Aud ugly! Lora,
sir, every one Kep! clear of her thatcould. I don’t like to
believe no foolish stories, sir, but 1 do believe that that
old thing had the evil eye.

Did she live alone? No, str—she had a little child with
her—her grandciilid, she said it was. 1 don’t know how
many believed that story; Z never did, for that litthe one
had the look of a born prince.

“Sal,” said [ to my wile, “that forehead of his and
them fine, straight features never caine of no common
people.”

‘Poor little thing!’’ says Sal, “it’s a sad life fur a child,
living with old Mother Dartle.”’

You see she had the mother’s heart for a poor little lone-
ly child, for we had one of our own then,

Every time I dreve atong the litile boy, as we thought,
would run to open the gate for us, and the ladies aud gen-
Uemen would cry: “What a pretty child!’ and throw him
& penny ora bit of silver. To be sure I knew the old
grand-dame took itright away from him, but I had a sus-
picion, by the anxious way he looked up at the carriage,
the curls a-blowin’ round his iitule face, that she beat hun
if he didn’t get money, so [ looked to see that he always
got something when | went through.

Well, sir, twas the first of July tuat them Tracys came
up—real gentlefolks, sir—plenty of money, but not a bit
purse-proud, and mild-spokeued, considerate of every-
body they had dealings with. There was Colonel and
Mrs, Tracy, and a sister’s of the colonel—Miss Nellie they
called her, And then they had two seryanis,

Mrs. Tracy Was &@ small Woman with large, dark eyes.
She had a terrible sad look, and was very much out of
health. Iused to go every morning, while the air was
cool, and take her out to drive near the piue woods, which
the doctors said was good for her. Either the colonel or
hig sister would go too—for they seemed very tender an!
lovin’ of her—as was natural, Sal guid, and she such a
sweet thing, and frail as a Mower.

“Money don’t always make happiness. Does it, Bill?
she'd say.

‘No, Sal,’ sez I.

Mrs. Tracy's servant girl told my wife that her mistress
had met with a great misfortune, which had ruined her
health, was why they had brought her up to the moun-
tains, But we never guessed what it was, for Sai is oue
of the honorable kind that never pries into other peopie’s
aifairs, and she wouldn’t ask no questions,

Well, one morning the colonel—he was a nice man—
went with Mrs. Tracy for the drive. When we came to
old Mother Dartle’s, out runs this little child I’ve been
speaking of, to open the gate. His little bare feet made
prints in the dust, and his curls was all in a tangie on his
shoulders, And this Mrs, Tracy, when she saw him,
clasped lier husband’s arm with both hauds.

“Bertrain! Bertram? she cried out, ‘doesn’t he look
like our Lily?”

Quick as a flash the colonel put his hand in his pocket
and sent a whole shower of silver flying around the child.
Aud what did that child do, sir? A stone fell off the stone
well, and started ap the horses pretty brisk just then, but
I got a glimpse of that little one, net heeding the money
at all, but just standing with his arms stretched out after
the carriage. Aud Mrs. Tracy put her head down on her
husband's shoulder, aud cried.

That night it was noised around the neighborhood that
that child was lost, Oouutry foiks is mostly kind-hearted,
and a good many turned out, I among them. Some
thought he’d wandered into the woods, and some said
likely he’d got into the lake and was drowned. We
searched pretty thoroughly all night. Didn't find him.
Searched all the next day. Gotne trace of him. ‘Bhat
bight Sal says;

“Has any one been to Devil's Den?!

 

 

 

That was a lucky thought of Sal’s! I took a lantern,
and got on a horse, bareback, and started mght off.

It was a pokerish place to go to at night—right into the
bowels of the earth, you Kuow—and cold as a Lomb—dark,
too, ag my pocket. ButI scrambled over the first great
rock, and held up my lantern, and what did I see but that
little pale child stretched ont on one of them boulders,
Upon my word, I thought at first he wasdead; but ie was
ouly sleepin’ soundly, worn out like.

Well, I just carried him home to Sal. And what did Sal
find out, sir? Why, when she came to take off that child’s
bits of rags and put comfortable clothing ou him, she found
out tiat 1. Was a girl.

Weli, the child said she’d been trying to find her mo-
ther. She was dead-beat, and so hungry and sleepy that
we conldn’t get much else out of her, but my wife washed
her, combed the tangles out of her curls, put a clean night-
gown of our own litile girl’s on her, aud Kept her in bed
all the next day.

And then, sir, we talked of keeping her ourselves,
though it might have been troublesome on the old wo-
man’s account, but Sal, she suggested that them rich
Tracys might like to adopt her. We talked it over a little
While, and then I went up and told the Tracys the whole
story, Mrs. Tracy began to tremble like a leaf when |
told her the littie one hud proved to be a girl, and begged
imme to take her right to her,

Well, | drove her and her husband over to our house.
The child was fixed up in bed with pillows, her pretty
hatr falling soft over her shoulders, aud with the look of
anapngeL No. sooner did Mrs, Tracy's eyes fall on her
than she gave acry i shall never forget: **My child! my
child!’ cried she, and fainted on the floor, But she came
to, sobbing and laughing, and hugging her little Lily, that
had been lost two years, sO Overjoyed that she was half
crazy. Aud the big colonel—he, ioo, Wrapped the child
up to his breast and cried over her, Aud Pil be beat il
Sal didn't cry, and I cried.

Well, that pesky old woman she cleared out. She'd
stolen the child, you see, and was afraid of the couse-
quences, And they’d have been pretty tough for her, 1
guess, if Colonel Tracy had got hold of her,

And them people have always stood our friends since,
though they are rich and we are poor. Many a favor has
come tO us through them. My eldest boy has a natural
talent for learning, and the colonel told me to keep him
at school, and, by-and-by, he'll see hiin through college.
Think of that, sir—my Jin in collegel

Miss Lily was up here last year, Benutifnl young lady
now. Kuow it, ei? Engaged to her? Bless my soul!
When are you going to be married? This winter. Weil,
mere my haud, sir, on tuat, aud £ wish you all happiness,
sir

“Mom and I.”

A short serial by Mrs. Mary J. HOLMSs, entitled ‘‘Tom
AND J,’? will soon be commenced.
—— FO
THE SHADOW OF A SIN.

BY CLIO STANLEY.

CHAPTER I.

“This nvust be the door, Betty. Will you go in first, or
shall | 7?

The sweet voice was puisate with hidden laughter, and
the blue, bright eyes shone like stars under the filmy vail.

Ruby Gordon had been desperately in love with that
will young student, Felix Masson, ever since the day sle
first saw him; while he had been as much in love with
her as it was his nature to be with any woman,

She had been out walkiug, in soleinn procession with
the rest of Madame Roy’s pupils, when glanciug up care-
lessly, expecting to see nothing more pleasant than brick
walls and white shutters, she saw in an open window,
looking down at her, the dark, handsome face of young
Mrs, Gilbert’s brother. Since that day, quite two years
stuce, she hud continued to love and admire him. But,
alus for Ruby! Felix Masson’s fancies seldom lasted
longer than a year and aday, and il was already nine
months since his love, which he had vowed should be
eternal, had waned,

There had actually been some sort of an engagemeht
between them, but of late his neglect had been so marked
that the girls were Coustantly teazing her about her recre-
aut lover, and two of the boulder ones had laid a wager,
that, in sprite of her engagement, slic dare not go to his
rooins and invite him to walk with her, or, that if she did
it, he would refuse to accoinpany her,

Perhaps was a wild and foolish thing to do; but then
Ruby Gordon had been used half her lifetime to the doing
of foolish things.. In one week more she should leave
school and go home to her guardian’s sober household;
and she would nol—nay, she could not—go without seeing
him, and finding out for herself if her boasted power
would avail her anything, or if it was really true, what
half of them said, that he meant fo jilt her,

She had only stipulated that Betty, one of the dining-
room girls Whom she had wou over to her service by [re-
quent handsome presents, shouid go with her, aud to tis
the gins had laughingly consented,

She had been half trighteued at her own boldness when
she started, but jong before she reached the. loug stone
buildiug Where most of the students had rooms, she was
laughing with Betty Wample at the oddity of the affair,
and lad promised her a gotd: bracelet if she would wait
somewhere for her—pertaps in a quiet corner of the park
—wuntil she shouid be ready to return.

“For it will never do for him to walk back with me—it
would be as much as my diploma is worth for Madame to
see me walking alone with a man,” she had suid, with a
little toss of her head. “Oniy you must stay where you
can see us, Betty, and tell Mag Delano and Sue Jameson
how mistaken they were for ouce in their lives.’’ .

“Are you sure he is aloue?’? Betty asked; and Ruby
Gordon bent her head to listen,

‘| think so,” sie suid al last.
whisper’?

And with a sudden turn of her slender white wrist Ruby
Gordon had opened the door, and both of them stepped
quickly into the room, closing the door behind them. .

At a table covered with writiug materials sat Felix
Masson; though he was evidently paying more attention
tu the bottle of wine before iim than to the work which
he was hastily turning over in search of the last puge
which he had written.

Just then his dark face was anything but handsome;
there was adecided scowl upon it, and the masses of
black hair were tossed back in wild confusion, while the
baleful light iu his eyes would have made most women
shriok back in alarm, ,

At the sound of their light steps he turnd round in his
chair and stared at the intruders. For one moment Raby
Gordon stared as silently; then with her fair cheeks flush-
ing rosy-red, she made a back ward step.

“Go out, Betty,’? she whispered. ‘*Wait in the ball un-
til we come, and then follow ustothe Park, I shall not
make you wait long.’

Betly obeyed without a word, anl Ruby Gordon was
left face to face with her lover. Then she threw back her
vail,

‘Ruby! Miss Gordon!’ he cried, springing to his feet,
“this is realiy aa Unexpected honor! To what fortunate
accident am | indebted %?

Another blush—this tume a blushof triumph overspread
the pretty face.

“Then you are glad to see me?’ she asked, coming a
step nearer,

He reddened a littic, and langhed,

.“ What man would be foolish epough to say he was not
glad to see a preity woman? And you are preity, Ruby!’

**] didn’t come here to be fiattered, sir. But] can’t talk
to you here, either—will you come out with me???

“Wuy not talk here? We are quiie alone, and here is
a deiightfully easy-chair.”

“IT don’t care jor eusy-cllairs,” she said, beginning to be
alarmed, ‘aud 1 do want you to come and walk.’

“it would be very hice. I don’t think there is anything
I should enjoy more, but then you Know the old adage,
‘duty before pleasure,’ and I have this essay to finish be-
fore night.”

Ruby dropped all at once into the chair he had placed
for her. She feltas if she could not stand another min-
ule;

“By the way,’ he said, when she did not speak, “who
is out companion? Won't she come in?’

oe 0?

“T don’t hear even a

The single word came out short and abrupt, and her
eyes darkened.

“I don’t want to offend you, Ruby, but really I cannot
go this afternoon,”

“And you think Iam foolish enough to believe that it is
this that keeps you,’’ she said, scornfully, touching the
paper, which he had at length found, with her neatly-
gioved hand.

“Now you are angry, Ruby!
was & Woman who could
couldn’t have her own way’?

“Tam not losing my temper, Felix, but—what do you
think Sue Jameson said about you this morning ?”

“Don't give me riddles to guess, Ruby. it isn’t my
forte.’

“She said,’? continued Raby, her cheeks flushing with
some deep emotion, “that she would give me six months
in which to brewk my heart, for that you were sure to jit
me.

‘*Miss Jameson must be a fool!” he said, roughly.

“Then it isn’t true, Felix—uall that they say about you ?
Though you know,” she added, reproaciifully, “that you
haven’t been near me for six weeks, and in five days
more Iam going home,”?

“Five days, is it? I hadn’t thought it was so near.’!

“And so I should have liked one more Walk in the park
under the dear old trees, Felix; but if you really can’t
come to-day——”’

“Nor any other day, Ruby. Let us say good-by here.’?

Ruby Gordon stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.

“You see, Ruby, we are almost sure not to see each
other hereafier. You'll vanish away into an enchanted
world of your own, and I must drudge on, here or else-
where, a miserable wretch, scared at my own poverty.”?

“My world won't be an enchanted one, by any means,’?
she said, the bright eyes filling with tears; ‘‘and you know,
Felix, that [do uot fear poverty. 1s it for mysake you
said those cruel words ??

“Mo—yes; I must marry an heiress, Ruby, and you will
find a rich husband who will adore you.”?

Ruby Gordon got up and moved silently toward the
door, When she kad almost reached it he sprang forward
and selzed her hand.

ate go my hand, sir, iustanuy!? she said, in a@ husky
voice. :

"Not antil you have forgiven me, Ruby.
say gooddy?” he said, slowly.

“No; I will say nothing. I have wasted toomany words
on you already.

I wonder if there ever
keep her temper when she

And you'll

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #905

 

 

“Just once,” he asked. “Do, Ruby!”

But she snatched her hand away, and hastily opened
the door, and ran recklessly down the long hall; while
Felix Masson turned back to the disorderly table with a
disappointed look.

‘t didn’t believe she had so much spunk,”’ he mattered
to himself, *f1 was sure she would let me kiss her good-
by. Well, that chapter is finished, aud now for Lilburn
and the pretty heiress.”?

More miserable than she had ever been in her life, Ruby
Gordon went blindly on until, breathless with running,
Betty overtook her, and saw at once with only haifa
glance that something had happened to discoucert her,
but she did not mean to notice it,

“] thought he was never going to let you go, miss,
and we shall lvave to hurry back, or 1 shall be missed.”’

m Ruby stopped and looked at her with white, trembling

8.
Pit you ever tell, Betty, you will be sorry for it.”

“Tell, miss! [can hold my tongue till doomsday,”

“But I don’t wand you to hold your tongue. You must
say just what I tell you to say.”

“I can do that, too,’? said Betty, smoothly.
me what it is, miss,’’

“Tell them—auybody who asks you,’’ said Ruby Gor-
don, slowly, “that we did not find him—that his room
was empty, and that we walked in the Park by our-
selves’?

“Yes, Miss Gordon,” she replied.

“And to-morrow you shall have the bracelet.”

Betty stole in at the side entrance, carrying Miss Gor-
don’s hat and shawl, and Ruby stole softiy in at the front
sale, and sank down Ona seat under one of the trees to
think,

And there, half an hour later, Mag Delane found her
leaning carelessly agaiust the tree, with a@ bit of embroi-
dery in her hand.

“There! what do you think of ‘rat, Mag?” she asked,
innocently, holding up askein of cherry floss. ‘Isn't it
a perfect match???

Mag lvoked somewhat surprised, but said yes.

“But when did you get back ?”? she inquired, anxions-
ly. ‘“*We liave been waiting this hour lo Kuow how you
succeeded,”

“Oh, not at all,’ said Ruby, counting her stitches as
she spoke, ‘He wasu’t in, aud of course we didu’t dare
lo wait.”?

**Maybe he hid himself when he saw you coming,” said
Miss Delano, spiteiully, for she was disappoiled at not
winning her wager.

“Maybe so,’? suid Ruby, carelessly.
any Way.’

“Ohl? Miss Delano replied. ‘‘Well, as there is no news,
I shall go back Lo the house and practice that uorrid
duet.”

For the next five days Ruby wore a cheerful face, defy-
ing her most iuumate friends to find a shadow of sorrow
in her beautiful eyes.

Even when she bade Felix Masson good-by under the
gaslights in Mudame Roy’s parlor the night of the concert,
there was not a quiver of an eyelash or a faltering sound
in the sweet youice.

“Or course I shall see you again some day,’ she said,
putting her hand in his with a ready smile which deceived
every girl who watched her, “and so I don’t mean to say
good-by even now. Perhaps we shall be glad to say it
sume time,’? she added, gayly.

They parted that night, though neither anticipated It,
for many long years. Quite as littie did they dream that
the iong-postponed meeting wouid be part of one of Lhe
Suddest of tragedies in a life not over bright.

CUAPTER II,

Six years had passed away, and Felix Masson, some-
what sobered by numberiess disappointments, had won
his heiress at last. Not pretty Beth Lilburn—she had long
since married a wortiner map—bul a fair young girl, al-
most as pretty as Beih, and with twice her money. A
shy, tender-hearted girl, who, having been brought up in
au Convent-schvol, had seen very little of the outside world;
and who, having met Felix Masson, had fallen in love with
his dark eyes aud handsome mouth, with his fond smiles
and fvolish words, aud when he asked her to de his wife,
she burst into a food of happy tears aud said she could
ask for no brighter fate,

They had been married about @ month, and he had
brought her to make his sister a visit, and Mrs. Gilbert,
Who admired her brother in spite of his follies, and was
very much inciined to love his wife, had taken them to
every place of interest in and around the town.

It was the day before they were to go home, and they
were silting at the breaklast table, filling up the time
with idle talk and jest, when Mrs, Gubert suddeuly
spoke:

PeT've thought of something at last, Felix: and you, Lil,
just listen and see if you like it. We have been to all
imaginable pleasant places, you Know. Now lo-day, sup-
pose we go Lo the asylum for the insane ?’?

Lilian shuddered instinctively. It could be no joy to
her, full of life, aud heali, aud rapture, tosee Lhat crowd
of nameless sorrowful ones, for Whom joy was a derision,
health a heathen myth, and life a tenant-house where they
were Colnpelled to stay because the rent was paid in ad-
vance. She felt at the moment as if she would rather be
lost in some Cavern, away from the hght of the happy
sun, than to see 1b shive upon such utter misery,

But Felix desired to go, and she hastily pushed her own
desires out of sight, and endeavored to meet her hus-
band’s eye with something like sunshine on her face,

Two hours later they all went out together Lo take their
last ride. The sun was shining, birds were sineing, the
fair earth smiled its fairest, and Lilian Masson felt her
cheeks glow and her heart grow glad within her in spite
ol that dreaded visit which must be made.

As they passed under the stone archway, and heard the
irou gales ciang together behind them, Felix Masson
Lurned to look at his young wife with an auxious face, to
see if her smile faded, but as long as he was looking she
did not turn toward him, or pause &@ moment in the gay
conversation she was carrying op with his sister. Even
when they entered the gloomy halls and passed by the
small Celis, each holding its leneiy inmate, she did not
faiter, though her cheek did perhaps turn a trifle paler.

Finaliy the attendant proposed to them to go down-
stairs und see the patients who were more violent, and
Felix and Mrs, Gilbert ussented,

But Lijiau shook her head.

“} will slay here, Felix, for lam just a little tired with
all tus sigit-seeing. Sve, 1 can rest in this easy Chair by
Lhe window, until you and Mary Come back {rou that hor-
ribie region below stairs.” :

Mrs. Gilbert laughed merrily, but Felix lingered a mo-
ment, aud bent down to Kiss his wife good-by.

“Keep a brave heart, Lil. We will be back almost be-
fore you Can miss us.”?

And they were gone.

She was quite alone, and leaned her head back against
the cushious of the Chair, and wondered silently what
Lhose pale creatures would do if they cuuld break through
those grated doors.

Snaddenly she felt alight touch on her arm. She was
startied 2nd sprang to her feet. But a soft, quiet laugh re-
assured her, aud she sauk back again, watching her new
companion with curious eyes,

She was tail and siender, with black shining hair bound
abvut her head, and dark eyes that were sad as a stormy
twilight. Her slender hauds were white and pretty as
Lilian’s own, and she Constantly clasped and uuclasped
them, as if she knew of nothing else Lo do.

“What is your name?’ she asked, soluy, vailing her
dark eyes wilh their Jong lashes,

“Lilian.”

“But what else ?”?

“Lilian Masson,’’ Lilian replied, blushing with pride at
the sound of ber own name,

“And he—Felix—is your husband ???

Liltan looked her astonishment,

“Do you know him?’ she asked, staring at her com-

anion.

, “IT thought so once; you think so now. But we have
both been mistaken. Do you Unk he really loves you,
dear ?”?

And the laughing face put on a mocking Jook; and
Lilian grew white with fear.

“Tell me!’ the strange girl said, and she stamped on
the floor with her little foot, Wuiid faces peered out at the
cell-doors, and mad eyes flashed defiance at them,

Lilian leaped from her chair eager only to get away.

“Tel me!” reiterated her tormentor, pushing her back,
and standing in front of her so that. Lillan saw that there
was no escape.

“Yes,’’ she replied, at length. ‘JZ know he loves me."

“Ha, hal’ rang out the mad girl’s laugh, waking up
terrible echoes down the long corridor. “i Knew it, too,
dear! I knew it, too! But it’s a long time agol”’

Lilian was shaking With terror; but she thought she
heard voices in the hall, and she screamed aloud.

Her cry was like a spark ou powder. Ina moment her
companion, with all the strength of insanity, had seized
her slender white throat with both hands, and with a mad
grasp had choked back her cry for help.

Ah, how long the minates were! Heaven pity them
both! Que face dark witha cruel triumph, the other pale
as ashes, with dark purple spots creeping over the fearful
pallor of the tender skin, aad a@ dark ring round her
throat. .

There were long minutes yet to follow, full of horrible
suffering, but over these we draw the vail of silence!

Finally there came the sound of hurrying feet, and
Felix Masson and his sister entered the room, and looked
around for Lilian.

This was what they saw.

Lilian lying back in her chair, her golden hair half-uan-
bound, and quite dead; her companion crouching in a far
corner of the room, muttering to herself:

“It was me he loved! My brave, fond Felix!’*

Felix uttered one great cry of despair, as he knelt dowa
by his dead wife. Aud the crazy girl crept to her feet,
and came nearer.

‘See!’ she said, “there is your white wonder of a wife!
I have loved her to death! Kiss the pale Jips, and see if
they grow red againt Hold her close to the heart where
you promised I should rest, and see if she biushes again!’

Aud she fell down beside him, while Kind hands lifted
her dead rival and bore her away.

it was, iudeed, Ruby Gordon, Her guardian had put
her there years before, but she had long been considered
harmless. The sight of the once familiar face and the
sound of her old lover’s voice had waked all the passion
of madness that sluambered in her pgor brain, aud the re-
sult was one of the saddest of tragedies.

Felix Masson lives stili and has nis wife’s great wealth
to enjoy; bul noone who looks at his white face and
bent sori, will dream of calling tim happy!

wo

Sap Messrs. Dedd & Read have in press, and will soon
issue, ‘‘Eunsenore and Other Poems,’? by P. Hamilton
Myers, of Auburn, N. Y. ‘“Sasenore’? is a romance of

 

“Only tell

“It was silly to go,

 

 

ee}
Owaso Lake, a poem which long ago altained a local pop-
ularity in central New York, but which has been long out
of print. lis re-issue is to supply an actual demand, and
it will be accompanied by more recent poetry by the same
author, making a handsome volume of about 250 pages,

THE TEMPTER FOILED.

BY LAURA C. HOLLOWAY,

 

 

 

 

 

Every body in the block was in bed and asleep but this
one little girl-woman, who in lier desolate room sat tolling
the hours away. Everybody in that block was doubtless
comfortable that black night but Allice. She was busy,
too busy, she thought, to mind the bitter cold; but now
and then as she stups to alter her position, she feels the
keenest chills shoot through her body, apd she sighs to
think how helpless she ts to protect herself or others.

In the bed near lier, sleeping the fearless sleep of sweet
childhood, is the little orphan brother Whose life has
known ho other mother. Aud jast beyond, in another
bed, in which slept two other little ones who look to her
for all that existence is to give them. Right gladly would
she lay down her life for them if that would avail, but she
knows it is her hands that are to provide.

Poor Allice, she has made the acquaintance ofa woman’s
bitterest foe, dire want, and she turns lo her work witha
pain at her heart flerce and keen.

The hours pass, and itistwo o’clock in the morning.
Now she soon must sleep, for whatever the children have
to eat she must prepare it, aud some rest she must have
before the day breaks. So now is wy opportunity.

Is she not benutiful? Look at her soft brown hair, wav-
ing over the pretty brow and half concealing the delicate
ear. See her fine lips, beautifully outlined eye-brows,
and resplendent eyes. She is the very picture of grave
aud refinement, as she sits there toiling. 1 must tell her
something.

Allie, the world hates you for all these gifts you have,
because you are poor—one orphan struggling for many.
There is no room for you, or such as you, in virtue’s world,
Money is the Jever, aud you have none, No, you have no
money, The Jast peunies wili go for bread to-morrow,
and then you wil be hungry till you can earn more,

How will you bear it to see the precious children you
love suffer for bread? Hal! you start. You had not thought
it would come to this. But they will go huugry, lor how
can you feed so many while you are so honest? Teurs!
what have your eyes lo do will tears? Who isught you
to weep? It is petted woman’s weupon in all emergen-
cies, but it is a failure with you, for there are nove to dry
your eyes, none Lo see you weep.

You ure thinking of the mother under the snow to-night,
and you are weeping that tie world is so pililess to those
who have no friends, Those are the kind they frown
upon, child. Were your mother here, with her purse
hned with gold, L should not be here—you would not sit
here to freeze. Nay, your courtiers would be on every
side; they would hang about you as moths about a@ Gate
dle. You would be adored for your youth and beaury,
and honeyed words would bring the glad light to those
self-same eyes that now overflow wilh Lears,

Will you give no thought to your tired body, no rest to
your weury head? I want to whisperof an easier life
than this you lead. You need not struggle 80 earnestiy—
you cannot rise. Down, down you must go with me until
everlasting ownership will be wine.

Does she heed me?

Ste seems to catch the meaning of the thoughts I have
uttered fur her, but she only sighs, She doves not divipe
my presence, and she only deems it her morbid imagin-
ings. Even then she weeps tuthinkK she Could entertain
such monsirous thoughts,

I laugh derisively. She shrinksinstinctively. It is use-
less to shrink, my beauty. Fairer than you have shivered
in the blast, but ali the sume they are now mine.

“Moluer in Heaven,” she whispers. Al, that is pretty,
bul she cannot save you, brown eyes. The dead return
not again.

Hark! she is praying. I like it not.

Something she is saying about the “fatherless and
motherless God—not forsake’—— What means ali the
orphan asylums, Allie, if He has not forsaken them? The
head droops. She is sobbing, wailing.

Weep on, poor child. Muauy anoiher, stronger than
you, as wept for far less woes, and been lost all the same,

What have you left now, Allie?
“God will keep it stain-

“I have my soull’’ she cries,
less’?

Will He, indeed! A mighty friend He is to you this
bleak night. No fire, no mouey, no nothing, but a trio of
helpless mouths to feed, and no wherewithal to feed them,

“IT bave my strength left,’? she expostulates.

Hal hal your strength! Mighiy asa reed it is. Why,
child, your very helplessness brought me here. I was
seeking just such as you, and youl have found. Will you
do as I bid you?

“God shield me from temptation, from sin; give me
faith and courage. My mother’s Gud, protect these help-
less littie ones, and Jead me, their guide, where the Shep-
herd can save us from destrucuon. Save us, oll, our God,
Save us|"?

Sirange, strange, how she prays. I did not see she had
so much in her, No willing prey, I find. What faith she
feels. Now she bas slipped down from her Chair, aud is
kneeling.

“In temptation’s hour,” she cries, “I call npon Thee,
Darkness is about me, upon me, and my soul wanders
toward sin, Anchor it now, wy Father. Be to me in this
hour, mother, brother, father, friend. Leave me not until
lam past the danger.”

How Can I reach her while she prays so? I will wait
until the paroxysm is over, aud then, when she finds how
vain are her prayers, she will embrace me as her friend.
Hark! some spirit is coming. I hear the rustiing move.
ment even from the high portals. Over the butilements
of Heaven glides anotver and another form, and still she
kueels, praying. Ste fears me, and she hides her face,
while she calls apou the Pather.” The air grows purer; L
cannot penetrate itnow. She is lifted farther and farther
from me. There beside her I see the shining raiment of
a disembodied spirit. lt is her mother, About her is a
great light, and it comforts her. She is hushed,

‘Fear not,’ says the second form; ‘Lo, lam with you
always.’?

What means it all? Ithought to clutch my rightful
prey, a homeless orphan; a struggling, sufferiug girl, I
thought to filud it easy work to make her mine, and be-
hold she’s snatched from me as the brand from the burn-
ing. My opportunity is lost. Her narrow chamber is be-
come a temple, into which even the immortals are per-
initted to come, About her is reflected the dazzling ight
of heaven. Her faith is greater than my strength, and
yet I can prevail against allthe world 1 thought. Her
prayers—think of i1t—opened the very throne gates of tie
other life, and from its realms are come her rescuers. I
thought to take one of misfortune’s victims, but I mistake
my oOwn—she is of the redeemed. Her counselors are
angels, and her Faitherupon whom she Calls so trustingly
is Lhe Saviour of men—the very spirit of love, and truth,
and purity, before whom | cannot stand,

————_ > o<+—______——

Mr. ROBERT A. BuRCH, one of the editors of the Eve-
ning Posi, was married ou the 24th ult, to Miss Lisette
Montmollin, of Lexington, Ky. Qu this important occa-
sion Mr. Burch was compelled to desert his Post of duty
for a brief period, as the wedding took place at Raduor,
Pa. The ceremony was performed by his brother, the
Rev. Thomas Burch. Wecongratulate the bride on the
choice she has made, for we know Mr. Burch to be oue of
nature’s noblemen,

Boys, Look Out for It!
Buffalo Bill’s First Story!

NEXT WewE!

The Hon. WM. F, Copy, alias “BUFFALO BILL,” has
from time to time figured in the New YORK WEEKLY as
the hero of many exciliug romances; and the journalists
of the country, Without a single exception, have acknowl-
edged his shrewdness, coolness, determination and cour-
age asa :

SCOUT AND INDIAN FIGHTER.

Now, however, he presents himself to the publicin @
mew character—that of an autho. The New YORK
WEEKLY was the first paper to chronicle his heroic deeds
and strange adventures as a Piainsman and Trailer, and
he has therefore chosen it asthe proper medium for the
publication of HIS FIRST STORY, which is entitled the

Pearl of the Prairie;

OR, THE

SCOUT AND THE RENEGADE,

and it will be commenced

 

 

 

 

 

 

eB ee

This remarkable narrative of Life on the Plains teems
with startling adventures and daring exploits. They are
so extremely interesting, apd yet 80 natural, that the
reader is impressed by the reality. To allow hina perfect
freedom in description, and to preclude the charge of
egotism, the story bears no reference to himself; he mere-
ly relates the incidents as any other author would, speak-
ing of the acts of others, becoming exceedingly spirited
in his descriptions of heroic deeds. His style is plain, but
forcible, and about his thrilling scenes there is a rude
grandeur that cannot fail to delight all his readers.

 

 

 

NEXT Wee

 

 

 

 

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|

HAD I THE GIFT OF soNG.

BY WILLIAM BRUNTON.

 

 

Had I the gift of song, I'd sing
Tn such dear tones of love,
That all the hills with joy should ring,
And fill the sky above;
Vd tell, in musie’s melting strain,
The wealth of love and life,
And drive away the sense of pain
To soldiers in the strife ;
Va sing so sweet, 50 loud and long,
And fill their souls with hope and song.

Pd be the best of voices yet
That e’er on earth was heard,

No more should men with fear and fret
Their daily armor gird;

They should go forth to all the fray
As in Vathalla’s light;

They should renew their strength each day,
And ever serve the right;

Td sing so true, so wise and well,

Till all in this pure strength did dwell.

But vain are ail such golden dreams—
We have ro power like this;

Tho’ hope of good the race redeems,
And points to wished-for biiss;

And if we'd sing at daily task,
We'd cheer the world along,

Ana gain perhaps the git we ask,
To fill the earth with song,

And sing so true, so sweet and clear,

As all should prize the song they’d hear.

 

A

Woman’s Temptation.

By MRS. FLORICE NORTON.
(A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.)

 

{A Woman's Temptation,” was commenced in No. 36. Back
Nos. tan be ovtained ofavy News Agentin the United States. }

CHAPTER XII.

“Shall you come to-morrow ?” asked Alice of her
lover, as he bade her adieu.

“Tam afraid not. Ihave promised to dine at
Hernely Court; and I fear that I shall not have time.”

He could have laughed aloud at the awe and won-
der that came into ner beautiful blue eyes. .

“Hernely Court!” she repeated; ‘“‘why, that is
where the duke lives.” ;

“Yes; and it is with the duke Iam going to dine.”

The lovely lips pouted.

“But he has such a beautiful daughter, Mr. Ruth-
ven, so they say.”

‘And I believe it is true.
a great beauty.”

The little white hands clung round his arm, and
the fair child-like face was raised to his.

*“*You will not like her best, will you?” she said.

Tt was impossible to resist bending down and kiss-
ing those sweet lips.

“You must not love her the best, because, although
she is Lady Isora, and very beautiful, she could net
love you as I do; it would be impossible.”

What young man was ever untouched by those
words, whispered in the sweetest of voices, with a
face like a summer flower bending over him.

“My darling, you need not fear! I did not wish to
go at all, but Twas compelled to promise. All the
Lady Isoras in the world are nothing to me, com-
pared to you. I love you, no one else.”

The time was to come when he would remember
those words. ;

Some hours later he stood. one of a brilliant num-
ber of guests, in the Hernely drawing-rooms. His
thoughts were still rather ina maze; still, with the
sweet face under the apple blossoms, he went
through the usual introductions in the usual way.

“Society isalways alike, go where you will,” he
thought,

The duke was exceedingly pleased to see him—the
future lord of Neversleigh Abbey was the most im-
portant person in the neighborhood. The duchess
was most affable, kind, and gracious, distributing
her smiles and words, as a good hostess should, to
all indiscriminately. Hubert was listening with
some amusement to an argument between two offi-
cers when Lady Isora entered the room. He was
not thinking of her at that moment; but by the
slight stir, and the excited attention on every face,

“he saw that something out of the common way had
happened. Hearing tne rustle of a dress he turned
round, and for the first time in his life saw Lady
Isora Monckton.

A tall, beautiful, queenly vision, with rippling hair
and bright eyes, with lips perfect as those of a
Grecian goddess, and a face of the rarest patrician
beauty. He did not know what her dress was, but
that it was something white and shining, and fell
like a luminoss cloud about her; and the white
pearls she wore were no whiter than the graceful
neck and rounded arms ; she had the prettiest shoes,
her gloves were a marvel of art, her jeweled fan
was perfection, and as she moved through the room,
it seemed as though a ripple of light and subtle per-
fume followed her.

He had seen beautiful women—pretty girls, hand-
some matrons—but no one-like her. She was
unique. Then it seemed to him the sunshine was
dazzling him; he felt giddy and faint, as though
some strong perfume had passed over him—it was
Lady Isora smiling as the duchess introduced him—
but he was almost too bewildered to know what to
Say.

For a man of the world it was strange. Perhaps
Lady Isora was accustomed to produce this effect
upon people, for she did not remark it. She talked
to him until the dazzle of her beauty wore away,
and then he answered back.

But he smiled to himself afterward when she
seated herself in a crimson velvet fauteuil, and one
by one, all the ‘‘ best men” in the room gathered
round her. She wasso like some gorgeous young
queen surrounded by her court, that he smiled to
himself as he remembered his uncles words.

**As though I could win her,” he said to himself.
“Why, a king might woo such a woman, and woo in
vain. Winher, a girl so peerless, so gifted, whose
smiles seemed to make Eden. No; it was not possi-
ble.”

She was not worldly—not a mere society model.
The duchess, by a most graceful gesture, and half a
word, signified to Mr. Ruthven that he was to take
her daughter down to dinner. She laid her hand on
his arm, and he thought of the little hands that had
clung there so short a time since—thought of sweet
Alice Luttrell, and sighed. Lady Isora looked up at
him with a smile.

“Going down to dinner with a sigh!” she said.
“Why, Mr. Ruthven, that is unusual.”

She was laughing so frankly, that he felt quite at
ease with her,

“The cause ot the sigh is unusual, I candidly ad-
mit,” he replied.

‘*f must not ask what it is,” she said.

‘“*No; I must pray you not, for if you told me to do
anything, Lady Isora, I should be compelled to do
it, and in this case, it would not be judicious.”

“Then I will be generous, and not ask,” she said.

It was no exaggeration to say that she charmed
him. How could he have been so foolish as to think
all women artificial and inane? Why, she was
brighter than any one he had ever met; she remind-
ed him of the girl in the fairy tale, whose lips only
opened to drop diamonds and pearls; she was elo-
quent, witty, brilliant, and delightful. ’

He found himself wondering whom she would
marry, what destiny would be high enough for her.
Again he found himselt wondering what she would
have said, and how he should have fared if he had
been free to woo her.

“She would not have cared for me,” he thought.
“It would not have been possible; she is a brilliant
star, andI am not worthy of her.”

He hardly remembered how the night passed; it
seemed to him that he woke up from a trance when
he reached home, and found himself once more amid
the familiar scenes of Neversleigh Abbey.

It was another day before the answer from Lord
Arncourt came and then the cool, cynical, wicked
words mage the young man’s face flush with anger,
and his heart beat with pain.

“T wonder, my dear nephew, that you should waste
good ink and paper in asking me such a question. I
answer it, ‘If you were ever so far to forget what is
due to me and to yourself as to contemplate such a
marriage, I would disinherit you at once,’ I should
not wait an hour; there isno doubt about it. <An-
other thing is, that a poor, obscure girl would not
expect mrarriage. Ineed sayno more. I hear won-
ders of the y Isora, and shall be glad to know
that you admire her. No more folly, Hubert, A
wise man louks before he leaps.”

CHAPTER XIII.

Hubert Ruthven read his uncle’s letter with a feel-
ing of something like distraction; he could not help

Lady Isora is said to be

 

feeling a dislike-—a repulsion for the man who could
so coolly suggest injustice.

“Not expect marriage,” he cried; ‘why, I would
not stain my soul with the blight of a fair life like
that for all the wealth of the world!”

He felt indignant. Vice is not always welcome to
the young—the hopeful, the sanguine; any amount
of romance, of poetry, even of nonsense—but vice,
it shocks and jars.

‘Bring clonds of sorrow and shame to that lovely
face! no, not for a hundred earldoms—not for king-
doms.”

‘Whatever else happens,” he said to himself, “I
am aman of honor; and it will not be that.”

The matter lay very clearly before him. He knew
perfectly well that if he did marry Alice Luttrell he
would never succeed his uncle; he would lose Never-
sleigh Abbey and the fortune that he had been
taught to consider his own; he would have no pros-
pect before him but bare, bleak poverty; Lord Arn-
court would never pardon such a marriage.

He must choose between the two; and, though he
did not know it, it was acertain sign that he was not
very deeply in love or he would not have hesitated
an instant; kings have thrown away a kingdom be-
fore now for love.

On the day following, he received another letter
from his uncle, more cynical, more repulsive even,
than the first.

“T thought it better,” wrote Lord Arncourt, ‘‘to
supplement my letter bya few remaks. People say
there is no man so foolish as a cynic. I do not think
so, that I can sneer, and sneer well at my fellow-
creatures, is to mea matter of great self-congratu-
Jation; however, that is beside the matter. What
[want tosay to you is this: Do not be misled
by any absurd idea about love; credit me, all women
are alike; six months after marriage you wiil not
care whether you married the woman you tancied
yourself dying tor, or one quite indifferent. What you
young men call love, and think half-divine, is but a
tever—a foolish, fretting fever. It always wears out.
Now, if this be the case—and you have the word of
a philosopher for it—why put yourself out of the
way? if it cannot possibly matter what woman you
marry, why not choose one who can bring you what
you want-—distinction, high connection, political in-
fluence; who can materially advance your interests
in life? Why throw yourself away upon one who,
instead of bringing youanything, lowers you socially
and makes you ashamed of yourself every hour of
your life, after the first foolish enchantment is over?
I have met many men in mylife whom I have pitied,
but none whom I pitied so much as the man who has
married an ill-bred woman.

“Of course, my dear Hubert, these are but little
hints that I throw out for your consideration. You
are at perfect liberty to choose for yourself. You
have been brought up to consider yourself my heir.
If you should prefer this kind of marriage, by all
means marry. I do not like Eric Chilvers, but on
this score I should feel perfectly safe with him.”

“Tf shall not allude to this matter again, unless I
hear from you that you preter marriage to an in-
heritance. I shall consider that common sense
has guided you, and you have given up all such ab-
surd ideas.”

Hubert Ruthven read this letter with even greater
dissatisfaction than the former one. But if he had
felt the devoted, passionate love for Alice Luttrell
that he had imagined himself to feel, he would not
have hesitated one moment; but over this love, in
his own mind, there was always a doubt—a halt
lingering doubt he could neither explain nor under-
stand, ?

When he was with her, her fascination completely
conquered him; he remembered nothing except
that he loved her, and that she was the fairest and
most loving creature. Away from her, reason had
full sway; he could doubt and wonder whether the
dream was a@ wise one—whether the spell would
hold.

Only afew short weeks ago, and he was bright,
happy, and careless as the summer hours; now he
was full of doubt and perplexity.

**Was [not happier before love came into my heart
at all?” he said. Andif he had been a little wiser
the fact that he could ask himself that question
would have convinced him that he was not in love
at alli—that he was simply mistaking a boyish fancy,
a pretty, fantastic delusion, for love.

At last he bethought himself that as Alice was to
be the principal party concerned, he wouid do well
to consult her—to tell her his diificulties, and see
what she thought. He found her—-not at home—
but gathering the dewy, blue forget-me-nots from

 

the brookside.

He did not see her at first, and was walking tas-
tily by, when she called his name in a sweet, low
voice, and turning round he saw her.

‘*Alice,” he cried, “how glad Lamto meet you
here! I was going down to your house. I wanted
to talk to you.”

**T am trespassing,” she said. ‘‘All the time Ihave
been gathering these flowers I have been saying to
myself, ‘These are Neversleigh Woods, the property
of my Lord Arncourt; no trespassers allowed. You
will not prosecute me tor gathering a few wild flow-
ers, will you?”

“Tam so glad to see you, Alice; I want to talk to
you.”

; Za about anything serious?” she replied, plead-
ingly.

“Yes, about something very serious,” he replied.

“Ah, me!” said the girl. “If the world were but
eee grave—if life were more like this summer morn-

ng!”

“It ought to be always a summer morning to you,”
he said.

“So it will be, if my sun shines,” she answered,
looking at him with loving eyes.

He felt the old charm beginning to work.

‘Women ought not to have such beautiful eyes,”
thought the poor young fellow. ‘*What can aman
do?”

She was pointing with her white hand to a beauti-
ful willow tree that had drooped over the brook.

‘‘Under the shade of that willow,” she said, ‘‘there
is the prettiest, coziest nook in the world. I have
been sitting there until the water sung me to sleep.
Let us go there. How nice it must be to own a real
wood like this, where no trespassers can come!”

He followed her, and they sat under the branches
of the drooping willow; the little brook sang so
sweetly tothem; bright-eyed birds sang a few notes,
looked at them fearlessly, then flew away; the flow-
ers bloomed around them, and the fragrant wind
whispered of love.

“How beautiful!’ said Alice. ‘‘Oh, Hubert, do
not waste these sunny hours talking about your
cold, serious matters; do learn a lesson from the
birds and the flowers.”

“And talk to you of nothing but love,” he replied,
laughingly.

“What could suit the morning better ?” she asked,
and Hubert agreed with her. The speil was work-
ing, the doubts and perplexities rapidly clearing
away—she was 80 lovely and so loving. Suddenly
his eyes fell upon a book bound in blue and gold,
and he bent down to look at it.

‘Have you been reading, Alice ?” he asked.

‘*Yes; Lcame here to study, but the brook and the
birds would not let me,” see answered, gravely.

“What book is it ?” he asked.

Suddenly her beautiful face flushed the deepest
crimson; she looked terribly distressed.

“You must not look at it,” she cried. “I did not
intend you to see it.”

She placed one hand over the title so that he could
not see it, ,

 

 

“What a little hand!” he said; “and how white
itis!” He took it away, and read: ‘ ‘Guide to Eti-
quette: Rules tor Behavior in the Highest Society.’ ”

Then, despite the gravity of the situation, Hubert
Ruthven laughed aloud. He could not imagine the
future Lady Arncourt learning manners from this
little blue book!

CHAPTER XIV.

*‘Now,” she said, half-tearfully, ‘you will be vexed
with me again. I only want to please you. I want
to be just like those ladies you saw at Hernely. I
want to talk like them, and do just as they do.”

‘**You will not find out the method here,” he said,
turning over the pages with great amusement,
‘Never mind about imitating any one, Alice; be-
lieve me, you are best and dearest as you are.”

She looked delighted; her iace cleared, and her
beautiful eyes grew bright.

“Do I please you ?” she asked, quietly, looking so
winning as she spoke, he could not help clasping
his arms round her, and kissing the sweet, flower-
like face.

‘‘Most certainly you do,” he replied.
en you plenty of proof, I think.”

‘‘Tamso glad !” she cried—‘'oh, so glad! I shall not
care now; I shall not trouble myself about the ‘Guide
to Etiquette’ any more; but I should like always to
be polite, Hubert, you know.”

‘Certainly; so you are. Women, especially beau-
tiful women, are sweet and gracious by nature.”

She was happy as a child,

‘I did not think ladies spoke always in the stiff,
formal way this book represents, and you like me

“T have giv-

 

best as lam, Hubert, really and éruly ?”

His answer was very delightful; but was not given
in words.

“Now, Alice,” he said, “put away the little book,
dear, and listen to me. I want to talk very serious-
ly to you. All the happiness of our lives is at stake.”

It was almost pitiful to see how the light died out
of her face. She was but a_ butterfly, poor child,
born to bask in sunshine and fragrance, and to die
when all bright things faded away, There was none
of the sterner, grander elements of womanhood in
her. She was made to be loved, caressed, and in-
dulged, not to be the companion of a man’s life in
the higher sense of the word.

“You are going to tell me something very sad. I
know it by the expression of your face.”

“It is simply this, Alice—I told you that I should
write to my uncle and see what he said about our
marriage. I have done so, and I want to tell you
about his reply.”

She drew nearer to him. and the little white hands
clung to his arm as though she would hold him
against all the world.

**My uncle is a very proud man, Alice, and not a
good man, I fear, though I do not wish to shock you
with that. He does not believe in love ”

“Not believe in love?” she interrupted, in such
horrified tones, he could not heip smiling.

“No; neither in love nor marriage. He has the
strangest ideas. Hethinksit does not matter in the
least whom you marry; and in shert, my darling
Alice, he will not hear one word of our marriage.”

Her face turned so deadly white he thought she
was going to die. Her lips lost all their color, and
she trembled like a leafon a tree. She opened her
lipsas though she was going to speak, then the
sounds died away upon them.

‘Alice, Alice, my darling!” he cried.
Heaven’s sake—do not look like that.”

“T shall die if I lose you,” she said, hoarsely. ‘All
my life has gone into yours. If I thought for one
moment thatIi should lose you, do you know what I
would do ?”

‘No, my darling.”

“JT would throw myself into the brook there before
your face. Iam only a child, I know, in years; but
it is no child’s love that [have given to you. Iam
poor, ignorant, inexperienced; but I love you—I love
you with a terrible love; I cannot lose you—I would
rather die with you any death, any torture, rather
than lose you. Oh, forgive me! I should not say
all this, but I hardly know what I am saying.”

He looked at her in wonder; the very character of
her face seemed changed—the child-like simplicity
had gone out of it; deep, undying passion shone
there now, and filled the beautiful eyes with light.
He began to understand that in that soul he had
awakened there were depths he had not penetrated.
She had caught his hand in her own, and covered it
with kisses and tears.

‘From the first,” she said, ‘*frota the first moment
you came to me, from the first moment that your
eyes smiled into mine, it was as though some great
king, some great hero, had stooped from his high
estate to love one far beneath him, Though your
face and your voice haunted me all day and all night,
siill said to myself that it would be madness to
love you, because you were so farabove me. Then,
when J] found that I could not help loving you, I
thought I would worship you all my life,as the
Persians do the sun. I never dreamed of your
loving me, but I used to think how the greatest
pleasure of my life would be watching you as you
rode by, and reading about you when you should be
agreat man. I never dreamed of your loving me;
it would have seemed to me less wonderful had the
sun bowed down to the stars. I said to myself, ‘I
must be careful that no one in the wide world shall
even guess at my secret; and I would have kept it.
I would have loved you from a far-off distance, but
that yousaid you loved me. Then! let my whole
heart and all my thoughts go out to you. I cannot
take them back. You have been heart of my heart,
soul of my soul—I cannot lose you.”

She buried her face in her hands, and flung herself
with passionate tears on the ground; but he raised
her, and kissed her tears away.

“You will never like me again,” sobbed she. ‘I
know that I ought not to talk in this way—the ladies
of your world do not—but my heart must speak, and
it can only speak through my lips, you know.”

‘*My dearest Alice, my darling, you mistake; in-
deed you mistake. Could Ido anything else but love
you? Do not weep; there isno need. We will not
be parted. Listen to me.”

“We must not be parted now,” she said, “unless
you wish me to die.”

She had never looked more lovely; the pouting,
beautiful lips, the eyes filled with tears, the sweet
face all aglow with passion and tenderness.

“You have not heard all, Alice,” said her lover.
“Lord Arncourt cannot part us—no one in the wide
world can do that,”

“Then why did you frighten me so dreadfully ?”
she asked, beginniug to smile again.

‘Lord Arncourt cannot part us, but, if we are
married, he will disinherit me.”

“You will not mind that, shall you?” she asked,
eagerly.

He could not help smiling again at her simplicity.

“I think I should mind it, Alice ; for you see that
I have been brought up to be Lord of Neversleigh ;
that has always beeu the future worked out for me.
I have no fortune of my own—not one shilling—and
my uncle, always intending me to be his heir, has
never had me educated for any profession. If I were
disinherited, Alice, I should not be able to get even
a living like your father’s. I should be the poorest
of the poor.”

“It would be cruel to you,” she said,
not let you lose Neversleigh for my sake.
only one thing that we’can do, Hubert,”

“What is it, my darling ?”

“We must wait. You must not disobey or anger
your uncle ; it will not do. We love each other; we
are very happy with our love. Thereis no need to
look further yet. I should be happier waiting all
my life for you than if I were married to some great
king !?

“But we may have to wait half a lifetime,” he
said.

“Never mind, that will not matter. What can be
better or happier? We can see each other some-
times. I can write to yon; you can write to me.
We shall be just as happy as we are now.”

‘Even if it be for thirty years?” he said.

‘Time is as nothing to those who love,” she said
with unconscious poetry.

So the morning that had seemed so perplexing to
him ended happily. They were to love each other
always, and to wait in patience until the time should
come when that love might be avowed in full light
of day.

 

“Do not, for

 

“T would
There is

 

CHAPTER XY.

Lord Arrncourt smiled to himself as he drank his
rare wine and looked over his cameos. His favor-
ite nephew was a man of sense after all; he had
written several times, but there was no more men-
tion of a love affair.

“He is cured,” thought his lordship, with a cynical
smile; ‘‘it is astonishing, after all, how a man in
love may be brought to reason, I have no doubt but
that when I return I shall have some story of the
disappearance of some village beauty. I shall know
what it means; there is nothing like philosophy,
after all.”

So for a time there was acalm. Hubert went fre-
quently to the school-house, and but few days passed
without his seeing Alice. Yet Hubert Ruthven was
far from happy; he did not like the concealment, the
clandestine meetings, the secrecy, the part he was
compelled to play. He was an honorable man, and
there seemed to him something very dishonorable
in the whoie affair. Yet how toalter it he did not
know. As the days, weeks,and months passed by,
he owned to himself that he had been foolish, that
he had mistaken a boyish infatuation, a passing
fancy, for love; yet, that his word was pledged now,
er as the price of his life’s happiness, he must keep
t.

How the story would have ended can never be
known—fate interfered again.

One morning, Hubert said to himself that on the
day following he would go over to Neverstay and tell
his story to Mr. Luttrell; it would ease his mind and
his conscience, he thought. That same oe
word was brought to him that the schoolmaster ha
fallen down dead in the school.

All the consequences of this event did not at once
present themselves to him. Of course, he went
over to Neverstay, and found Alice paralyzed with
grief. The lovely, child-like, smiling girl had never
seen death before, and her grief was terrible to wit-
ness. He found her by her father’s bedside, from
whence she refused to move. She took no notice of
him; his presence seemed of no account to her. She
did not even hear him when he spoke. She only
cried for her father, who was never more to listen
to her cries, or to wipe away her tears.

Hubert did all that was possible. He sent to the
village for some kind-hearted woman to remain with
her; he eed all the arrangements for the
funeral. He was present at the inquest, aud heard
the decision of the jury:

“Died of disease of the heart.”

 

 

_~<6¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ee 5

 

Then he wondered what he was to do next. Alice
was not quite penniless—her father had saveda
hundred pounds.

“It would buy her mourning, and set her up in
the world,” said the kind-hearted neighbors; but
they did not know the story of Alice’s love.

The first time he met her after her father’s death
the inmost depths of his heart were moved. She had
always been so bright, so smiling, so animated; she
had been so radiant in her love and her happiness.
Now she was pale and sad, with quivering lips and
weeping eyes.

“Alice, my darling! he cried, shall you never
smile again?”

She clung to him as a weeping child to its
mother.

“I was so happy,” she sobbed, “only three weeks
since; and now I have lost all in the world.”

*Not quite all,” he said. ‘I am left to you.”

“But I must lose you too,” she said. “Oh! Hubert,
I did not think of that at first, and it is just as well
—it would have killed me,”

“Why must you lose me, my darling? I don’t un-
derstand. I thought to love you all the better, so
as to make up to you for your loss.”

“They have been telling me that I shall have to
leave the cottage—the pretty home where I have
been so happy. Some one else is coming. There
will have to be another schoolmaster, and I cannot
stay.

He said to himself how blind and stupid he had
been not to think of that. Of course the poor child
must seek a fresh home.

‘But, Alice,” he said, wonderingly, ‘‘where shall
you go—what shall you do?”

“JT cannot tell,” she answered; ‘tone says I had
better be a governess; another, that I had better
learn something by which I could get a living. 0O,
Hubert, all my happy life I have been living like
the flowers, without a thought as to ‘laboring and
spinning.’ I never thought of my father’s death;
it never occurred to me that he would die and leave
me.” :

**Are you quite alone in the world?” asked Hubert,
thoughtfully; ‘thave you no friends, no relations,
none of what in homely country phrase is called
‘mother’s kin?’ ”

She shook her head sadly.

**T believe that Iam quite alone,” she said. **When
I have lett you, I shall be among strangers.”

‘What plan did you think of yourself?” he asked.

“IT do not know,” and the blue eyes were raised
hopelessly to his. ‘I suppose I must do as other
orphan girls do—go away, go and teach some chil-
dren. There is one comfort for me—my heart will
soon break, away from you. O, Hubert, Hubert, £
love you so; can you do nothing to make me hap-
pier ?”

She clasped her arms round his neck, hiding her
golden head on his breast, weeping bitter, passionate
tears. His face grew very paleand grave, he trem-
bled, and his heart beat. Her very loneliness, her
sorrow, her desolation appealed to him as nothing
else could have done; all his better, kinder feelings
were aroused.

“IT can do one thing for you, my darling,
will permit me,” he said.
wife.”

“Your wife! But. Hubert, that would ruin you.”

“No; we must manage better than that,” he re-
plied. ‘I hardly like to suggest it to you, Alice, now
that you are so lonely, but if you would consent to
a private marriage, we should have no more diffi-
culty. Would you do that ?”

“Yes,” she whispered, faintly; ‘‘anything rather
than be separated from you.”

“Then it shall be so. We can be married in Lon-
don, and I will take you abroad. You will not mind
living abroad ?”

“Anything rather than leave you,” she repeated.

“Then it shall be so. I could not bear the thought
of your going out into the bleak, wide world,
to teach strange children. I could no bear to
think of these little white hands working for bread.
If you will be my wife, my darling, I will be tender
and true to you—tender and true.”

“T can hardly believe it,” she murmured; ‘it seems
teo good to be true.”

“Tell every one who speaks to you about it that
you are going to live with friends,” he said. And
then he hastened away from her to make the neces-
sary arrangements,

(TO BE CONTINUED)

if you
“f will make you my

Vic Lstaeeae a ee

PUZZLED WHICH TO TAKE,

BY LOUIE GLENN.

 

 

Jack Green was as conceited a specimen of humanity
as you could find in a long search,

He was iwo-and-twenty when he made up his mind
that it was about the proper age for him to marry. He
was chock-full of conceit, and believed he could get any
girl for the asking.

He imagined all the ladies, young and old, were won-
derfally fond of hin, and he was bothered in lis mind
Which to choose.

‘HU’s a confounded bother this marrying, and I'd let my
mother arrange 1i for me, bul I expect that wouldn't do,
and Tmust do some courting myseif,’? he soliloquized.
*There’s a lot of tue creatures coaxing "round and look-
ing sweet at me, and it’s really puzzling which oue to
marry. Que thing I do Know, and that is, if ihe one I
make Mrs. Green doesn’t suit me Pll get a divoree.’’

Tue first step wastaken when Jack escorted pretty
Rose Tremaine toa picnic. Before two hours passed by
le saw she was equally gracious to his comrades. He
did't like it a bit, but what Could he do? He concluded
to let her severely alone,

Lettie Lee, the next favored one, snubbed him out-
rigit. Sie left him tete-a-tete with her mother, while she
slipped offto play croquet with @ neighbor. He bowed
himselfout and went off in.a hoff, and for two whote
weeks never went near the creatures, as he termed the
young ladies; then he thought thein sufficiently punished
and he guessed they’d use him better in futare.

He went the rounds of all his young lady acquaintan-
ces, and, strange to say, they all were blind to lis perfec-
tions aud their own best interests, and appeared Lo be une
willing to become Mrs, G,

He unbosomed his woes to a friend, who was a bit ofa
Wag, and was told to persevere.

They are all dying to get you, and you must come out
point blank and pop the question, Let them know
you're in earnest, aud you'll be married before you know
it,

Gladly he followed his friend's advice, and offered his
heart, hand and fortune to at leusta dozen; but, strange
to tell, they declined the honor. He was informed by one
that she was too young, and wouldn't marry for a dozen
years. Another thought herself too old for him, which
was very strange, he thought, while one pert miss said
“he wasn’t well furnished ta the upper story,’? Jack tried
to convince her of her mistake—said “their house was
well furnished {rom top to bottom,’ but she langhed in
his face.

He now began to get a glimmer of the truth, and was
dumfounded thereat. How any young Jady of sense could
be so unwise as tu refuse him, the only son and heir of the
rien Squire Green, who lived in the big house on the hill,
and had a cupola on it, (tne house, not the hill,) was a
miystery to him,

Jack now is puzzled to know who will choose him. He
is no more troubled with the previous question.

if any young and fascinating lady has hitherto been left
outin the cold in the matrimonial market, let her take
heart of grace, und pay Merrivale a visit, where she wil!
be quite sure of an Opportunity to leave the state of sin-
gle biessedness, and shine in the Matrimonial rauks asthe
daughter-in-law of Squire Green, whose house has a cupo-
la on it, dud which, like his son’s head, is quite empty,

_ HO
HXistoriecal Items.

 

TxE construction of the great Chinese Wall only
occupied ten years, but during that time millions of men
were employed upon it. This wall is 1,500 miles long, from 20 to
25 feet high, and so thick that six horsemen can ride upon it
abreast. Itisin many parts built in the most substantiat man-
ner, especially at the eastern extremity, where it extends by a
massive levee into the sea. In this portion, it is suid, the work-
men were required, on pain of death, to fit the stones so exactly
that a nail could not be driven between them. In some parts
the wallis of earth only. This wall does not surround the em-
vire, but is built on its north and north-east boundary. It was
puilt to keep out the Tartars. Subsequently, by the accession to
the throne of an emperor of Tartar descent the wall became use-
less. It is now, in ate places, a ruin. It has been said that the
materials used in building this would construct a wail six feet
high and two feet thick twice around the world,

On jury trials, two centuries ago, it was dauger-
ous for jurors to differ from the presiding judge. In England it
was not uncommon for the judge to punish jurymen for not fol-
lowing his directions. When Penn (the Quaker) and Meade were
tried before a jury for preaching in the streets, they (the jury)
were sent back turee times for not finding the prisoners guilty,
and at last were fined for their obstinacy. The fines not being
forthcoming, they were confined in Newgate. A writ of hadeas
corpus 300n oer the prison doors, and the case was referred
to a tull bench ot twelve judges, who pronounced the fining and
imprisonment to be contrary to law. The jurymen subsequently
obtained exemplary damages for talse imprisonment.

THe mark which persons who are unable to write
are required to make instead of their signatares, is in the form
of a cross; but this signature is not invariably a proof of such ig-
norance. Anciently, the use of the mark was not confined to
illiterate persons. Among the Saxons the mark of the cross, as
an attestation of the good faith of the person signing, was re-
quired to be attached to the signature of those who could write,
as weil asto stand inthe place of the signatare of those who
could not write, It was, indeed, the symbol of an oath, from its
sacred associations, as well as the mark generally adopted
Hence the origin of the expression, “God save the mark,” as at]
form of ejaculation approaching the character of an oath.

THE first meerschaum pipe was made by a shoe-
maker, named Karol Kowates, in Pesth, the capital of Hungary,
in 1723. The use of these pipes was almost exclusively contined
to the richest European noblemen until 1880, when they became
a general article of trade,

 

HEAVY HEARTED.

BY ADA R. CARNAHAN. ,

The lonely days are sad and long;
Young Millie, flitting here and there,
Is ligitly singing a love song—
Young Millie with the golden hair.

It would that I were young again,

To sing with heart as light and free,
And as I sang some happy strain

To dream what my true love would be,

He should be tall, and straight, and strong—
He should be brave, and good, and truet
Ah! me, the days were not so Jong
When dreams were all of love I knew!

Young Millie with the golden hair,
Must she, too, lose her happy dreams ?
Must she, too, learn that life is care,
Axd love fs not the god he seems ?

Well, if she learn through such distress
How selfish love is mean and smaj),
And find the greater happiness
Tn losing one, of loving all.

; >-o-0

CONVICT LOVER.

By CHRISTIAN RELD.

CHAPTER Ill.
A WOMAN’S CHOICE.

Three or four months after the events recorded fn the
Jast chapter a graceful litde yacht is running rapidly be-
fore a favorable wind along tie coast of Venezuela. This
dainty craft bears the name of the Greyhound, and is well
Known through the West Indies as the property of Mr.
Seabrooke, the wealthy Euglisiiman, who for nearly a
year lias been lingering amoung the odorous cali of these
tropical islands,

Why he lingers no one can say, unless the reason is to
de found in Alice Carrington’s fair face. The good people
of Jamaica ure inclined 10 think that itis to be found in
this, but they also think it strange that his evident admi-
ration has not culminated ip anything definite, and that
after many months Miss Carrington is Miss Carrington
sill, Nobody is inclined to blame Mr. Seabrooke for the
delay, but everybody agrees that Miss Carrington is in
fault, that she ought to settle the matter one way or an-
other, and thatif she is foolish enough to refuse thig
wealthy, handsome, high-born gentleman, she will de-
serve—well, really there is no telling what she will not
deserve, in the opinion of her fmends, The months, how-
ever, goon and Miss Carrington does not seem to be of
this opinion. She gives Mr. Seabrooke’s suit very lltile
eucouragement, and if he resointely perseveres it ig more
because he feeis confident of his own power to win her at
last than because there is any perceptible hope of such an
event. Itis with great difficully that he draws from her
anything in the least degree savoring of eucouragement,
and when, with much trouble, he persuades her to make
ene of a gay yachting party, bound ou a pleasure trip to
Brazil and the region of the La Plata, she Consents to do
80 More on account of Mrs. Denham, who is eagerly anx-
ious to go, than from any regard to her own wishes or
consideration of his. He is aware of this, but he isa man
of great tenacity of purpose, and when he told Duchatel
that night ou the beach that he “meantto marry’? this
woman, he stated an intention which was to him fixed ag
a fact, and in whieh he had never wavered from that hour
to the one when Miss Carrington sits by lis side on the
deck of the Greyhound, and while the west is piled with
orange and crimson clouds, the sea lies like a mirror
around them, and the tropical night fails over ocean and
Sky, he tells her how long he hus loyed her, and asks her
to be his wife. She is nota woman to be thrown into con.
fusion by anything of this Kind, but still she hesitates, and
finally says that she cannot give an immediate answer,

“It is not that | fail to appreciate all you offer me,’ she
says, “nor that | duonbt anything which you profess, but I
am not certain of myseif. If you do not mind, if lmight
take a few days for consideration ——”

ile assures her that she muy iake any number of days
she pleases, and if he may only hope in the interval, if
she will only promise to be his at Jast, he wil be content,

“I cannot promise that,’? she says, smiling, ‘else where
would be the good of consideration ? But I will try to.see
if Like you well enough to marry you, and if 1 dol will
tell you so.’?

“Ir you love me at all, Marry me, and I will soon make
yon love ne well enough to satisfy yourself.”

“I would rather be sure of the love beforehand,” she
replies, gravely. Then she ends the conversation by ris-
ing. Nevertheless, Mr. Seabrooke feeis that he lias gained
an important step, and be goes to sleep that nightina
very contented irame of mind,

The next day a heavy squall overtakes them, and al-
though the little yacht weathers it gaiiautly she is crippled
so much that they ure obliged to put into the first port for
repairs. This port chances to be that of Cayenne. The
iadies, Who have been quite sea-sick, are all below, the
gentlemen mostly follow their example, Mr. Seabrooke is
pacing the deck ulone when the sailing-masier comes up
with this report. He makes il in @ nlatter-ol-course way,
and is evidently as little prepared for opposition as for the
tone in which this opposition comes.

“Hang the repairs!’ says Mr. Seabrooke, frowning
darkly. ‘You must be crazy, Waison, to tell me that the
first breath of bad weather has crippled the yatch so much
that we must pul into that Infernal place. It shall not be
done—nol if she bas sprung a-ieak in every plank! Where
are we? What are our bearings ??

“Weare in soundings, sir, and not more than sixty
miles from the coast ol Guiana. If we turn her head
westward, and run down the shore, we cau anchor in
Cayenne to-morrow.”

“It shall not be done, I tell you—not for any considera-
tion! There can be no real necessity. Run for Surinam,
if you choose—if you must put in somewhere.”

“Surinam, sir, is nearly three times as distant as Cay-
enne, and it is my duty to tell yon that the yacht is badly
disabled. I don’t hke the look of the weather, and if ane
other squall overtakes herin this plight 1 dou’t see how
she will be able to weather it.??

Mr. Seabrooke looks round with an overcast brow. He
can see for himself the condition of the Jittle craft, which
seems & mere cockleshell in the midst of the still angry
sea, and lies pitching and tossing in the trough of the
waves, With crippled yards and torn sails, while the low-
ering sky above gives promise of anything but fair wea-
ther. Ile is a moderately good sailor when he chooses to
open his eyes—and he opeus them now very gravely. The
condition of the vessel is plainly more serious than he has
thought, and he dares not trifle with such danger as may
be before them. He can scarcely account for his extreme
reluctance to put into Cayenne, but the fact of the reluc-
tance is undoubted. He shrinks from turning the yacht’s
head in that direction, yet he perceives that Watson is
right—that it must be done. He has one short, fierce
struggle with himself—a struggle in which Alice Oarring-
ton‘’s safety is weighed against the danger of recalling to
her mind one whom she had better forget—and then he
turns away, saying abruptly:

“Do it, if it must be done,”

The order is hut long in being obeyed; the ship’s head
is quickly brought round to the westward, and she is soon
making all the speed which is compatible with her condl-
tion for the coast of French Guiana. By the next even-
ing sie enters the harbor of Oayenne, aud drops her
anchor,

When morning—the refulgent morning of the tropics—
breaks, and the yachting party assemble once more on
the deck, they can scarcely believe that the fair scene be-
fore thei is, indeed, that famous Cayenne, which to all
readers of French literature is fraught with horror, aud
the name of which is asynonym for suffering worse than
death.

Accustomed as they all are to the glory of tropical na-
ture, they Can scarcely restrain their admiration for the
prospect spread before them—the glassy bay dotted with
shipping, the luxuriant shore rich in vegetation, the dis-
tant mountains robed in heavenly azure, the fairy islands
rising, like cones out of the deep blue water, and wooded
with feathery foliage to their cresis. Even the rampurts,
the cannou, the pacing sentinels and flying flags have a
beauty of Lueir own, and give animation to the pictur.
cae scene, on which the sun of perpetual summer looks

own.

Only one person shudders at the sight, and thinks of at
night not many months back, oi the Mercure gleaming
With lights and echoing with music, of pale lips that saids

“If you loved you might be brave enough to share dis-
grace,’’ of the deadly struggle, the breathless chase across
the harbor of Port Royal and the final capture. She has
never heard of Duchatel since then. She wonders if he
is here now—here eating out his heart in bitter despair—
aud as she wonders, leaning against the taffrail quite
alone, @ Step approaches, and a voice sounds at her side.

“I Know of whom you are thinking,”? says Mr. Sea-
brooke. ‘Poor Duchatel! This place recalls is sad fate
very vividly. More en that account than apy other I was
reluctant to enter here, ltis terrible to think that no doubt
he is yonder.’

He points toward the shore, and the massive walls,
Which, nounted by formidable cannon, gleam through
the lustrous overhanging foliage. Alice Carrington shiv-
ers from head to foot.

“It is more than terrible,’ she says, in alow tone. ‘It
igs almost unbearable! Mr. Seabrooke, do you know—can
you tell me—for how long a time he was sentenced ?”’

“For life,’ answers Seabrooke, whois glad that she has
asked the question. ‘He is here for life, and having es-
caped once, there is not the least chance that he will ever
escape again—alive. Poor fellow! it is tenfold sadder
than looking at his tomb.”’

“How long shall we stay here?’ asks Miss Oarrington,

still gazing at the shore,
“Not an hour longer than can be helped, you may rest
assured. Ihave told Watson that as soon as the yacht is
at all in order he must run down to Surinam for the rest
of the repairs. 1 suppose it is because I have known Da-
chatel that the very air of tis place lias a prison taint to
me.

Notwithstanding Mr. Seabrooke’s impatience—and it is
very genuine impatience, foo—several days elapse before
Watson will admit that the yacht is ready even fur the
run to Surinam, At last, however, the pressure on him
becomes too strong,aud one evening it is announced that

 

 

they will weigh anehor the Dext morning at daybreak.

 

 

al

 

 
 

 

{2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

 

 

RE IR aS

 

 

Everybody hears tne iiiciiigence with pleasure, and when
the party relire to thei respective state-rooms, Miss Car-
rington is the only person who does not sleep the better
for the anticipation. She, however, is wakeful—strangely
wakeful—and imore than once slie draws back the blind
of her window and looks out. :

The night is moonless, but the stars shine with the
brilliant luster of tropical constellations, and the outline
of the shore is distinctly visible. .

“It seems heartlessly cruel to go away and leave him
here!’’ she thinks, and:at the very instant of this thought
gle sees a flash on shore, and hears the distant report of
a musket. A minute later other flashes—other reports
follow; then borne across the still water comes the roll
of adrum. Soon after this the heavy boomin of cannon
breaks on her ear, and then she knows What it means—
she knows that a convict has escaped!

She throws the window wide open and leans far ouf,
her heart beating almost to suffocation, her eyes straining
toward the land. What she expects to see it is impossible
to say, but she soon finds that she can distinguish nothing.
The mantle of night hangs heavily over the scene, and
although the commotion on shore is evident enough—the
shifting lights, the shots, the signals—this is only a dim,
distant panorama. It tells nothing—save that, at present,
the escape is successful. At last excitement overpowers
her. She throws on a dress and a light wrapping, and
goes up to the deck. No sooner does she set foot on this
than she sees that no lit{leinterest is astir, The sailors who
compose the crew are grouped about the side of the ves-
sel, eagerly watching the shore, while from the after-deck
Mr. Seabrooke and Watson are engaged in the same man-
ner. The former is not so much interested, however, but
that he is soon aware of a lady’s presence on deck, and
hastens forward. He starts when he sees who it is.

“Miss Carrington,’ he says, “I thought if was Mrs.
Denham who had grown so nervous that she was coming
to remonstrate with me about the cannon. I was just
preparing an apology for such very inconsiderate conduct
on the part of the French guns.”?

“Never mind about the apology,” answers Miss Car-
rington, smiling faintly. “Tell meif I am right in sup-
posing that a convict has escaped.’?

, “Evidently one has attempted to do so.”’
\ “Do you think he has succeeded in getting away ?”’

“Tam inclined to think so. They would not have fired
the cannon else. That is always done at these places
when a convict is at large.’?

“And what direction has he taken ?"

“That is impossible to say; toward the open country,
however, Timagine. It isa lovely night, isn’t it? Sup-
pose yor stay and watch the course of events a little
farther ??

She consents readily enough, and they pace up and
down the deck together. The commotion on shore par-
tially subsides, but it is evident no capture has been
made; lights still gleam to and fro, shots are still fired,
though apparently at random: Suddenly Miss Carring-
ton starts, and going to the taffrail, leans over.

“IT thought I saw something out there on the water,’’
she says, as her companion folluws her—‘‘something like
@& man’s hand,’

“This is exactly the light in which to fancy anythiug,”
he replies. ‘You are excited, too.”

“But it looked very like a hand.”

“No doubt it did, and—Heavens! what is that?”

They hush their breath to listen, and the next moment
there comes a cry—a sharp, long-drawn cry of struggling
humanity in some last dire extremity—just under the
yacht’s bows. In the pale light the horror-stricken gazers
see a white face thrown back. Then it goes down, the
dark waters close—and all is silence.

Simultaneously with that cry, however, one of the sail-
ors, with as little hesitation as a Newfoundland dog,
springs overboard, and in afew seconds those above
Know from his eager shout that he has caught the drown-
ing man as he rises to the surface. Jt is not more than
the work of a minute tolowera boat and bring fhem
both on board. When this is accomplished the first gleam
of light thrown on the rescned man shows the red serge
livery of the convict, and, when it flashes over his pale,
insensible face, Alice Carrington utters a low cry; and
Seabrooke, starting back, mutters between his teeth:

“Dachatel!”?

* *

 

* * * x *

When the young Frenchman comes to himself, he is
lying in a@luxurious cabin, witha glass of wine at his
lips, with a crowd of Kind faces about him, and with the
Greyhound standing gallantly for the open sea, while the
coast of Guiana lies like a pale line on the horizon. It is
some time before he Gan tell his story; then it proves very
Short and simple. He accidentally heard of the arrival of
an English yacht in the harbor, and, his plans of escape
being already made, he determined to make the desperate
attempt at once, in order to throw himself on the kind-
ness of the yachit’s owner. He accomplished his escape at
the hour of.changing guard, at first made for the open
country to throw his pursuers off the track, then doubled,
ran down tothe bay, and swam an almost incalculable
distance to wiiere the yacht rode at anchor. He had,
however, given up all for lost, when, on nearing her, he
felt his utter exhaustion, and saw no stir or movement on
her deck. It was the last effort of despair which gave him
Strength for that one piercing cry before the merciless
Waves closed over him, and black wWiconsciousness fol-
lowed. He knewno more untilhe waked to life and
freedom. 5

When this has been told, they all vie in kindness and
attention to him—both of which he needs sadly. Weak-
ened by prison fare and hard labor, the efforts he made
to escape have brought him to the lowest point of phys-
ical exhaustion, He is incapable of lifting his head, and
lies in a half-lethargic state, while nature is slowly recov-
ering from the strain laid upon her. So it chances that it
issome time before he hears of Miss Garrington’s pres-
ence on board. Then he turns pale, and tells Seabrooke
that he did not dream of such a thing.

“Tam sorry,’ he says. ‘Not that I care for myself, or
that it can matter to Aer whether or not we meet, but it
may annoy you, and alter your generosity that wonld be
more than I could bear. If it were not presumption for a
poor wretch like me even to mention her name, I would
Say that you are safe. As itis, that would be an unneces-
Sary assurance, but you will at least believe that Ishak
not go near her, if—if it is to be avoided.”

“Itisnot to be avoided, however,’? says Seabrooke.
“You must goon deck this evening for the purpose of
being lionized, anc you will see Miss Carrington, of course.
Don’t be foolish, Duchatel. The field is open yet, man—
she hasn’t accepted me, though she has had meunder
consideration for some time; and I say now what I should
have said before—‘Let the best man win.

“It is you who are foolish—almost cruel,’’ says Ducha-
tel. ‘The best man! Mon Dieu! Why, you have every-
thing and I have nothing—except disgrace.”

“Not the sort of disgrace—if disgrace at all—to hart,
my good fellow. There are numbers of people who would
esteem that convict’s jacket a badge of honor—consider-
ing the cause for which it is—nay, thank Heaven! was
—worn.”’

“She would not. Do you think I have forgotten her
words that night? They.are burned into my very brain.
Besides, I am not such a cur as to turn on you wlio have
Saved me,”

“Once for all, let us have no talk of that kind,” says
Seabrooke, almost angrily. “I will run back to Cayenne
and deliver you up to the authortiiies if you ever hint such
athing again. Saved you, forsooth! Why, it was Tom
Brace, nol 1 who dashed overboard, and if you had been
the poorest galley slave I should have given you refuge all
the same. For Heaven’s sake, man, don’t begin harping
on that string. Considering the relation in which we
stand to each other—I mean about’ Miss Carrington—I
don’t think I could stand it.”

“We stand in uo relation whatever,’ says Duchatel,

In the evening he goes on deck, and his meeting with
Miss Carrington is commonplace in. the extreme—it is
even cold compared to the effusive greetings of his other
friends. Like a fool—all men are fools in matters of this
kind—he feels stung by this, and thinks she means to re-
pulse any advance he may make. “She need not fear
any!’ le says to himself, and after this he sees no more of
her until near the close of the evening. Then, when he
Obtains a slight respite from Mrs. Denham—who has mo-
nopolized him and talked him to the verge of extinction
—Seabrooke, who has meanwhile been walking apart with
Miss Carrington, comes and leads him to where that young
lady is Standing quite alone. This surprises Duchatel a
litule, but it would be hard to express his amazement
when Seabrooke begins to speak.

“Duchatel,” he says, “I have just been repeating to
Miss Carrington our conversation in Jimaica the night
before your capture. I lave felt ever since that I took an
ungenerous advantage of your position, and Iam giad to
make this open amende for it. We were rivals then on a
fair field, and Lthought you had the best of me. Ldon’t
know, of course, but it is probable that, thanks to time
and absence, 1 may have the best of you now. If so,
this explanation hans placed us oncé more on an equal
footing, and I feel that I cannot better end our suspense
than by asking Miss Carrington If she can accept either
of UF, Fe put forth her hand and choose between us now.

“Stop? eries Duchatel, breaking in hoarsely, and
wrenching his arm with an effort from the other's grasp.
“I must sperk—for my own honor’s suke, I must! Miss
Carrington, | have no partin this. Ishould not dare to
insult you—stand back, Seabrooke, I will speak!—hy of-
fering youa name that hag been dragged in the mire of
the travaux forces. I lave never forgotten your words
that ‘astain is a stain, letit come how it will,’ and I
would sooner die than to ask you to share my life of exile
and outlawry.”

Hie speaks passionately, vehemently, and all the more
80 because he feels that the girl's clear eyes are reading
his face.

“Then,” she says, quietly, “I am to understand that
Mr. Seabrooke has made a mistake, that you do not wish
to offer yourself to me—that you do not love me?”

“Love youl”? the young man gives a great gasp. ‘Love
you! Great Heaven! why do you tempt me so? Have
you forgotten what I told you on that awful night when
We saw each other last?) Why do you want to make me
say it overagain? You know it—now as well as then. If
you are wise you will accept him,’—he points to Sea-
brooke—“bat if you ask whether I offer myself to you—to
yan whose face went with me into the hell L have left, and
shone on my agony and despairlike a star from Heaven—
I answer you ina few words—come to me if you are will-
ing to share my disgrace,?? ‘

There isa moment's deep silence after his passionate
tones cease 10 vibrate on the air. Only:a moment—yet
how sharp is the tension of hope and fear in:two of these
hearts, aud what a struggle Miss Carrington must know
before she can answer calmly,

_ ‘Mr. Seabrooke,’? she says, “this is a strange position
im whieh you have placed me, bnt perhaps you are. right
—perbaps the knot of many difficulties cam be cnt in this

way. Let me thank you-for the honor you have paidume, !

and the generous kinduess you have showed lo-night.

 

1| will probably not get through until eleven.

hope we shall always be friends. I like and esteem you
with all my heart, but if I must make a choice that is to
last for life-——”

She pauses. Prou] and brave as she is, her voice breaks
down, She struggles a moment for self-control, but in
vain—at last she silently holds out her hand to Duchiatei,
and her choice is made.

{THE END. }

> Ow

The right to dramatize this Serial is reserved by Ure Author.

ONE
NICHT’S MYSTERY:

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming.
(‘One Night’s Mystery” was commenced in No. 29. Back num-
berscan be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.)

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.
THE GUESTS ARE MET.

Cyrilla is finishing ‘‘Come Haste to the Wedding,”
in ten pages of wild variations, driving the old-
fashioned tune distracted; and she rises from the
piano as Sydney enters. At sight of the bride’s
thoughtful livele look, she laughs.

“My solemn Sydney! what is it he has been saying
to you so heart-breaking that you should wear that
forlorn look ?”

‘Do I look forlorn ?” returns Miss Owenson. ‘I
don’t feel so, I can tell you. Papa, do you know we
are going to have a fine day to-morrow, after all,
and I am so glad.” :

‘“AndJ] am gladof anything that makes my little
girl glad.” says papa with loving eyes. ‘‘Now,
young ladies all, which do you propose, to make a
night of it here, and go to church to-morrow as
yellow as lemons, or try the early-to-bed and early-
to-rise principle, Bertie was advocating the other
day ?”

“To bed! to bed!” exclaims Miss Hendrick. ‘I for
one don’t expect to sleep a wink; it is the first time
lever was bridemaid in my life. Shall you, Syd?”

“JT hope so, at least,” laughs Sydney. ‘JZ don’t
want to look as yellow as a lemon, to-morrow.
Mamie dear, it is your turn to look solemn—what is
it about ?”

For the elder Miss Sunderland is staring in rather
a dreary way at the fire, and saying nothing.

“TI know!” cries that malicious elf, her younger
sister triumphantly.

‘*Miss Hendrick’s last remark has upset her. This
is the third time she has been bridemaid; and three
tlmes a bridemaid, never a bride, you know. She is
thinking how the celebrated and fascinating Miss
Dolly De Courcy has stolen from her the fickle
affections of Ben——”

“Susie!” cries Miss Mamie inan awful voice, and
Susie, the irrepressible, shouts with laughter and
stops. Miss Hendrick laughs a quiet laugh to her-
self, too. Truly Wyckcliffe is well rid, she thinks,
of that small destroying angel Dolly De Courcy.

‘Good-night, Syd—dear old Syd—our Syd, no
more!” exclaims Susie Sunderland, flinging her
arms around the neck of the bride—in that sort of
hug knownto bears and school girls. ‘This time to-
morrow—oh! dismal to think of—it will be Mrs.
Bertie Vaughan.”

“Good-night, Syd—good-night, Sydney,” repeat
Cyrilla and Mamie, each with a less vehement
embrace.

“Good-night, Sydney, love,” says mamma coming
last of all. ‘‘Try and sleep well—it’s very trying to
the eyesight not to sleep well. I recollect I didn’t
sleep a wink the night before Z was married--you
remember, Reginald ?”

‘*How should I remember ?” growls Reginald;s''I
am sure I wasn’t there!” Whereat the girls all langh.

“Well, I didn’t,” says Aunt Char, ‘tand my eyes
were as red as a ferret’s next day.”

‘‘And lest yours should be as red as a ferret’s, to-
morrow, suppose you be off to bed at once. Good-
night, young ladies,” says the old sailor with his
grandest bow, ‘I wish you all pleasant dreams, and
a speedy coming of your bridal eve.”

They are all gone, and Sydney stands alone%by her
father’s side. He puts his arm about her and looks
anxiously down in her face.

“You are happy, Sydney ?” he asks—“really and
truly happy ?”

She lifts her smiling face and fair serene eyes.

‘Really and truly, papa—quite, quite happy.”

‘God bless my little daughter,”

He holds herto him a moment, and lets her go.
And Sydney runs to her room, that smile still on her
lips and in her eyes.

The red glow of firelight fills theroom. She turns
low her light and goes to the window to make sure
ofthe weather. Yes, there are the stars, a count-
less host, studding that illimitable, blue dome.
Something in their glittering, tremulous loveliness
holds her there, and she stands and gazes. And
then Bertie’s words come strangely back to her as
if some soundless voice had spoken: ‘“@ne never
knows—we may die any day. In the midst of life
we are in death.”

She has heard many times the grand, solemn
words, spoken nine hundred years ago, by the
saintly lips of the Monk of St. Gall’s—on the lips of
all mankind since; but they have never held the
meaning to her they hold now. Yes, life with all
its hopes and plans, its births and bridals, is like a
half-told tale at best. Suddenly, when the story is
at its brightest and fullest. the frail thread snaps,
and Time is at an end and Eternity begins.

** What is this pasting scene ?
A peevish April day!
A little sun, a little rain,
And then night sweeps across the plain,
And all things pass away,”
All. things but the good works humbly done, the
duties cheerfully fulfilled, the crosses patiently borne
—everything else life has held, lost—these alone to
plead for us in that awful dies ire.

She draws the curtaln and turns away, her
thoughts sweet and solemn, but not sad. Half an
hour later, her fair hair falling loose over her pillow,
a wonderously fair sight, in the rose-shine of the fire
she is sleeping like a tired child.

The sun is shining, filling her room with its early
morning glory, when she awakes, and some one is
standing by her bedside smiling down upon her.
It is Cyrilla.

‘‘Laziest_ of brides,” is Miss Hendrick’s greeting,
eae Look at that clock-and blush for your-
self.

Sydney looks—it is nearly eight.

“Well,” she says, with a stifled gape, ‘that isa
very good hour, isn’t it?”

Then she is.silent, and as-it flashes back upon. her
that this is her wedding day, her heart for a moment
seems to stand still. Shesits up in bed, throws her
arms around her friend’s neck, draws down her face
and kisses it.

‘Dear old Cy!” she says, ‘‘what good triends we
have always been. I hope—oh! I hope to-day may
never make any difference between us.”

“It will make a great deal of difference,” responds
matter-of-fact Miss Hendrick. ‘Mr. Vaughan de-
tests me with acordiality worthy a better cause.
Well, perhaps, he has had some reason,” and Cyrilla
laughs.

“*Reason ?”
son ?”

‘‘Never mind—you dear little innocent, it isn’t well
for you to know too much. But, be assured of this
—however friendly Miss Owenson may have been to
her vagabond friend, Mrs. Vaughan will keep her
civilly at arms’ length.” :

“Oy! as it I could ever change to you.”

“Ah! wait!” hints Cyrilla, darkly; ‘wives and
maidens are two different orders of beings. You will
see with Bertie Vaughan’s eyes, and think with his
thoughts, before you are his wife three months, It
is one of the fixed laws of nature, as immutable as
the stars!” ; :

“If I] were three years—three centuries his wife,”
cries Miss Owenson, with heightened color, **t would
stillbe your friend, as strongly and firmly as I am
to-day.”

**Well,” Miss Hendrick responds, heaving a pro-
found sigh, ‘I hope so, I’m sure. I told youat
school I had a firm conviction I would one day make
strong claims upon that friendship, and I have it
yet. IfIlamever in trouble, friendless and cast
out, [shall remind you of this promise. Now get
up, do, and dress yourself, and come and have some
coffee and a roll to nerve you for the trying ordeal.
Ishould not be surprised-if Mr. Vaughan were
bracing his trembling nerves with a petite verre of
the strongest fire-water in Wyckcliffe at this mo-
ment.’

Sydney has her bath, knots up her hair, throws
on a dressing-gown, thrusts her feet into slippers,
and runs. down stairs. Itis nine o’clock now. In
ite hours’ precisely she will be standing at the
altar.

From this moment allis fuss and haste, bustle
and confusion. A hasty cup of strong coffee is swal-
lowed all around; eating is but a pretext with these
excited maidens; then they scurry off to their rooms,
In his, Captain Owenson is making the most elab-
orate toitet man ever made; he began at eight and
or the

Sydney looks puzzled. ©‘“‘What_. rea-

 

 

first time in two years he is going to church. Syd
ney finds the hair-dresser awaiting her, and places
herself under his hands. Itisalengthy operation,
When it is over fhe maid who is to robe her for the
sacrifice approaches and leads her off. One by one
they are on, dress, slippers, vail, wreath, necklace,
gloves, Asinadream she sits or stands, wonder-
ing “ifIl be I.” She can fancy the pains Bertie is
taking over his wedding toilet, so fastidious and
difficult as he is at all times, and she smiles to her-
self. Then she glances at the clock—twenty min-
utes of eleven.

‘Look at yourself, miss,” says the girl, witha
pleased simper. ‘I don’t believe you have looked
yet.”

; She scarcely has, but she does now. She almost
starts; she utters a faint, delighted exclamation.
Can this be Sydney Owenson? this radiant vision in
silvery white, with all that gold hair coiffed so elab-
orately in this trailing splendor of shimmering silk,
and pearls, and lace, and orange blossoms? Then
the door opens and the three bridemaids come in.

“Oh-h!” 7 ‘

It is a long-drawn, breathless aspiration from all
three at once:’ They stand and survey the bride
from head to foot,

“Oh, don’t you look scrumptious!” cries Susie Sun-
derland, dancing a little ecstatic jig around the
bride; ‘tshouldn’t I love to bea bride and look like
that.”

They are all three in palest pink; rose is Cyrilla’s
color, and fortunately suits the Sunderland sisters.
In palest pink, with golden lockets, the bridegroom’s
gift, on their necks and blush roses in their hair.

**You really look lovely, Syd,” says Minnie Sun-
derland, with a small, envious sigh. “I always knew
being married was becoming to almost everybody,
but it becomes you better than any one I ever saw.
Your dress is exquisite.”

‘‘And don’t she wish Ben Ward would ask her to
put on such a one, and come to chureb with him!”
says Susie, in a stage ‘‘aside.”

The door opens again; this time it is mamma,
bravein pear! satin, a diamond breast-pin and poini-
lace-cap.

“Will 1 do, mamma ?” the bride asks, -holding up
her face to be kissed.

‘*Yes, you look very well,” says mamma, critically.
‘‘White silk is a trying thing to most complexions,
but then fair people, with acolor, can wear almost
anything. I could myself when I was a girl. Every-
body said I looked remarkably well the night I was
married, I prefera gaslight marriage myself—it’s
more imposing, but your papa would have the morn-
ing and the church, It’s more English, I suppose.”

Again a tap at the door—this time papa, looking
stately and grand, an ‘‘officer and a gentleman”
every inch.

“Ready, young ladies ?—ready, Sydney ?” he asks,
his watch in his hand, ‘‘the carriage is at the door,
and it is only five minutes to eleven. We shall be
precisely ten minutes late.”

“Oh, where are the wraps!” ery .aH, and a univer-
salrush is made. Dazzling sun iiine streams over
everything, but it is the last week of November, and
the air is iced accordingly. Wraps are found and
thrown on, and all troop doa stairs with a joyous
tumult of laughter and tal':, and pile into the two
carriages waiting there. Captain Owenson, Sydney
and Cyrilla Hendrick in the first, mamma and the
Misses Sunderland in the other.

“What a perfect day!” Sydney exultantly cries;
‘‘sunshine everywhere, and the snow sparkling as if
it had been painted and varnished. It is a good
omen—this heavenly day.”

‘I wish it were not quite so trying to the eyes,
though,” says her father; ‘tmine have been blinking
in its dazzle and raining tears; the only tears that
are to be shed at your wedding, Sydney.”

Sydney smiles and nestles her hand in his. There
is an interval of silence—then they are in Wyckliffe.
And now the little bride’s heart begins to beat fast.
There is the church—a flock of the town street Arabs
around the gate—the hour has come,

They stop. Can Bertie and Harry have walked ?
Theirs are the only carriages waiting. The
girls fling off their loose wraps, the door is
Opened and the captain is handed out. Ared carpet
is laid to the church door—upon it the bride steps
and takes her father’s arm. The Misses Sunderland
and Miss Hendrick follow; mamma sails along in
their wake, and the bridal cortege sweep into the
chureh, ee

There is a mist before Sydney's eyes, a dull roar-
ing in her ears; her heart beats as if it would swffo-
cate her. She is dimly conscious that the church is
very full of people, and thatthey are all staring at
her. Then—she never afterward knows how it is—
but a douche of ice water seems to go over her, all
palpitation passes away, all tremor, all shyness—she
feels suddenly cold and still, and—the bridegroom is
not here!

They are standing alone at the altar rails, her
father, her bridemaids, herself, and—no one else.
Bertie and Harry Sunderland were to be here before
them, but neither Bertie nor Harry has come.

Her father—it is her first thought—her proud, sen-
sitive, invalid old father. He had turned livid, in
the first shock of realizing the affront put upon him
—he has turned purple now, a fine imperial purple.
Then, as the vestry door opens and the parson in his
surplice appears, changes to ashen pale again. The
Reverend Mr, Sylvester beckons him aside and says
in a whisper:

“This is very awkward, captain—it is a quarter
past eleven. Something has detained the bride-
groom.”

Awkward! A mild way of putting it, certainly.
There stands the bride—there stands the bride-
maids in a blank group; there set all the gaping
people, dead silent, breathless, a dawning smile on
two or three faces.

Here he is—here is the parson; but—was ever such
a thing heard of before in ail the annals of bridals ?
—the bridegroom is late!

To her dying day, it seems to Sydney, asshe stands
there, she will never recall this moment without
turning sick and scarlet with pain and shame. She
is as white as the dress she wears, she stands look-
ing straight before her and seeing nothing. So they
remain, a petrified group, while one, two, three,
four, five minutes tick off. No one seems to know
what to do, they just stand and look blankly before
them. Then the captain pulls out his watch, his
hand shaking as though palsy stricken—it is twenty
minutes past eleven. As he putsit back there is a
sudden sound and bustle at the door. All start, all
eyes turn, all hearts beat quick. A man enters, one
man, one only—not the bridegroom. It is Harry
Sunderland.

He is pale, his eyes look excited, he strides up to
where they stand, heedless of the staring congrega-
tion, and addresses himself to the father of the
bride.

‘‘Hasn’t Vaughan come?” he asks, in a hoarse,
breathless sort of voice.

‘-He is not here,” the parson answers.

The power of speech it seems has left Captain
Owenson.

“Then, in Heaven’s name, where ean he be ?” the
young man cries. ‘‘He is notat the hotel—he never
was there all night. Noone knowsanything of him.
He left yesterday afternoon and has never been seen
since.” A

In the same hoarse, breathless voice he says all
this, staring blankly in the clergyman’s face.

“J waited and waited hoping he would come,” he
goes on, ‘I sent messengers in search of him. No
one has seen him, no one y

‘*Papa!” Sydney shrieks. She springs forward,
not a second too soon, and reels as her father falls
headlong into her extended arms. Harry Sunder-
land catches him before both fall. Then a scene of
direst confusion begins, the cries of women, the
rushing of many feet, the sounds of wild weeping,
the excited clamor of many tongues. In the midst
of it all the rector speaks:

“Carry himinto the vestry,” he says, and young
Sunderland obeys. Like a dead man the old sailor
lies in hisarms. Js he dead? His doom has been
long ago pronounced—a sudden shock may kill him
at any moment. Surely he has had shock enough
now.

“Fly for a doctor!” says Mr. Sylvester.

Sunderland places his burden upon a bench and
goes. Sydney, sinking on her knees by his side, re-
ceives her father’s head in-herarms. She does not
speak, she makes no outcry, she is the color of
death, and her eyes are wild and black with terror,
but she is perfectly still. Her mother in the grasp
of Cyrilla Hendrick is in violent hysterics; the Sun-
derland girls stand near, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sydney alone looks down in her father’s corpse-like
face'and is still.

It may be a moment, if may be an hour, she does
not know when the doctor comes. She does not
quit her post as he makes his examination; if seems
to her she hardly lives or feels as he searches pulse
and heart, and pronounces it not death, but a death-
like faint. Then remedies of all kinds are tried.
Sydney is told to arise, and mecharically obeys. She
stands beside her father, heedless of everything
else that goes on, forgetful of everything else that
has happened, and watehes the slow return to life.
Slow, but he does return; there. is a struggle, a
quiver of all the limbs, a gasping breath or two, and

 

he opens his eyes
looks wildly around

“Sydney e

‘*Papa, darling, here!" She falls on her knees be-
side him again—again takes his head in her arms,
and kisses him softly.

‘Something has happened?” he asks, in the same
vacant way. ‘*What wasit? Oh, I know!” A spasm
of agony distorts his face. ‘Bertie!”

‘‘Harry is going to try and find him,
of Bertie now, papa. Can you sit up?
ing to take you home.”

**Yes, home—home!” he makes answer, brokenly.
“There will be no marrying or giving in marriage
to-day. Oh, my little daughter!”

They raise him up—Harry Sunderland on one side,
the doctor on the other, and bear him between them
to the carriage. He came here this morning a fine,
upright, grand old gentleman; he goes, marked for
death, unable to stand alone. The doctor follows
him in, and sits beside him; then Sydney, Henry
Sunderland helps to hers, Mrs. Owenson still sob-
bing wildly, and finally Miss Hendrick,

“You had better get into my sleigh, girls,” he has
said to his sisters; ‘itis at the gate. They want no
strangers at Owenson Place to-day. You can drive
yourself and Sue, Mamie.”

They assent and go. The young fellow returns to
the first carriage and looks with compassionate eyes
at Sydney.

‘‘T am going in search of Bertie,” he says. ‘I will
find him if he is alive.”

She bends her head and the carriage starts. They
go slowly—it takes all the doctor’s strength to up-
hold the stricken man. The other carriage is at the
house before them, and Mrs. Owenson and Cyrilla
stand at the door,

“Oh, Reginald!” Mrs. Owenson cries, with a wild
flood of tears. :

He neither seems to see nor hear her. Perkins
and the doctor carry him up-stairs to his bedroom,
take off all those brave wedding garments, which
will serve for his shrond, and lay him on the bed,
from which he will never rise.

In her chamber the unwedded bride is removing
with rapid hands vail, wreath, pearls, robe. There
are no tears in her eyes; she has shed none; she
keeps that pale, cold calm through all. The clock
strikes one as she throws on her dressing-gown and
hurries to her father’s bedside. And where in the
world of the living or the world of the dead is Ber-
tie Vaughan ?

He is bewildered ai first—he

Don’t think
We are go-

 

CHAPTER XX.
“DEATH IS KING——-AND VIVAT REX.”

Her father is calling for her as she goesin. She
comes forward and twines her arms around him as
he lies. Infinite pity, infinite love look at her out
of those haggard eyes.

**My little one,” he says, ‘‘my little one, it is hard
on you.”

He cannot talk much. He has had spasms of the
heart since they brought him home, and he is greatly
exhausted. He lies with his daughter's hand clasped
in his, and falls, almost as h® speaks, into a sort of
Stupor, in which he remains for hours. The doctor,
Mrs. Owenson, Cyrilla flit in and.out, and offer to
relieve Sydney, but she shakes her head, and her
pale, tired face never loses its patient, suffering
look. Her mother is weeping ceaselessly—Sydney
sheds no tears.

‘‘How dreadful of you, Sydney,” Mrs. Owenson
says with a suppressed outbreak of sobbing, *‘to sit
there like that, and your poor papa as bad as he can
be—not to speak of Bertie. Iam sure if I were in
your place I would die. Inever thought you could be
heartless before.”

Heartless! isshe? She puts her hand to her head
with a dreary gesture, A dull, dumb sense of misery
oppresses her, but she cannot cry—her eyes are dry
and aot. Usually tears come as readily to her as to
most girls, even for trifles, although she has never
wept much in her short, happy life; but if that life
depended on it she could not shed a tear now.

‘Please, mamma, not so loud. You will wake
papa,” she says, pleadingly, and mamma with an-
other burst of stifled hysterics goes out, and con-
fides to Miss Hendrick how dry-eyed and unfeeling
Sydney sits,
§ Hours pass. The yellow afteriioon sun is slanting
farther and farther westward; in the sick-room pale
twilight is falling already when there is a loud ring
at the door-bell. Sydney’s heart jumps wildly. Her
father’s dulled ears hear it, her father’s dulled eyes
open,

‘“‘Who is this ?” he asks.

‘T don’t know. Are you better, papa, dear?”

‘‘Have you been here ever since ?” he inquires.

“Yes, papa; you know I would rather be beside
you than anywhere else in the world.”

“My Sydney!” He presses her hand gently, and
tears force their way into his eyes; “there is—no—
news ?”

“None, papa—yet.”

“They are searching ?”

‘*Yes, papa. Mamma says Harry and the consta-
bles are searching everywhere.”

‘‘How long have J slept ?”

‘Nearly three hours, papa.”

*tAnd you have been here all that time.
ther must relieve you. Ha! who is that ?”

There is a tap at the door—it opens, and Mrs.
@wenson comes hastily in.

‘‘Sydney!” she says, in an excited whisper, “‘there
is 2 man here, and he says he has news. He wants
to see your father—what shall we do ?”

“Send him in!” exclaims her husband's voice, and
Aunt Char jumps and shrieks; ‘‘send him in, Char.
Do you hear ? at once.”

Mrs. Owenson vanishes. Sydney feels the hand
her father holds convulsively grasped, hears his
quick, panting breath, sees the excited flash of his
eyes.

“Oh! papa, be careful!” she pleads; ‘‘don’t excite
yourself. You don’t know the harm it may do.”

He knows well enough, but he never thinks of
himself in this moment. The man is ushered in by
the mistress of the house, and stands hat in hand
bowing awkwardly and looking embarrassed—a de-
cent, intelligent working man.

‘““Well!” the captain gasps, ‘*quick!
news ?”

The man advances toward the bed, and holds out
something to Sydney.

“Would you please to look at this, miss, and tell
me if you know it ?”

She takes it and uttersacry. Itis a locket at-
tached to a fragment of broken chain.

“Tt is Bertie’s!” she says; ‘this locket, papa—with
his mother’s picture, the one he always wore on his
watch chain. Look!”

She places it in her father’s hand. He recognizes
it, as she does, the instant his eyes fall upon it.

“It’s the missing young gentleman’s, then?” asks
the man. “I thought so. Could you tell me, miss,
what sort of a necktie he wore the evening you see
him last ?” ;

**A blue necktie,” Sydney answers, without a sec-
ond’s hesitation. ‘tA dark blue necktie, no broader
than a strip of narrow ribbon.”

“Ts this it?” says the man. He takes out of his
vest pocket a tiny paper parcel, opensit. and dis-
plays what looks like a strip of narrow dark blue
ribbon torn in two.

“Tt is!" Sydney exclaims; ‘I am sure of it! The
ends are peculiarly stitched with white; Mr. Vaugh-
an had this on his neck last night when he left this
house. Oh, papa! what does this mean?”

“What I suspected from the first,” her father an-
swered, in a husky veice—“‘that Bertie has been
waylaid and murdered.”

Mrs. Owenson gives a faint shriek of horror, al-
though she has been asserting as much ever since
her return from church, Sydney turns cold and
trembles. But the old fire is in the sailor’s eye, the
old, authoritative ringin his voice, as he speaks:

‘‘Where did you find these things, my man? Speak
at once.”

“JT found them early this morning, the locket
hanging from a cedar bush, half way down Witch
Cliff, the necktie torn in two pieces as you see if, and
tramped down in the snow on the ground above. It
was about nine in the morning, and I was on my
way to Bensonbridge, five miles, as you know,
*tother side of this house, sir, and I had took the
cliff path as ashort cut. When I got to that high
place, Witch Cliff, I see the snow all tramped and
trod down, as if a couple of men had been seuffling
and wrastling along the very edge of that danger-
ous place. <A piece away I spied these bits of blue
ribbon, tornin two and tramped into the snow with
their boots. I picked them up and looked over the
edge, kind o’ skairt like. I don’t suppose I would
have seen this ’ere gold thing, buf the sun’ wasa
shinin’ and a glistenin® right onto it. I went back
to where there’s a path,and reached it. It was
hanging from acedar bush, as if whoever wore it

 

Your mo-

What is rour

The bush was a strong one, but it was rooted nearly
up, like’s ifit had*been caught holt of sudden, and
nearly torn from the roots. I was skairt square, as
I say, buf I had no time to spare. I put the things
in my pocket and tramped on to Bensonbridge. The
| first thing I hear. when Icome back. was this ’ere

 

be married. I says nothin’ to nobody, but I come
right here. And that’s all about it.”

There is dead silence; Mrs. Owenson shrinks shiv-
ering into the background; the captain’s eyes are
full of fire, and Sydney stands rigid, her face like
white stone in the gray dusk.

‘There were the signs of a struggle,” her father
asks. “Were there any traces of bloodshed on the
snow ?”

‘‘None at all, square—not a speck, jest the shuffl-
in’ and strugglin’ and wrastlin’ like, over the ground,
and the edge of the cliff broke and crumbled off as
it might be ifa man fell over. And straight down
from there I found the gold thing onthe bush. I’m
afraid there ain’t no two ways about it, but that
some poor fellow fell over there last night.”

*‘And the height is——”

‘‘Kighty foot, square, ifan inch, and as dangerous
a place as you'll find in the State. The sides as
steep, pretty well, as the wall of a house, and the
rocks below stick up like spikes—the devil’s own to
fall on, askin’ the ladies’ pardon.”

“There was no sign———”’ the captain stops, a chok-
ing in his throat.

“Not the fust sign, square,” the man answered,
understanding readily, ‘tof a body on the rocks. The
tide was at high-water mark about eleven last night,
and anything that fell down there—_—””

He pauses and looks compassionately at Mrs.
Owenson, who has broken out into dreadful hyster-
ical crying once more. A horrid picture is before
her—Bertie, her handsome, genial Bertie, hurled
over that dreadful place, calling aloud in his agony
for help, where there were none to hear, lying all
bleeding and mangled on the black-spiked rocks be-
low, until the long, cold, cruel waves swept nearer
and nearer, washing over his white bruised face,
and carrying him off on their black breasts out to
the awful sea. She shrieks aloud in her horror, and
Sydney has to go over and take her in her arms.

‘‘Mamma, hush,” she says, imploringly, ‘you will
hurt papa. You had better leave the room.”

‘Yes, leave the room,” orders the captain, and
poor, terrified Aunt Char goes, thinking how hard-
hearted and utterly without feeling her husband and
daughter are. Inthe passage she meets Miss Hen-
drick, and to her she wails forth all she has heard,
allshe has imagined, Cyrilla listens gravely and
soothes her, administers red lavender, valerian and
Sympathy.

Miss Hendrick has her own version of Mr,
Vaughan’s disappearance, but she wisely keeps it to
herselt. Not for one second has she believed hilin
dead. To her mind it has been a “put-up job” from
first to last. He waited until the last moment that
waiting was possible, and then quietly went off to
Dolly De Courcy. He has never intended to marry
Sydney, and has been too great a coward to Say so.
She recalls the night of the pariy, the meeting and
parting under the trees, and Miss De Courcy scurry-
ing homealone in the moonlight. He is not dead,
Cyrilla feels sure, but somewhere in New York, com-
fortably under Dolly’s protecting wing. She says
nothing of what she knows and suspects. Better,
she feels, a thousand times better, that they should
think him dead than know him false.

She listens to Aunt Char’s story now, and is not in
the slightest degree shaken in her belief. The torn
necktie, and broken chain and locket, are but parts
of hés well-laid plan to throw them off the track.
Very weak-minded men haye some of the low eun-
ning of idiots; there is no end to the depth of dupli-
city she believes Vaughan to be capable of. She
smiles scornfully to herself as Mrs. Owenson paints
her vivid picture of Bertie bruised and broken on
the merciless rocks. No, no! Bertie’s tender form
is unbruised, his symmetrical limbs unbroken, his
fair, blonde beattty unscarred. Probably at this hour,
while they sit lamenting him here, he is married to
Dolly De Courcy.

The man who brought the token has left the sick-
room and is speeding back to town. He is to send

Mr. Wynch, the chief magistrate, to the Place. He

comes as the short November day ends, and the

lamps are lit, and is closeted with the sick man.

The facts are laid before him, and when Mr. Wynch
departs, it is with a promise to do everything human
and magisterial power can do to bring the mystery.
of last night to light.

An hour later, Harry Sunderland, looking fagged
and worn out, calls. He has discovered nothing,
nothing at all, he says spiritlessly. He is almost
afraid to look at Sydney, but Sydney is very quiet,
her head resting. against the side of the bed, her
face keeping its weary, tearless, patient look.

 

 

+

 

 

had fell down and itcaught there and ‘snapped off. |

Mrs. Owenson sits up with her husband all night;
Sydney is dispatched to bed. She goes and sleeps—
there is no better anodyne, no surer anwsthetie,
than heavy trouble. And next morning she takes
her post by the bedside, and keeps it all day long.

it isa very sad and weary day. Her father’ has
those dreadful spasms more than once. It seems at

times as though he cannot live toseenightfail. But
he does, and that nightfall brings no news. They

are not one step nearer the jdevelopment of the
tragedy than at first.

They have sent to New York for a clever detective,
and place the case in his hands, All seem to take
it for granted that a murder has been done, but the

rima facia evidence of murder (the finding of the

ody), is wanting here. Had the missing man any
enemies? the detective very naturally asks; any one
at all interested in his removal—a rival, or anything
ofthat sort ? And the answer is unanimously, no!

So far as all who were acgnainted with him seem
to know, he had neither rival nor foe, in the world.

No mention is made of Dolly De Courcy—no one,
except Cyrilla Hendrick and Ben Ward, think of her
in connection with the matter, and neither of them
willspeak. Still, by dint of inquiry, the detective
finds out on the second day the little episode of the
actress. This missing young gentleman paid her
attentions, and deserted her for the young lady he
was tomarry. The actress was a.young person of
violent temper, and not the sort to stand by and be
jilted quietly. The detective on this hint goes up
to New York and ferrets out Dolly.

She is easily enough found. She occupies a suite
of three rooms ina tenement house, with her mother.
Dolly is short and snappish, not to say fierce, and
knows nothing about it. She has read the account
in the papers; he was a villain, for whomany death
was too good; he treated hershamefully, and whaf-
ever bas happened him, she is glad of it. And then
Dolly does tragedy, and the fierceness turns to sobs.
But she didn’t kill him, does the detective suppose
it? She glances scornfhlly at him and laughs in his

face. Would he like to know where she was that
night? Well, she was at home; he can ask her

mother, ifhe doesn’t believe her. Mrs. Snivelly—
Snivelly isthe name of Miss De Courcy’s mother—
being summoned, not only asseverates that her
daughter was at home on the eventful night, but
prays that she ‘‘may never stir” if she wasn’t, and is
ready to take her affadavy of the same. Dolly
and Mrs. Snivelly are triumphantly prepared ito
prove an alibi, andthe detective returns to Wyck-
cliffe, more puzzled than he came.

A weex passes; no trace is ‘to be found. If the
sea holds him, the sea keeps its secret well. Little

by little peopie lose heart—the detective returns to
New York, and a lull comes in the search,

At Owenson Place, its master lles dying; the
wonder is that he has lingered so long. It has seemed
to him at times that he cannot die until his boy is
found, but deathishere. He has never known how
dearly he loved the son of his old friend until now.

It is the night of the fifth of December, a cold,
white, frosty night. The light burns low in the sick
man’s room, the fire flickers, and on his bed Captain
Owenson is drifting out to a wider, darker, lonelier
sea thanany over which he has ever sailed. In her
old place Sydney sits beside him, silent, pallid,
shadow-like, thin and worn. She has been the most
faithful, the most tender, the most loving of nurses,
but still that apathetic trance holds her; she hardly
knows whether she is suflering or not. The sense
that she must be here, keeps her up, but she is not
conscious of any acute sorrow. Her heart feels
numb. Her mother has grown used to her dry eyes
and heartlessness now, but she never ceases to
deplore it to her one sympathiser, Miss Hendrick.
She has become a perfect Niobe herself, literally
drowned in tears. She cries enough for both; her
pale eyes look all faded and washed out with the
constant briny rain.

“Sydney!” ;

Sydney starts up. She has been resting against
the bed, in a dull torpor for the last hour—a torptr
that is not sleep, but is almost a8 merciful.

“Yes, papa—here,”

“Always there,’ my darling.” His voice is very
faint; the merest whisper indeed—his face is all
drawn. The awful seal and signet of Death is
stamped uponil. “Sydney,” he says in that faint
whispering voice, ‘“‘before I lose all power, I want to
say a few words to you. There isn’t much time left
now. It’s about—” a pause and a gasp—‘‘Bertie.”

“Yes, papa.” ‘

“They've about given up, haven’t ‘they? It
doesn’t take long to tire them; they don’t care
whether his body is ever found or not;. whether his
murderer is ever discovered. And S——oh! I cannot.
But when I am gone, Sydney, don’t give it up;
search for his body, seareh forhismurderer—search

 

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“Yes, papa.” She repeats the two words always
in the same weary, worn-out way—the same look of
mute misery on her face. :

‘Money will do everything, or almost everything,
in this world, and you will have enough of that—
more than you think. Keep detectives on the
track, find Bertie’s body and bury it beside me, find
his murderer, and give him to the hangman!”

His eyes flamed up—a faint echo of the old fierce
ring comes to his voice.

“Yes, papa,” Sydney says again; she hardly
knows what she is saying, poor child.

‘Never give it up, Sydney,” he pants, ‘‘never as
long as you live. Sometimes, five, ten, twenty

years pass, before a murderer is found; but surely,
sooner or later, the dead man’s blood will ery
out and the assassin will be found. And whether it
be five, ten, or twenty years, if he ever crosses your
path, hunt him down, bring him to justice, bring
him to the gallows for the death he has done! Syd-
ney, promise me this.”

*‘T promise, papa.” :

“Don’t forget! Don’t let years blot Bertie from
your mind. If ever you meet his slayer, hunt him
down!”

*“*Yes, papa.” 2

He has exhausted himself. He falls gasping back,
the cold dew standing in beads on his face. Inafter
years, that scene came back to Sydney far more vivid-
ly than she saw it then. The dimly-lit, silent room,
the December wind blowing outside, her father’s
burning eyes, and the straining, whispering voice—
her own weary, half-conscious answers. It never
left her to the day of her death. , :

She gave him a few drops of a reviving cordial
and then resumed her former place and attitude,
her heavy eyelids closing, almost the last words she
had heard Bertie speak sounding dully in her mind:
*‘In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may
we seek for succor but of Thee, O Lord, who for our
sins art justly displeased.”

What a weary dreadful time it all was; what sins
had they done that this had fallen upon them ?

Mrs. Owenson came in to relieve Sydney and
watch for the night. The girl spiritlesslyarose. .

*‘Good-night, papa—I do hope you may have a
good night.”

“J will, Sydney—I am sure of it.
good-night.”

She kissed him and went. He turned to his wife.

“If I die in the night—now don’t cry!” he said
with some of his old impatience—‘‘don’t disturb
Sydney. Don’t tell her until she has had her break-
fast in the morning.”

Then there is silence, Mrs. Owenson stifles her
sobs, and he lies with his eyes closed. Presently he
opens them and holds out his hand, with the shadow
of a smile, e

“We have weathered fair weather and foul
weather, for twenty odd years side by side,” he says;
‘sand you have been a good wife. Good-night,
Char.”

She clasps his hand, and kisses and cries over it,
and he does not check her. Perhaps he is thinking
he has been rather a hard sailing-master to poor,
foolish Char, in the trying voyages of life. Then he
drops into a heavy slumber with his face turned
from the light.

* *

My little one,

* * ae * *

Cyrilla Hendrick is waiting at her friend’s door
next morning when Sydney comes out. She passes
her arms about her and kisses her gently.

“‘Youare to take your breakfast before you go
in,” she says. “

‘“How is papa?” Sydney asks.

“Better,” Cyrillaanswersvery gravely.
rest, this morning.”

She leads Sydney down, sees her drink a cup of
coffee and eat a roll, then watches her toil slowly up
the stairs to her father’s room.

Her mother meets her as she opens the door, and
takes her in her arms.

**Oh! Sydney, Sydney!” she sobs. She has cried
all night, cried until she thinks she has no, more
tears left, but she bursts out afresh at sight of her
orphaned child.

Sydney breaks from her and goes over to the bed.
How white he is—how still he lies—how peaceful he
looks. It must be an easy and pleasant thing to die
after all! ,

She slips down on her knees by the bed, and lays
her face onthe dead hand.

“In the midst of life we are in death; of whom
may we seek for succor, but of Thee, O Lord, who
for our sins——”

There is a faint sobbing sigh, and she sinks from
the bedside to the floor. For the first time in her
bright, happy, seventeen years, Sydney has fainted
wholly away.

“He isat

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_—_—__> 9+ _____

IN DREAMS.

BY L. CARY WILDER,

 

 

In dreams I see the woodland wild,
Where I have played a happy child,
The brooklet that with crystal feet
Runs o’er the bed of lilies sweet.

I see the orchard with its mass

Of fragrant bloom, and waving grass,

i hear the birds—why are their lays

Not now the ones they sang those days ?

I see the house, with sloping eaves,
Covered with vines, whose clinging leaves
Curtain the windows. Oh, sweet face,
That looked from out this verdant case!

Oh, happy dream that holds that form,

And brings her voice through years lone gone;
It makes the darkness of the night

Appear to me like morning light.

I see the garden, with its bed

Of odorous pinks and poppies red;

To my young eyes they seemed more fair
Than curious ferns and flowers more rare, .
I follow paths made by the feet

Of playmates I no more will meet,

And hear the merry, laughing trill

Of yoices now forever still.

Oh: dreams, what joy you to me bring
Upon your light and filmy wing—

Tho glimpse of faces long since gone,
That leave me with the coming morn!

WORKING
FOR WAGES.

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

 

 

(‘Working for Wages” was commenced inNo. 81. Back num-
berscan be obtuined {rom any News Agent in the United States. }

 

CHAPTER XIX.

BIJOU AND PRANCER HAVE COMPANY,

The next morning Pendragon was ina perfect fever, prancing
about and squeaking in everybody’s ears. Mr. Jack seemed to
have a perfect fascination tor him, and he skipped after him
into the stables, into the barn, around the corn-stacks, and he
Settled himself under the Abernathy apple-tree, where the farm
hand was barreling fruit, very much as a grasshopper settles af-
teranimble hop. Pretty soon Miss Jessie and Honoria came
Down with a basket, wishing to collect some red streaks for pies,
and none but these particular ones would suit. There couldn’t
have been any especial haste about the baking, because they
set down the basket and began helping to load the great meas-
wre with the handsome fruit, drawing Mr Jack—who had been
looking a little dangerous on account of the nagging orders and
comments of his favorite aversion, for whose spirits and adhe-
siveness he tailed to account—into their chatting merriment by
sheer force of magnetism. ‘

@here seemed to bea general turn-out from the mansion, for
presently Penelope and the widow strolled forth, accompanied
by Lamport and Eustace. They also stopped, Mr. Caladore per-
diaps intencing to carry off Honoria, or perhaps attracted by the
Drilliant beauty of the two brunettes in their fantastic dresses,
Whey also looked at the center figure in his blouse, presiding over
the work with a certain air of ownership and interest, and also
the dignity of a master, which procured willing obedience from
the hands under him. ‘

Pendragon consulted his watch so often. that the widow asked
him if he was hungry, and he replaced it with such an air of
aystery that she added;

1 should really take you for a conspirator waiting for the bell
to toll for a massacre, You positively make me tremble.”

“Dol? Well, it’s about time for somebody to tremble.”

While he was delivering himself of this astounding announce-
anent in the shrillest of voices, Mr. Winchester appeared, accom-
Pe by a stout-built man in a suit of drab, and a seedy fellow

n brown coatand a battered stope-pipe, who looked every-
where and saw everything with eyes of stolid indifference.

Mr. Winchester’s face was annoyed and bothered, and he spoke
hastily and with bored pettishness quite unusual to him.

_ “Jack, this gentleman has come about your horses, which he
insists are stolen.”

“Impossible, sir; I left them in their stalls this morning after
breakfast.”’

“You misunderstand me.
them.” ‘

“Me, sir!” said Jack, straightening himself and measuring
Lhe i old geutieman with a curious look. “On what ground,

“Dve lost a pair of blacks,” said the accuser, stepping hastily
back. “Mr, Winchester puts ita little strong. I aid Potortriss
tion had been couveyed vome that you had a pair answering
their description; and pointing to you asthe probable thief. I
dare say there’s sume mistake, but I shouilc like tosee the horses,
That’s all square, ain’t it?”

“What color did you say?” asked Jack, after thinking a min-
ute, while a very unpleasant suspicion crossed his mind.

» “Black as minks, both of them, all over, except a white star in
‘their foreheads.” ‘
“My horses have each a white stocking,”

I mean, he accuses you of stealing

 

 

 

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3~ IEX ne,

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Pa

 

“Well, I presume it’s all right, but I’ve lost a pair, and I should
like to see them all the same.” : :
“Where did you get the brutes, Jack?” asked Mr. Winchester,
who was terribly annoyed at the whole proceeding, especially
Pendragon’s autics, who made faces, snapped his fingers, and
tumbled about on his toes, and at this juncture squeaked out:
“Better own up, Jack. LIalways saw through you. Remem-
ber howI taxed youabout the watch. Maybe the owner for
that’ll be found, too.” i E ‘ é
“I bought my horses of a man named Wat Wayland,” reptied
Mr. Jack, rather hesitatingly. an
He hau been so busily thinking that he didn’t hear Perciyal’s
advice. He vegan to be doubtful as to the rightful ownership of
his dealer, and hated to bring him iuto trouble; and further-
more, he did not care to be faced with Wat just yet. A side look
at Jessie showed that she was the center of his reflections.
“Haw! haw!” roared the fat man, “here’s a joke! My sc2pe-
grace nephew! Why, he never owned a horse in his life, uor
never will. So he is in the muss,is he? It don’t look clear—it
don’t.”

“That isa lie!’ roared Pendragon. ‘Wayland told me only
yesterday he didn’t know where you got them; and more than
that, he hinted that you picked them out of somebody’s pasture
—said so, in fact.” " ' Bins
“How did you get your information about my horses?” asked
Jack, leaving Percival out totally. if :

“T got a nooymous letter, signed ‘Your Well-Wisher.’ ”

“Have you it about you?” | ¥

“Yes,” answered the old gentleman, feeling in all his pockets,
and producing a crumpled envelope from thelastone. ‘Here
it is.” we
Pendragon didn’t like it, and said it was no use bringing out
that thing—the point was to identify the horses.

“You wrote this precious thing,” said the farm-hand, coolly
folding it after a quiet perusal; ‘“tand, gentlemen, I'l) tell you
why. I had to give the little ppppy a shaking once. He misbe-
haved, and a shaking was the mildest form of discipline I could
ad minister under the circumstances. After a good deal of rank-
ling, I conclude the rage he felt has festered and broken out into
this extremely probable accusation, whicu does credit to his in-
vention.” :

“Thats a lie! Asif I would let a farm fellow lay his hand on
me—a gentleman! Come! let’s see the horses, I say.”

“Yes, let's see them,” added the fat old gentleman, who took
much stock in Mr. Pendragon’s view of the case, on account of
hus fine clothes, and also because he Wasa guest at the mansion,
while Jack was a “hand.” 7a

“With all my heart,” replied Jack. “I invite you all to the
stables.” Leading the way leisurely, he threw open the doors,
and called: “Here, Bijou! here, Prancer! You have grand com-
pany—low wil you weleome your visitors?” ¢ :
Then he waited an instant, and Jessie listened for the whinny
which always followed this salutation, after which the pair and
Tilpah were accustomed to shake hands and partake of lumps of
sugar from her pocket. But there was no_ answer, except [rom
the Arabian, and a stamp or so from old Deacon ia his stall, and
a rastle among the hay in the Mangers of the carriage horses,
who were duintily pulling the grain ends from the out straws.
The stalls inhabited by the blacks were empty.

“He has had warning,” exclaimed Penelope, who seemed to
be posted in the furce Pendragon played, and was eagerly looking
for Jack’s disgrace, ‘Tat explains why it was too cool for the
dear Jessie to ride this morming. Uususpecting innocent! Now
what do you say, papa? Haven’t you been harboring a viper ?””

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” lamented Aunt Mabel, ‘‘to think ot hav-
ing introduced into our quiet country-home a hot-bed of crime,
and the festering race, Which swarms in cities.” eye:

Whether or no the good Jady’s mixed metaphors pointed to the
farm-hand or to his labors was not made plain, —

“T have always feit an evil influence diffuse itself all around
the air whenever the wretch came in sight,’* said the widow.

“Make him confess, papa,” persisted Penelope, “before he is hana
ed over to justice. Tine idea of keeping stolen horses in our
stable, and wouldn’t let anybody ride them !””

“Mr. Winchester, this is a time for you to assert the dignity of
the law and the majesty of—of—everything,” chimed in Aunt
Mabel, whose husband seemed disinclined to take part or lot in
the matter, and even showed symptoms of stealing off unawares.

“You aad betier explain, Jack,’ said he—“tell us what it
means,”?

“That is precisely what I intend to find out, sir. I don’t pro-
pose to have my property spirited away in this fashion without
making a row over it, and here Comes a person who Is at least
abie to tell where I obtained the beasts. Come ir, Wat; you are
wanted.”

Wayland had come up ashe threatened, ‘‘t
and being exceedingly interested in the debat.. sad put his head
inside the door at precisely the wrong time -or his purpose of
hiding; so being discovered by Jack, he was vvliged to come for-
ward.

“My prophetic uncle,” muttered Wat, assoon as his eyes light-
ed on the fat old gentleman. ‘‘What business had he to sneak
behind Donny, so that I couldn’t see him. Well, I’m in for it
now, sure enough, and I must make the best case I can.’? Ad-
vancing with a bold tront, he said: ‘Thank you; I just run up
to ind out when you are going back tothe old den? I wanted
to send a message to Hardbake.”

“Old den! Hardbake! mark those words,’ said the widow,
solemnly. ‘‘Here’s depravity—here’s low life. I knew it! he
consorts with rufflans.”

“Oh, how de do, uncie,”? continued Wat, “1 am glad to see
you—a long ways off,” he added, mentally. .

“Wat, this man says you sold him a pair of horses,”’

“Me, uncle! Now thatisasell, Why, you know better than
anybody that I haven’t got such a thing, nor shan’t ever have,
provably, till yoa come the kind benefactor, and present your
dutiful nevy with some for his birthday. Come—come, Donny,
a joke is a joke, but I proiest against tricks on an old friend.”

“Do you mean to deny having sold me a pair of saddle-horses
at the old mill last summer _?”

“{ can’t help it, Donny. I'd like to encourage you. I see you
are in trouble, but my conscience won’t bear me Out, Anything
else I could do—I might go bail if uncle will lend me the
stamps.”?

“You needn’t talk any more balderdash, Wat. I see the whole
train, and 1 give you warnivg I shall not spare you. I supposed
you knew me better than to attempt such a thing. Is there a
commandment among the ten you haven't broken ?””

“Hand in the proofs,” said Pendragon, in a stage whisper, and
nudging Wat. “Go ou and finish him. Pile it on strong.”

“Shut your mouth; you'll spoil everythiug,” replied Wat, el-
bowing him off. ‘You've done mischief enough already.”

“Arrest him, officer! take him into custody! hand-cuif him!”
squeaked Pendragon. “He’s a thief fast enough. Shake him!
Those big fellows are generally knaves or fools.’

“Mr. Winchester,” asked Jack, “what do you think ?”

“TI think the horses are gone, Jack—vanished like magic,” re-
plied that gentleman, dryly—“where I won’t undertake to say ?”

“Do you believe Iam au honest man ??? ’

Aunt Mabel screwed up her lips and frowned, as much as to
admonish her husband to be fair and brave.

“T did two hours ago.”

“Did you ever know me todo a mean or dishonorable action?”

“Never, Jack. 1 wish [could say as much for—everybody.”

see the muss,”

 

All the party kept aloof, and lett the farm-hand in the center
alone. All looked at him, some curiously, some contemptuously,
none with sympatliy or liking. Jessie only had stood with avert-
ed head, not daring to glance in his face. Every word wounded
her like a blow; her breast swelled, and her black eyes flashed,
and her grasp of Honoria’s hand was so close that it hurt the
tender little fingers, which never flinched, and after questioning
the different taces, the warm-hearted Nora’s eyes filled with m-
dignant tears.

onny turned at length toward Jessie with a grand movement.
His looked scanned eagerly her attitude and proud bearing; she
suffered, evidently—every line in her face showed that; every
quivering breath.

It was a critica! moment for him, It must bea brave woman
who would own her love before all these witnesses, in the face of
suspicion and disgrace; yet he resolved to try her. A slight
tremble thrilled through him. Poverty and subordinate pusi-
tion were much—could she hear obloquy heaped above them ?”
. eee he asked, in a clear, quiet voice, “what do you
think

Without a word; without an instant’s hesitation she stepped
to his side, and laid her handin his. She went gladly, joyfully.
She had longed and feared to go uninvited—now she went by
right. He put an arm around her, drew her close, and kisseu
her before them all.

“This lady is my true-love—she will be my true wife if God
spares our lives. She came out from among you because she is
not of you. Will you marry the farm-hand, Jessie ?”?

“As s00n as you like,’ replied Jessie, defiantly. “I am honored
to be your choice. He did shake Percival, Uncle Win—I saw him
do it, and he shook him good.”

There was absolute sileuce among the group so taken by sur-

rise, till Honora went up and took hold of Jessie’s hand, and

gan to cry; and she rr ge: from her lover’s clasp, threw both
arms around her faithful triend’s neck, aud dropped her face on
her shoulder. ,

Wat took advantage of the concentrated attention upon the
center figures to steal quietly off, making the best use of his legs
to get as far away as possible.

“Mr. Winchester, and gentlemen, all of you, I call on you to
assist me in ferreting out this business, I shall take no rest till
I find my property. Iam afraid poor Wat—where is he? Ab!
gone! Then it is just as I supposed. He knows how you lost
your horses, sir—le sold them tome. You clearly understand
What his word is worth, and itis possible you also understand
why the poor fellow was tempted; and though I do not excuse
his conduct in the least, I will say, a fellow of his unfailing good
temper and kind impulses ought, with even average home iuflu-
ences and home ties, to have made an average man. You see,
whipping at the cart-wheel is not the sort of discipline calculated
to mold the finest sort of characters, Ishall not take a step to
disgrace your nephew, my old classmate, but I shall use my wits
to get back the horses.”

The old gentleman rather stepped back, and stammered some-
thing—*‘Shocking bad boy!” “Other folks can’t judge!” and so
on—and Mr. Winchester cume forward at once,

“T agree with you, dack—I know you are right, and T’ll be your

surety. Of course this man won’t make any arrest in the pres-
ent-complexion of affairs. Weil go to work—’ll help you. But,
Jack, as Jessie’s guardian, I must insist that you are clear and
stainless—good, fair record—before you cluiin her, You have
the real stuff I like, and I believe you can make my dear girl
happy. You are clearly her choice, and if everything comes out
right, you are mine, too, Now, go ahead, aud try if you cau
muke as good a detective as you are farmer,”
“Poank you, Mr. Winchester; I don’t feel inclined to lose any
time. I assure youl keenly suffer under the black looks of these
fair dames, to say nothing of being suspected by Mr. Pendragon,
who seems eee nimble just now,”

At this juncture, Percival came tearing back from the inner
stalls, in a frantic fume, squeaking and squealing at the top of
his shrillest pipe:

“My horses are gone!—my horses are stolen!
thief! Officcr, why don’t you take up tie thief!”

It was even so; the bob-tuaiis were also missing, and he was left

lamenting. —_
CHAPTER XX.
THE STEALER’S CAVE,

Jessie was perfectly miserable. Aunt Mabel persisted in con-
gratulating her upon the escape she had made from the creature
the horrible Jack had turued out to be, assuring her *she had
seen the lust of the miscreant, and retusing to listen to her pro-
testations that she was coufident of his innocence and of his re-
turn at the set time. All such statements were blandly ignored,
and she was sympathizingly told how fortunate it was that the
whole disgraceful affair could be easily hushed up, and unpleas-
antly encouraged to hope that a gay winter in New Orleans
would set everything right, and that if she pier es carefully her
cards, she would probably secure a husband to keep her out of
“scrapes” in future, kindly adding; “For my part, I shall never
rest easy till such an imprudent girl is safely married.”

Lamport Caladore declined ali part in the daily discussions
which were in constant progress ut table and elsewhere, and
which even Jessie’s presence and her peculiar position could not
hinder; but he once or twice recited a proverb or an “old saw,”
which showed on which side his opiuions lay. Penelope openly
var ce and the widow made a polut of inquiring a dozen times

re

Take up the

a ‘
“Has anybody got news of the big fellow ? Is hein prison yet?”
“Don’t you believe he was the thief, Eustace ?”? shie asked, one

morning, as Jessie appeared in the dining-room. ‘Now don’t you

really think he has a rogue’s tace ?”?

“He utterly fails in the book signs,” replied Eustace, laughing.
“Sinister, hung-dog, scowling, beet!e-browed—Jack isn’t among
these. You must admit that he isa nice, open-faced fellow, and
not bad-looking either. He failed to make a clear case, to my
mind, and I think it quite likely he had a hand in the: business,
I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Jessie. I wouldn’t speak out
so openly, only mother assures me you have made up your mind
also, aud you must agree with me that the false vame, gold
ag horses, and ali on laborer’s wages, look cloudy, to Say the

east.’

Jessie answered never a word. She went and came among
them doing her brave best to follow her daily occupations. Un-
cle Winchester was. still absent, and nothing had. been heard
from him, and as the days dragged on Jessie got too restless for
indoor stay, and passed most of her time in tie fields and woods,

oing over the spots associated with her lover, and trying very

ard to be patient.

One morning, about a week after the scene inthe stableg, she
saddled Tilpah, who was eager to be out, and as tullof frolic as
a kitten, She, poor girl, wanted a good canter, to leave all the
disagreeables behind, and she rode straight to Woodchuck pond,
and ufter a loitering stroll she climbed to Castle Shallott, where

threw the reins on the mure’s neck, and, dismounting, sought

Outall the pretty places which had been made so pleasaut by

 

 

Donny’s company. Sitting down upon_a rock where they had
dined, and where he had praised her singing that day, she hum-
med the words of the song:

“Sae true his words, sa smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air,
His very foot has music in’t
he comes up the stair.
And will T see his face again ?
And will I hear him speak ?
I'm down-right dizzy with the thought
In troth I’m like to greet.”

She wound up with a good cry, dropping her head into her
hands, which ery was cut short by Tilpah’s abstraction of a
couple of hair-pins from her braids, and also a few loose hairs,
whose sudden pulling caused her to sit up with an involuntary
“Ohl? and to laugh at the spluttering efforts of the little thief
to get rid of the silky black threads elinging around her teeth.

The lengthening shadows reminded her that she was too far
from home, and she mounted hurriedly, and turned Tilpah’s
head down the path. The slanting rays gilded the craigs and in-
tensified the richnessof the gorgeous leaves, and Jessie was
charmed, despite her Room, with the beautiful hills and valleys
below her; and while Tilpab- carefully picked her steps, her rider
feil off into a reverie of what might be if all came right, and she
was let to have the life of self-denial, work and busy interest she
wished for.

A stumble of the mare brought the girl back to the sad present,
and also to the fact tnat she was climbing the dry bed of a moun-
tain brook instead of descending to the valley; and looking
eagerly around she could see nothing familiar, and she was very
nearly alarmed to find that she had utterly lost her road, and
above, below, and around her only bushes and rocks, backed by
forest trees, Tilpah, however, seemed at no loss, and scurried on
with a business air, which looked as if she knew a bourne at the
end of her journey. With her head down, she willfully persisted in
following her own Ideas, and while Jessie was endeavoring to in-
cline her lo change her course, she suddenly turned short off and
dashed in so rapidly among the alders that the young lady had
all she could do to keep her seat. The treacherous buslies ciosed
darkly behind her with a wild swish, the tall pines sighed and
moaned «bove her head as Tilpah cantered on.

Jessie had only time tosee that she was coming out into a cir-
cular clearing before the mare gathered her four legs together
like a goat, slid down the face of a rock, and darting between
two boulders, she sheved her mistress off her back by entering a
low opening, Where she wheeled about, and thrusting out her
nose she waited tor her young mistress to pick herself up and
follow, which the bewildered girl did as fast as possible, feeling
ai Bhs could not afford to lose her only companion in this deso-
ate wild.

As the gap widened before her Jessie found herself in a good-
sized room, froin which a narrow passage led into another, which
she entered, holding fast to Tilpah’s long tail. Perhaps she mis-
took it, in her bewilderment, for a clewtothe labyrinth. The
beast neighed joyfully, and trotted up toa coarse manger, buiit
against the reck, to which was fastened four or five horses, who
restlessly acknowledged her approach. .

The whole place was reddened by a ruddy light from some

bright embers of a wood fire on a rude hearth, and glowed like

one of Rembrandt’s interiors, and also showed somethitg Jessie
was very glad to see, Donny’s horses, Prancer and Bijou, who
were quite vociferous in their welcome to their old acquaintance,

She knew_now that she was in the stealer’s cave. Her heart
beat fast. She was not exactly frightened, being a girl of un-
common courage and not easily put off her mental balance; and
joy at her discovery was the first and predominant emotion; she
would be able to clear her lover’s name and restore his property.
She looked curiously about, taking close and interested survey of
the novel surroundings. She would have liked to find thejars
which boiled the merchants, or the old lamp, or Zobedie’s dogs,
or some of the genie; but, alas! it was only a Yankee cave, in-
habited by common horse-thieves. without storied interest. She
felt quite sure she and the horses were the only inmates of the
place, and while. renewing: her acquaintance with Prancer by a
spizited little hand-shake, and contriving how she could get them
alPOff safely before anybody came, a voice behind her said, quick-
ly, in an alarmed tone:

“Miss Wilmerding here! How very unlucky! What brought
you, my dear young lady ?”

“Tilpah brought me, Wat Wayland, and I am glad, because
now I know. you are the man who stole Donny’s horses, and
made all this horrid trouble, Now I will have you punished!”

“Don’t talk of punishing anybody,’ replied he, with a smile
which made his haggard, wretched, weary face more ghastly,
Don’t pray; you are likely to lose your precious life. Good gra-
cious! whatever sent you, of ail others, to this miserable deu ?
Have you seen anybody 2” i

“Not a soul but the horses,’ answered she, with a sudden surg-
ing of the hot blood back through her heart. “I had no idea
where I was going. The fact is I lost my way, aud the mare
would come, anyuow—I couldn’t choose.’

“Thank Heaven! Youare a plucky girl, Miss Jessie—you will
need all your courage to-night, I hope my miseries will not be
filled up by a misfortune to Donny’s sweetheart.”?

“What danger can there be?” asked Jessie, unconsciously
moving closer to the speaker as she threw about her aswiit
glance. ‘You wou’t hurt me, know. The place is yours, isn’t
it? You must take care of me, and I will go immediately.
Come, show me the way; Tilpah will soon take me home.”

“Impossible! Miss Jessie, the den will be full of desperate
men presently, who would consider you lawful spoil.”

“But you are my friend; youshail keep them off. Iam not
afraid—at least not much. But, Mr.Wayland,” said she with
sudden impulse, “how pale and ill you look!”

.. “Never mind me, Miss JesSie. Hark! wasn’t that a dog bark-
ing? k hope some lucky accident will keep Brayodown the miil
to-night,

“But I won’t stop; I'll go at once”—Jessie flew to Tilpah’s stall.
“Come quick, sweet; be steady now, good lady; we'll find our
way. You'll come too, Wat, won’t you? You won’t leave a poor
girl in the darkness ?”?

“Miss Jessie, lam hunted likeadog. Ihad hard work to get
up here, and whatever happens Iam glad I did come. Vl
save you if Ican. You see Tilpah will not willingly go out
again to-night, asifshe knew that it was not possible for you to
get away alive. ‘Phere is a little cave just outside, which I found
by chance one day, and I feel quite sure none of them know
anything about it. I thought I might be hard pressed some
time and need the hiding, as wicked asIam. Iltisadark, damp
little hole, but if you are not afraid, I think you will be sate
there till they are off again; or, perhaps, if they stay in all night,
I might steal out after they are asleep, and help you a little way
down. I feettoo ilito stand. Oh, Miss Jessie, how I wish you
had not come! There! they.are tramping up the brook! Ina
minute they will be here, Come quickly! Don’t speak! Don’t
breathe!

Seizing her hand, he pulled her swiftly after him, out through
the little gar-

“Now, Miss Jessie, you must Jet me carry you, because Bravo
won’t eg tullhe has hunted you out, if youleaye tracks on the

round,

5 Lifting her as he spoke, he pushed away the alders and stag-
gered ona few doubtiul steps, tilla couple of boulders stopped
his way. .

“Now stoop low,” said he in a panting whisper, ‘“‘and crawl in.
Hasten, please! there isn’t anything, half so cruel inside asthe
gen who are coming, You can bear darkness and solitude bet-
ter than——

Without finishing his speech, he held aside the bushes, and Jes-
sie obeyed his directions without demurriug, though she shud-
dered at the eirie place which might be @ den of serpents, a
home of spiders, toads and lizards. :

“Stop an instant,” whispered she, softly. ‘Let mesay a word:
If this ends in my getting safe home, you'll come also. Dll give
you money, Donny *Ii give you money, and you shall be gooat

“[ would be only too. glad, miss. am tired of being hunted
like a dog, tired of tricking, and plotting, aud craft; but Donny
won’t do anything more for me—he said he wouldn’t.””

“Ouly promise ine to leave this wicked life, and I'll take care
of the rest. You shall have any business you couse.”

“I do promise, with all my heart.”

“Give me your hand, Wat.”

She reached out and clasped the hand he had offered, and she
was chilled by the icy coldness of it.”

“You are ill poor fellow,” said she,

“I'm dead tired,” answered Wat. Therethey are; don’t mind
my putting back the stump; it looks asif it grew there, and
effectually hides the place.”

As he hurried off, men’s feet came crunching up the rocky

brook bed, and Jessie heard smothered voices in low conyersa-
tion. Pretty soon they all slid down the steep rock, as Tilpah had
they entered their cavern.

“Well, captain, you’ve landed safe, it appears,” said the char-
his hands grimed with his dusky trade. Hillo! what’s the dog
got! Give it here, sir.”
rosy ribbon. The man pickedit up, and holdiug it by the hair-
pin about which it was tastened, examined it a moment while
whined as if expecting a beating.

“There’s petticoats in tue den,” said he. ‘What have you done

Before he got a reply, the loose-jointed rough called Softly-
Come-Sawney, whe had been poking about the stalls, discovered

Pp

“Here’s the Arab!” roared he. ‘‘What does thismean? Come,

“I found her here,” answered Wat, readily. ‘I think she has
run away from the girl, and found her way back to her old quar-
ters. Odd, isn’t it ¥” ;

“Very odd! Soodd that Idon’t believe a word of 14.

“Hid up! That is agood one! Where the dickens could she
hide from you? Didn’t you find out the place yourself, and bur-
hole? If you think there is # woman in the neighborhood you're
the one to ferret her; isn’t he, boys ?””
ing hither and thither, behind the grain sacks, under the boxes,
and elsewhere, Fiuding nothing, he showed the pink knot to

“Seek her, Bravo,”’ said he. “Seek her for your life.”

Alter a smellatthe ribbon, carrying still a faint perfume of
the speaker, the creature put his nose to the ground, and ran
rould and round the cave, and out to the opeuing, where, after

“You see, boys, that girl is here; she can’t go out alive. It’s her
life or mine, and I haven’t stole horses enough yet.”
ground myseif. If Miss Wilmerding came here, which is by no
means likely—because how the duse was slie to find the door ?—
far enough by this time. 1’m only afraid some accident has
happened to her in the woods, I'll be upby daybreak and hunt

“Why couldn’t I have caught her ?” growled the fellow.
have made sure work of all spying. This den is no good any
aes and cry on us; and who knows but the beaks are up al-
ready.
back on the old shaggy robe where they found him, “but I won’t
stir for a week, Ihave been so long without sleep that my
what’s the use of fussing? You kuow there isn’t the woman
alive could find us without the marks. I have hard work some-
tracked? weare all armed. Who's afraid!”

“But there’sa couple of horses down at the mi!l to be got up,
abet must be hurried 1n to-night, aud sheared and dyed before
daylight.”
and let me get.a wink of sleep, By George! I think ’m more
than half dead already.”
the coalman, suspiciously. ‘He won’t like being alone.”

“That's a good fellow,” answered Wat, easily, “and go to work

done, and then the parted bushes swayed back behind them, as
coa} man, whose eyes were set in a deep ring of black dirt, and
Bravo dropped at tue feet of the shaggy fellow a little bow of
they all kept silence, watching him, and the dog lay down and
with them, captain ?””
Tilpah in her old place.
ning out !—pipe!’
girl is hid up somewhere.” pe
row 1n it long befure anybody else knew there was such a devil’s
While Wat had been speaking the coal-heaver had been spy-
the crouching dog.
the glossy hair it had eee eOd a look in the dark face of
a fruitless search he came back whining and discoufited.
“Pshaw Il spoke Wat, “don’t be a tool. “Dye been all over that
she wasn’t likely to stop long, and I'll stake your sweet life she’s
the paths,” rhs
more, when a Woman has the secret. We shall soon have
“You can do as you like, boys,” said Wat, wearily, dropping
head just splits. And I'd as soondie here as anywhere. Beside
times, myself, Dll stick by the den. What if we should be
and it won’t do to leave them, for there’s too much of <a stir up.
“Go tetch them, then—I know the’re the little Pendragon’s—
“Four of you zan do the job; Pll stay with the captain, said
and make a fire—Pim in a cold shiver.”

They set to work to cuok some chickens they had brotight, and
Jessie, in her lair, smelled thé’ scorched flesh, and it seemed as
if they were roasting a victim, She was fully aliye to her dan-
ger, but did not lose her courage, and determined to steal off as
svon as they were quiet, and try to find her way home alone,

After supper they made ready, to start; andthe black-browed
coal-burner didn’t conclude to go until the last minute; but see-
ing Wat rolled up in his blanket before the coals, he appeared
sure of him, and followed the others. e

Wat waited till the footsteps had died into. silence, and half an
hour longer; and so wretciiedly ill was he, that nothing but
Jessie’s safety could have forced him to raise his aching head.
Sitting up, with one hand on hisforehead, lie listened uttentively,
tien risiug with extreme caution, he crept to the gap, ani passed
out, taking as he did sv, a coil of repe trom a hook above his
head, one end of which he tied, around Bravo’s neck, and lea
him by the slack, intending to fusten Lim to a tree harg by till he
Was ready to go.

He had not got tliree feet from the great rock when he was
caught iu & Mau’s arm like\a vise; and the coal ivan laughed in
MS ear.

“Wait a bit, captain; you're too sick to be up!”

Quick as lightning Wat twined the rope around the throat of
his captor, and drew it with such a grip, that he let go his hold
and reeled backward, staggering against the ruck, and gasping in
a strangling gurgie. It cidu’t take much strength then to throw
him flatand kneel on him, nor much time to make his hands
fast, aud when Wat untwisted the hempen collar lus captive was

 

past speaking. Wat dragged him three or four yards, and tied
him securely to a tree with the dog, who trembled and whined
piteously, bound in the same rope.

“Lie down and watch, Bravo,” sai@ Wat, and most willingly
the brute obeyed, while his master flew rather than ran to
Jessie’s retreat, and pulled hurriedly away the stump,

“Quick! quick, miss! he’ll be coming to in a minute, if he ever
does, and we must be.off!” .

“Not without the horses, Wat! said Jessie, firmly. ‘I shan’t
stir without them.”

“I cannot attempt such rastiness, Miss Jessie. We are likely to
meet the boys coming up, and may have to slink into the bushes
and hide, or fight for our lives.”

“Then you must fight; but I don’t believe we shall meet any
Ganger. I believe Heaven will prosper your wish to lead an
honest life, if you make this beginning.”

Jesse ran while she spoke to Prancer’s sta!], and undid his halter.

“Now you shall ride Bijou, and Tilpah will be sure to follow.”

“Maybe you are right,” said Wat; “I should like to give them
back. Til venture! Can you fire a pistol, Miss Jessie?”

“Yes, indeed; I am a gvod shot,” she answered, fearlessly.
“Hand it to me; Pll make a show with it, any how.”

As they got safely over the rock they stopped and listened; the
coal man was breathing heavily.

“I'am glad to hear that,” said Wat. “I was afraid I had
stopped his wind; and I shouldn’t like to have a man’s life on
my hands—bad as I am.”

Jessie needed all her presence of mind to ride down the stee
brook-bed. A- black cloud obscured the moon, and a win
was shivering and sighing in the tops of the trees. They pro-
gressed in silence, except the tramp of their horses over the
rough path, every sense alert, and scarcely breathing till they
Jett the wild road and turned into the familiar way leading
straight up to Esperanza.

“Thank Heaven! you are safe now,” said Wat, wearily. “You
don’t begin to know the horrible risk you ran, nor the danger.
I don’t see how I could: have stood life any longer, if anything
had happened to you. Donny loves you, Miss Jessie,.and I loye
Donny. It Ihad minded him I shouid not haye been here to-
night. He’s a dear old chap; there wasn’t a fellow in the class
didu’t swear by him.”

Jessie’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes kindled at this honest
praise of the man she had dared to give her faith to, and she
felt as if she could make any sacrifice to help the poor wretch
who had goodness to appreciate his rare excellences.

“But why did you offer to furnish proofs that the horses were
stolen???

“Just for fun, Miss Jessie. I love fun too much. They were
stolen, sure enough, wasn’t they? and the little squeak’s went
too, That was the best lark of all.2 I would have had his money,
too, if ill luck hadn’t grabbed me,”

“But you denied the sale, and turned traitor to your friend,’’
said Jessie, severely. b

“I had to, dear young lady—I didn’t see any other way out.
There stood the old man, and there stooi the beak, and I didn’t
want to be jugged up. I knew it wouldn’t hurt Donny.”

“Very bad reasoning,” said Jessie. ‘‘Now tell me Where you
got the horses?”

“From my uncle, one dark night. We led them up to the den,
and we took the black out of their legs with chemicals, just as
fine ladies dye their tresses. The owver couldn’t swear to them,
because you see, the marks are all changed. But the best fun I
ever got in my life was out of the bob-tail we put off on to little
Pendragon.”

In spite of his misery, his sufferings, and his remorse, Wat
chuckled so enjoyingly that Jessie laughed also.

“You shall not leave me,” said she, as they arrived at the great
gate. ‘Come in, and I will take care of you, and you shall have
a good talk with Mr, Jack, and geta starton the straight road;
and nowthat you know how anxiously your ¢wo friends are
watching you, I am sure you will be careful.”

While she was fumbling in the dark stable, trying to get the
horses into their stalls without waking anybody, that she might
have the full flavor of her ruse for Mr. Jack, Wat threw himself
on a heap of old bedding inthe corner.

“T can’t stand, Miss Jessie,” said he, faintly; “it’s nouse. I
think the end has come, and as good time now as any.”

“Don’t say that, Wat,’ said Jessie, alarmed. “Ill fetch help.”

_And darting off, she ran into Donny’s arms, He had returned
from his unsuccessful hunt for the horses on the afternoon pre-
vious, and was hastening down with a lantern to find out what
was stirringin the barn. The quick flash of the light which en-
veloped them both showed her how pale he was, and what a
set, troubled face he wore.

“I’ve found them, Donny—I’ve found them, and brought them
back to you, and Wat Wayland, too. He is in there, ill. We
will cure him and make him good. Kissme, Donny—kiss me!”

While he was obediently complying with her command, Mr.
Winchester came hurrying down, white and agitated.

“This is terrible. Jack!? said he. “I. can’t wait for daylight—
I must be hunting my child again! I can hear nothing,”

Just then sounded the peculiar music which loving lips make
when meeting, and a whirl of the lantern showed him the two
faces close together,

“Yes,” said he, changing his mind, ‘I think Ido hear some-
thing. Jessie—Jessie, you naughty child, where have you been?
I ielt as if they had ariven you to bay as soon asI was out of
sight, and I was afraid—well, I don’t know what I was afraid of,”

“Pve had an adventure, Uncle Win. I’ve been to the stealers’
cave, and I’ve found the horses. I’ve found Wat Wayland, too;
he’s going to get well, and true forever. Come quickly and
help him. Iam so glad, Uncle Win.”

Jessie’s gladness Was of the sort which is showed with tears,
for she fell on the good man’s neck and wept violently.

“There, there, Jess! How did it happen? What arash girl to
venture among those devils! Well, there are angels on purpose
to take care of such as she, Jack, aren’t there? Dear, brave

irl! Well, the Lord knows I’m thankful to get my darling safe.
fu hand her over to a good, strong, smart fellow before long.”

While they talked they were notidle. Wat was ministered to
and made comfortable, and in detailing her adventures Jessie
made the best cause for the poor wretchsbe was able, and Mr.
Winchester stood looking at his sunken face, and deeply thinking.

“Now, Uncle Win, we must keep him, and heal him in all
ways, and then we'll start him afresh.
Donny?” i

“But I don’t know as I like that, Jess. Justice is justice, and
he ought to pay the penalty of his crimes. 1t won’t do to let all
the rogues run round free; beside, 1t would be compounding a
felony.”

“I don’t see that, Uncle Win.) Nobody has arrested him yet,
and it is asimpie case of right. Here’s a poor boy, who issorry
for his sins, and wants to repent and do better. Heaven will be
good to him, and you must follow the example.”

“J think, Mr. Winchester, I will lay Wat on my bed, and let
him rest; he looks as if he had had punishment enough for the

resent.

S “IT shan’t interfere with what you think best,’ said Mr. Win-
chester, glad of countenance in the clemency his heart was full
of; “so goto work and fix him up, and then we’ll see.”?

Aunt Mabel was in bed, but Honoria was up; and as soon as
she heard Jessie’s step past her door, she peeped out. Her eyes
were red with weeping, and her whole appearance utterly down-
cast.

“Oh, Jessie! they said such dreadfal things of you, I couldn’t
bear them!”

“Who said them?”

“Aunt Mabel, and Penelope, and Percival; and Eustace
laughed at the widow’s ohs and ahs! They said you had run off.
You didn’t run off, did you? I think they are hy-po-crites.”

‘Never mind, dear; I was doing right, and I have accom-

lished much. I have something also for you todo, Can you

<eep a secret for your Jessie?”

Miss Wilmerding went quickly over the story, to which Hono-
ria listened with eager interest.

“Now I must rest a little, dear, because Iam going to Doncas-
ter with Donny to see the uncle, and get a promise irom him to
leave poor Wat alone, and also to buyover again the horses,
which 1 can’t bearte part with; and I want you togo out and
sit with the sick man, and feed him and cheer him all you can.
You needn’t shrink, nor mind what those folks think. Let them
roll up their eyes it they want to—itis a first-class missionary
work; and itis high time we began to do sumething for those
who need.us, We’ye led idle livesthus far, Honoria. Yes, I
know what that look means. Lamport Caladore would not ap-
prove—of course he -wouldn’t! Life’s burdens are not lifted by
such ashe. I suppose that type of man is needful to refine so-
ciety, but I don't affect it. It isa weariness to the spirit—so
quiet, so cool, so careful to keep out of thedirt. Iam very giad I
have plenty of money—now it will be of value. I can pay for
the horses myself, aud Douny can save his wages. There mustn’t
be any more farm work for my man, because J shall furnish the
means for the rest of his education. Think of Lhuat, Honoria! If
you marry Lamport Caladore, you can’t do anything to help
him—only, as Aunt Mabel says, “dress yourself with taste, and
look as beautiful as possible.’”

{TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK. }
————_ >--¢-+______.
Our Knowledge Box.

Don’t you say so,

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING.

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
A Curious Reader.—Write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency...... 4M, E.—Shave trequently..... An Olu Reader.
—It would not pay you unless experienced in the business, to
plate one or two such articles, You can get them: plated tor a
mere trifle va ey . John W. C.—We know of nothing...

. J.—l. Watches are said to have been first invenied at Nurem-
berg A. D.,1477, although it is affirmed that Robert, King of Scot-
lend. had a watch about A. D. 1310, Watches were first intro-
duced in England from Germany in 1577. 2. For MUCILAGE see
No. 17 of volume 30. 3. For PIMPLES see No. 22 of volume 30.....
Gard.—To MAKE ROOFS WATER-PROOF, see No. 32 of volume 30....
Billy Buck.—1. Write direct to the New YoRK WEEKLY Purchas-
ing Agency. 2, Norecipe..... J. O. E.—We Cannot say....... se
Kate.—GLossy SHIRT BosomMs.—The following recipe to mak
shirt bosoms glossy is highly recommended: “Put a little com-
mon white wax in your starch, say two ounces toa pound; then
if you use any thin peers starch, be sure you use it warm,
otherwise it will get cold and gritty, and spot your linen, giving
it the appearance of being stained with grease. It is different
with collar starch—it can be used quite cold. Now, then, about
polishing shirts; starch the frouts and wristbands as stiff as you
can, Always starch twice—that is, starch and dry; then starch
again, Iron your shirtin the usual way, making the linen nice
and firm; but without any attempt at a good tinish; don’t litt
the plaits; your shirt is now ready for polishing, but you ought
to have a board the same size as a common shirtboard made of
bard wood, and covered with only one ply of plain cotton cloth.
Put this board into the breast of your shirt, dampen the front
very lightly with a wet sponge, then take a polishing iron which
is flat, and beveled a little at one end—polish gently with the
beveled part, taking care not to drive the linen up into wave-like
blisters; of course, this requires a little practice, but if you are
careful, and persevere, ina short time you will be able to give
that enamel-like finish which seems to be so much wanted.’’....
E. G. G.—Write direct to the New York WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency...... A y.—Take a dose of castor oil occasionally.....
Brooklyn Boy.—We cannot tell you......Country.—Glycerine and
fresh lemon juice will aid in whitening and softening the hands.
...C. BE. L.—1. Castor oil.* Mixed with brandy it will help the hair
if anything will. 2. To make COLOGNE see No. 23 of volume 30...
J. F. S.—WALNUT. Hair DYE.—The simplest form is the ex-
pressed juice of the bark or shell of green walnuts. To preserve
this juice, a little rectified spirits may be added to it, with a few
bruised cloves, and the whole digested together, with occasional
agitation for a week or fortnight, when the clear portion is de-
canted, and, if necessary, filtered. Sometimes,only a little com-
mon Salt is added to preserve the juice. It should be kept ina
cool place. j

G, W. B., F, R. H., Noel, Constant Reader, Katorina, Pansy,
J.D. X., J. U. D., Post-Oak Bill, C. WH. L., Troubled Housewite,
Shoo-fly Ben, F, Diehl.—Your letters have been received, and will
be answered as soon as possible.

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT,

Civil Rights.—See No, 22 of volume 30.

Haskell.—Wash in cold water night and morning.

S. 0. F.—Syringe them with a solution of castile.soap and wa-
ter, Let the water be tepid. | '

Herxes.—Only a regular practitioner can aid you.

Serre No. 32 of volume 30, in reply to ‘‘Sufferer,” and
others,

A, M. C.—For a cure for CANCER, see No. 31 of volume 30,

£. G.—HOOPING CouGH,.—This distressing malady is caused by
a viscid matter which cannot be easily expectorated. Next to
occasional vomiting, the daily use of the warm bath is most
useful. Gentle emetics may be given in the earlier stage ot the
disease. A change of air is always beneficial. The diet should
be light and easy of digestion, avoiding every thing of afat and
oily nature, The following recipe is recommended: Take a
tablespoonful of milk of assafetida every four hours, or half as
much, with five or ten drops of wine of ipecac. In violent cases
cousult a family physician. :

A, W, P.—WEAK EYES.—Bathe your eyes night and morning in
a tolerably strong solution of salt and water. We have known
some remarkable cures effected by this simple remedy, After
bathing the eyes daily for about a week, intermit a day or two,
and then resume the daily bathing, aud so on till your eyes get
strong again,

Billy Bowlegs.—1. We know nothing concerning them or their
medicines, 2, See No, 32 of volume 30.

NV. H.—HEART DISEASE.—Tihie symptoms of heart disease are

 

, More jiable to disease thag the right,

various. The whole heart is seldom affected. The left side is
Palpitation of the heart

 

 

{ may result simply from debility. nervousness or indigetion.. If
| nervous debility be the cause, tonics will prove of service. If

caused by indigestion, the stomach should be kept in good con-
dition. Highly seasoned food, especially, should be avoided.
good physician will prescribe the proper remedies atter making
a careful examination. Many persons imagine they have dis-
ease of the heart when the palpitation they complain of arises
from some other functional derangement.

G. L. B., ¥. L. W., L. J. ©., N.C. D., James L., L. M. F.—Your
a have been received, and will be answered as soon as
possible,

A Suferer and A. B.—CATARRH.—Ordinary cases can be cured
by snuffing up the nose a little table salt three or four times a
day. Sulphurand alcohol have also been recommended, but we
cannot vouch for their efficacy. A London practitioner says:
“Many cases of catarrh are caused by inability of the liver to
perform its function properly. In sueh cases there is often a too
‘alkaline condition of the blood. When this is the case the liver
does not take out as much of the carbon and other substancesas
it should, and the mucus membrane ot the nose becomes a dump-
ing ground for the foul matter, If persons thus afflicted will
squeeze the juice of a good-sized lemon into a half-tumbler of
water and drink it without sugar just before dinner, they will, if
they live hygienically, be surprised to see how soon the catarrhal
difficulty will diminish. When it fails to do so, it may be cousid-
ered as due to other causes.”

James Monroe.—We cannot aid you without Knowing more
about your case.

G@eorge.—SPERMACETI OINTMENT. —Melt together five ounces of
spermaceti, fourteen drams of white wax, and about one pint of
olive oil. The article commonly sold as spermaceti ointment is
composed of one pound of spermaceti, halfa pound of white
Wax, and from three to six pounds of pure lard.

-O~
Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

 

A New View of Bunker Will.

A month or two ago Colonel Bangs engaged a young
fellow, named Scudder, as sub-editor of the Morning
Argus. Ou the day before the anniversary of Bunker
Hill Bangs asked Scudder if he was familiar with the his-
tory of that battle, and Scudder said he was. So Bangs
told Scudder he would like him to write up a little sketch
of it for the anniversary day, and Scudder said he woud
try. Thenext morning the sketch appeared in the Argus,
and attracted a good deal of attention. When Bangs saw
it, he calied Scudder in, and said:

“Mr. Scudder, didn’t you tell me you thougut you were
familiar with the battle of Bunker Hil?"

“Yes, sir.?? :

“Well, if thatis the case, I will be obliged to you tf you
Will mention to me what you mean when you say:

make the attack, General Washington had the catapuits
put in line to await their coming, and, when Napoleon
saw them, he drew his sword, and exclaimed: ‘Soldiers!
twenty centuries look down upon you.” ?

been aware that Napoleon was not present, and that the
idea of George Washington fighting the Confederate army
with catapults is calculated to excite the derision. of edu-
cated persons, And I wish to direct your attention, Mr.
Scudder, to another historical inaccuracy. At the'bottorm
of the second column there, you say:

the walls of the castle than the Duke of Wellington sent

win or be brought home upon his shield.
his men to fire at the whites of the enemy’s eyes, he
awaited tlie onset with that majestic calmness which ever
distinguished the hero of Buena Vista.’

‘Now, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Scudder,
but really, for a journalist, you know, this kind of thing
won'tdo. You certainly must realize that the battle of
Bunker Hill was not fought in a castle with battering
rams; and at any rate, when you allude tothe Dukeoft
Wellington communing with General Butier, and connect
him with Buena Vista, there is actually no hope of your
forming public opinion on those topics. The public mind
ismadeup. And thena little further on, in the next
column, you say:

«This was the very crisis of the battle. Joan of Are
spying General Jackson behind the cotton bales, dashed

derous battle-ax above her head; her fair hair streamed
behind her in the wind. As her steed pressed forward,
her hair caught in the bough of a tree, and as she hung
there, Sergeant Bates shot her through the heart witha
bolt from an arquebuss. Her last words were, “Don’t
give up the ship.” ?

“Now, you see, Mr. Scudder, this kind of thing sets
people to talking. It hurts the paper. You've got Absa-
lom mixed up somehow in your mind with Joan of Are,
who died about ten thousand years before General Jack-
son, who wasn’t at Bunker Hill, and who never knew
Sergeant Bates any more than Sergeant Bates knows how
to fire an arquebuss. Arquebuss! Gracious Heaven! I’m
afraid this office ll be mobbed before night. Thecommu-
nity isnot excitable, but it can’t staud more than a cer
tain amount ofinsult. Sergeant Bates will write us a
couple of thousand letters about that allusion to him, and
maybe he’ll come to see us. No doubt you meant well,
butsyou’ve about done the business for us, especially here,
Wiiere you say:

** «The duke could stand it no longer. The Mamelukes
had slain all of his vanguard, General Sickles had lost
his leg and retired on a pension, and the enemy’s skir-
mishers, lodged in the top of Lhe monument, were pouring
boiling oil on those who attempted to scale it. Leaping
upon his horse, he shouted, ‘‘Up, guards, and at theml!?
and the next moment, with the glorious flag of truce in
one hand, and his sword in the other, he hurled his le-
gions upon the Lava-beds, and crushad the savage foe to
the earth, killing, among others, the well-known General
Harrison, afterward President of the United States.’

“The duke! Mamelukes! Flag of truce! Lava bedsi
Awful, sir, awful! The Argusisagoner! Gone up, Mr.
Scudder! Slain! But how could you have scared up that
idea about a man fighting with a flag of truce in his hand?
And how, O how could you have killed a man who you
admit was afterward President of the United States? No
comic paper ever surpassed this. It is terrible. I think
we shall have to part, Mr. Scudder. It seems to me that
your career as a journalist ought to come to an end right
here. I will accept your resignation.

“And if any one asks you why you left the Argus point
to this last paragraph and say that it was because the pro-
prietor was afraid he’d murder you when he read your
statement that ‘At the battle of Bunker Hill the Con-
federates lost 80,000 and the Carthagenians only 600,’ and
that ‘there is no spot in Virginia that the people hold
more sacred than that bloody hill where the bones of Crom-
well lie with those of Roger Williams, as if in life they
had never fought against each other in the cause of the
constitution and cheap transportation.’’ Point to that
language, Mr. Scudder, and your friends will understand
the situation. Good morning.’?

Then Mr. Scudder withdrew, and he is now looking for
another newspaper to ruin. MAX ADELER.

In Pleasant Company.

Mr. E. W., of Norwich, Ct., walked into his sister’s par-
lor one morn and placed beside him a stone jug, in which
was some wine for his sick mother. He then commenced
playing the piano, utterly oblivious of all around him.
His niece, hearing the music the first intimation she had
of his presence in the house, stepped to the parlor door
and seeing the jug, withdrew, saying: “Excuse me, Mr.
W., I thought you were alone.” “Not by a jug full,” was
the keen reply.

A Rap at Ben,

Said I to friend Maggie N.: *You might confiscate these

spoons; they are marked ‘M. & G,’ a part of your name.’

“But,” said she, ‘they’d be questioning who has been
butler (Ben Butler) around here.” ,
Wonderfal Wood-sawyers.

They tell_of some extraordinary Cincinnati wood-saw-
yers. Old Mr, Crabapple is very much pleased: with a
gentleman whom he has engaged:to saw wood. - “When
he piles the wood,?’ said old Crabapple to his friend, “if
oue stick projects beyond the others he pounds it with the
ax.’? “He’s a slouch,’? replied old man Stubble; “you
should see my wood-sawyer... When he gets the wood all
piled he takes off the rough projecting euds with a claw-
hammer saw.?? ‘Does he? Well, he couldn’t pile wood
for me,” broke in old Spikenberg; ‘‘my sawyer piles the
wood Carefully, then goes over the ends with ajack-plane,
sandpapers them down, and puts ona coat of varnish
before he thinks of asking for his pay.” Then they all
weut into the Grand Hotel before Syntax could tell how
his wood-sawyer silver-plated allthe ends of the wood
and nailed a handle on each and: every stick to pick it up

by.
Freddy’s Request.

Mrs, Farnsworth hayiuyg occasion io go to town, wished
to gel little Freddy asleep. Being such a wretched singer,
the noise she made frightened litile Freddy, and looking
up into his mother’s face, he said: “Ma, F’eddy s’eepy.
P’ease stop 00 noise.’? She stopped, AL. J. B.

To P. P. CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS, are accepted:
‘A Boy’s Composition,’ ‘Answers to Correspondents,’ ‘Bell and
Maryman,’ ‘An Unfortunate Suitor,’ ‘Quack Outwitted,’ ‘Sharp
Gate-Keeper,’ ‘Innocence,’ ‘Didn’t Care to take the Risk,’ ‘A
Fact? seh The following are respectfully declined: ‘Did Not
Want to be a Juror,’ ‘Who Mans the Jolly Boat,’ ‘Credit Given,’
‘Adverusing Coluan,’ ‘Song of the Shirt,’ ‘George's Extravagant
Wife,’ ‘Miner’s Lump,’ ‘Truth vs. Untruth,? ‘Don’t Fool Schmidt’
—old, ‘Smart Boy,’ ‘New Style Monuments,’ ‘Chartie’s Success,’

 

‘Johuny’s Skating Episode,’ ‘Aunt Polly id New York, ‘The T
Preachers,’ ‘Wit of a Dutchman.’ y Poet

** ‘By four o’clock the Confederate troops were ready to

“Now, Mr. Scudder, if you had possessed the most or-.
dinary acquaintance with that conflict, you. would have—

‘* No sooner were the battering rams leveled against

word to his mother by General Butler that he wouldeither |
Then ordering ©

2

at him upon her snow-white charger, swinging her pone -

micharanarr vee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ep cme ea ON Be Neen em

FORGETFULNESS.

BY JENNIE STOVIN,

 

Forget thee! no, by all my grief— ,
By memory of my tears;
Remembrance of the past will haunt
Thy changing heart for yearat
Amidst thy fairest hours of life
A bitter thought will steal,
And try to lead thy wavering soul
For others’ woe to feel.

Forget met in the glorious months
Of happy summer tide;

Canst thou forget the days last year
We wander’d side by side.

In thinking o’er all thou’st felt,
In banished joy and glee;

Say, from that faded dream of bliss
Oh, canst thou banish me?

The perfume of my favorite flowers,
The songs I sang thee last;

Will these permit forgetfulness
Oblivion of the past ?

Forget mel in the dead of night
One thought may steal through sleep;

One haunting thought will fill thy brain
And make thee wake and weep.

Feel thou hast blighted all the hopes
Of one who'd die for thee;
Say, from this dream of misery
Oh, canst thou banish me?
Acareworn face, sad, silent tears,
A broken heart at last;
Will these bring thee forgetfulness
Oblivion of the past?

———_—--— >

A MEXICAN LIAR.

BY JOS. E, BADGER, JR.

 

 

 

The autumn of ‘69 found me still in the little, squalid,
foul-smelling village of Covelo, nestling in the shadow of
mighty Mouut Tayior, New Mexico. My business had
long since been dispatched, but the day before the one
Which { had chosen for my departure, | was prostrated by
sun-stroke, culminating in along aud debilitating fever,
that reduced me to the fiue proportions of ‘the living
skeleton.”

And yet, as [look back now I do not know asI really
regret that sick spell, for through it I became better ac-
Quainted with an oddity, whose quaint, old-fashioned
pomposity caused me many a@ hearty, if secret laugh,
doing me more good than ali the ‘“‘yarb tea’! that his In-
dian wife drenched me with.

Senor Augustin Ignacio Sabanal-Morales-y-Fuentes-y
Trueba—the worthy don would never have forgiven me
had I omitted jot or tittle of his wondrous appeliation in
introducing him—was a native of Spain, a wizened old
hidalgo refugee, who had left his mother country on ac-
count of his political opinions, and had found his way to
New Mexico, where he now Owned quite an extensive
stock farm. Don Augustin was the walking essence of a
Spaniard of the ancient regime. His family dated back
from the flood—and had any other been hardy enough to
Claim a similar longevity for his race, beyond a doubt Don
Augustin would satisfactorily have proved that his an-
cestors helped build the Ark—and with the exception of
sundry refreshing jets of Moorish blood, injected into the
Truebas veius during the Moorish epoch, no shoot was
ever engrafted on their genealogical tree. This, at least,
mine host was wont to boast, and it did net become a
mere visitor to question his truth, even with the full-
blooded ludian wile before our eyes,

Don Augustin was nota beauty, even among the de-

enerate Mexicans. Scarcely five feet in height, his frail
ramework of bones was covered Witha parchment-like
skin of true Andalusian tint—in other words, he was
Saffron-hued. His features, though regular, were entirely
devoid of fiesh. His upper lip was covered with a thin
mustaciie, his chin with a straggling beard, both of a
diugy gray in color. Every one around him clad in deer
or goat skin, the don looked conspicuous in his shining
suit of black, much the worse for wear, it must be con-
fessed, with beaver hat badly battered, while around his
body and over his shoulders he wore an unexceptional
“capa’’ of most ample dimensions,

Don Augustin was by far too polite to say in so many
words that he believed one was exaggerating, but would
immediately respond with some statement that threw the
nee into the shade. I remember one instance in par-
ticular.

I was able fo sit up in an easy-chair, placed beneath the
little clump of algarobias growing before the door, the
light, primate foliage of which cast au agreeable shade.
Don Augustin had been questioning me about ‘“iny
country,’ and in reply I gave him a slight sketch of the
telegraph, the ratiroads, the Atlantic cable, etc. He
listened quietiy, but I kuew that he was mentally accusing
me of lying, by the sparkle of his eye aud the uneasy
twitchiug of his gray mustache.

“Al, senor Jose,’' he began, when I stopped for breath;
“A marvelous country, that of yours, aud your people
are almost as remarkable. These are strange things
of which you tell me, aud of course they are true, else
you would never liave attested them. And yet, though
you may find it difficult to believe, [have met with things
almost as wondertul, here in thiscountry. If you will honour
me with your attention, I will tell you of them,’ and as 1
promptly signified my williugness, knowing from experi-
ence tiiai Trueba had thought of Some miraculous fact, he
dextrously rolled up a couple of husk Cigarettes, one of
Wiich he tendered me.

‘Tt ig now several years,’ began Don Augustine, delib-
erately, ‘‘siuce the Httle incident occurred which I am
about to narrate. You must know that I am passionately
fond of the chase, and often spend weeks at a time in run-
ning the Coyutes and antelopes, or, maybe, a drove of
Wild-horses. It was while thus engaged that I met—but
wait. Iam getting ahead of my story.

‘It was the second day of our hunt, 1 had already
killed two horses by running them to death, and was
mounted upon a third, a magnificent stallion. IL had lost
sight of all my friends and peons, and liad myself become
bewildered, for the sun was hidden behind the clouds,
Finally 1 saw a line of timbers which I fancied 1 recog-
nized, and gladly lopea toward it, for as I had neither
food nor water with me, I did not fancy being obliged to
spend the night upon the plain.

“Ag I drew near the timber, I distinguished the figure
of @ man standiug upon its edge, and though his «dress
seemed odd, I did not dream of danger. So I rode direct-
ly up to him. But, now thatI could see him more dis-
tincily, I felt a little alarmed. He was none of my com-
pany, nor had lever met one like him before,

“In stature he was a giant, being, I should judge, ten
feet high. His hair and beard were very long, and snowy
white. He wore a rude dress made of tiger skins stitched
together with strings of the aloe bark. Upon his feet
were sandals, and in his hand he bore a huge club, the
butt stained with blood,

‘He noticed my surprise, and addressed me in good
Spanish, asking me whither 1 was bouud. lreplied that
I was lost. Then he pointed to the sun, which was just
setting, aud asked me politely to accept his hospitatity for
the night, saying that he would direct me aright on the
morrow.

“His gentlemanly address banished what little uneasi-
ness I may have entertained, and I accepted his invitation.
Taking my bridle-rein, lie led the way by a wiuding trail
through the woods, soon reacliing a beautiful glade, the
most lovely that ever my eyes rested upon. Near its cen-
ter stood a hut, built of leaves and branches, yet so cun-
ningly that the heavy rains could not penetrate it. Beside
tle door was seated a beautiful women, dressed complete-
ly in deerskins, tanned with the hair still on, Who arose
at our approach. A man, but litthe smaller than my host,
also stepped from the house, and seeing a stranger, rau
toward us and began curiously fingering my Knife.

“This seemed to anger my host, and dropping the bridle
he grasped the man, bending him across his Knee, and ad-
ministered a sound spanking with the palm of his hand.
The man, crying bitterly, as soon as freed, ram to the
woman and hid behind her as though for protection.

***¥ou must excuse the boy,’ politely said the man,
turning tome. ‘He is quite young yet, and has been so
very little in society that he forgets the good manners we
—his mother yonder and I—have tried to teach him. If
his brother Abel were here, you would see a model of pro-
priety. But come; allow me to introduce youto my wile.
Eve. my dear,’ lie added, addressing the woman, ‘this is
a gentleman who seeks our hospitality.’

“ «You are very welcome, senor,’ she said, ‘though I
fear we cannot treat you as sumptuously as we would
wish, for this is our washing day, and we're all at odds
and ends. Cain!’ she added, turning.to the whimpering
lad; ‘go you and see for Abel. Bid him kill one of the
cows, for | see your father has not brought in any game.’

“You may judge, Senor Jose, my astonisliment at hear-
ing this, for | had been told that Adam and his family had
died some time ago. But before I took my departure in
the morning, I was fully convinced that this was a mis-
take. Adam explained that he had been out deer hunt-
ing, as Eve wished a new dress, when he metme. That
night, as we smoked our cigarettes, he toldmethe whole
story of their wanderings since being expelled from Eden.
Perhaps, when we have more time, I may relate it to you,
seuor, in return for your very interesting stories of your
gouutry,’? concluded Don Augustin, gravely.

One other time, when I had been dilating upon the trot-
ting performances of Goldsmith Maid, Lady Thorn, Amer-
ican Girl, and other trotters, Don Augustin retorted with
the following:

“You Know the swamp of San Louis? There are raised
the finest horses in the world, both for beauty, action,
Speed and bottom. Indeed, seeing I am talking only to
you, Senor Jose, who have met with too many marvelous
things to wonder that others should be similarly favored,
I have no hesitation in stating that the devil has his stock
from there, where he raises his own especial breed of
horses. 1 could bring you a dozen true men whom I know,
that have attempted to capture one of these animals,
hoping thus to improve their own stock; but in every in-
stance the devil was too cunning forthem. At last, I
resolved to procure one, and with the aid of a padre, I
mixed a potent sleeping draught, and started for the
swamp. Atits confines I was met by a gentlemanly ap-
pearing person in black, and, from description, recog-

smo hs sa eases cle enw Nate

one a 0 emt

though I offered him a hundred doubloons, he refused to
selloue, At supper, | managed to pour the sleeping po-
tion into his wine, and he was soon under the influence
of the blessed draught.

“Taking his own saddle and bridle, I visited the corral,
and soon fastened them upon a splendid siailion, black
as night, large, strong-limbved and fiery .Theu I mounted;
but, unfortunately, 1 had forgotten to take the devil’s
‘spurs, which would have completed my power over the
stallion. Stili, in the enchanted saddle, holding the en-
chanted reins, he could neither turow me Dor pull me
from his back.

“With oue hop the stallion cleared the corral; another
bound, and he flew over the tree tops, alighting upon the
plain. Then began a struggle for the mastery. If the
stallion could dismount me before the break of day, he
was saved, and my soul would be forfeited to his muster.
Over the prairie it raced with the speed of a ‘norther,’
soon reaching the foot of the Sierra Madre. One frightful
hop, and his hoofs were planted upon the mountain top;
and then, with the ease and swiftness of a bird, the stal-
lion bounded from one peak to the other, until the end of
the range was reached; then whirling round, he returned
in his tracks, keeping this up until day dawned, when
he hopped to the prairie again, and stood quiet, at my
mercy. I had conquered, aud he was now mine, to do
with as I saw fit.’’

“Didu’t it jolt you, this hopping from peak to peak ?”? I
gravely asked.

“A little; but I was willing to endure that for sake of
the reward, should | conquer. If you are curious, I can
take you up the range and show you his tracks when his
hoofs sunk deep in the rocks—they still remain. And
lookl—yonder comes Felipe. now, bringing me the very
stallion I stole from the devil,” coolly replied Don Augus-
tin, indicating a peon who was leading forth from the
corral a superb black stallion.

“No, | am perlectly satisfied, Lassure you, Don Augus-
tin,’ L hastily made answer,

And so 1 was, satisfied that truth is not stranger than
fiction, at least when fiction has an advocate in Senor Don
Augustin Iguacio Sabanal-Morales-y-Fuentes-y-Trueba.

 

Wonders of Nature.

By Prof. M. Rudolph.
WHAT ARE THE STARS ?—No. 3.

In our last article, we closed with a brief reference to
New Stars, stating that these have suddenly appeared in
Various purts of the heuvens, and, in some instauces,
have wholly disappeared, leaving uot the slightest trace
of their former splendor,

But this sudden extinction Is not true of them all. Stars
that thus suddenly shone forth centuries ago, are séill
Shining to-day with undiminished light, and, so far as we
€au See, are likely Lo so Continue for centuries to come.
But the sudden disappearance of stars is not confined to
those that have suddenly and recently presented theim-
selves in the heavens. A few that were known to exist
from the earliest recorded history of the stars, have also
been, in @ moment, as it were, blotted out of existence as
refulgent Suns,

These two startling facts, the sudden appearance and
disappearance of Stars, give rise to two thrillingly imte-
resting questions:

First, how are we to explain the sudden adventof a
new star? Is the work of creation slill going on aud
new worlds now being broughitfrom nothing into exist-
ence by the Great and Omnipotent Creator, as when our
world and others were first created? This, at first view,
would seem to be the proper explanation of these start-
ling phenomena. But there isan unanswerable argument
agaiust this conclusion. It is expressly deciared in the
Divine Oracles, in the second chapter of Genesis: ‘Thus
the heavens and lhe earth were finished and ALL the hosts
of them.*? From this it Would seem that the creating of
aul the suns and worlds was completed at a given time,
and aster this no others were created. There is an argu-
ment in favor of this proposition, derived from the laws
of matter. It is this: As all matter attracts matter in
proportion to its quantity, we have, from the operation of
this law, the preseut order and harmony of the universe.
If any considerable portion of existing matter were re-
moved, then the present arrangement of worlds would
be disturbed. For example: Let us suppose our Sun, by
some means, to be taken out of our system, theu, there
being no Central attractive force to hold our world and all
the olhers iu place, they would all rush at random through
space and ere long would dash with terrific force against
each other, involving all in one common ruin. Heuce, it
isevident, that all must have been created about the
same time to insure the order that now prevails.

But now comes the other startling question, and °tis a
question that caunot be evaded, itis this: If all worlds
and suns were creaied at the same time, how isit that we
have new stars appearing from time totime? There is,
perhaps, only one satisfactory reply to this most interest-
ing inquiry, and it is thus answered: The stars were all
created at the same time, but such is the immense dis-
tance of some of these bodies that their light has only
now reached us, That light started froin these far-dis-
tant suns at the same moment that the lightof the oldest
stars left them on the long journey to Earth, it started at
that remote and unknown period, “the beginning,” when
“God Created the heavens and the Eartt,’? and though it
has ever since been dashing on at the rate of 182,000 milea
each Second, yet ouly now has it reached our globe. But
this is notall, There may be, and probably are to-day,
millions of mighty suns still farther out in the ever-unfa-
thomable deptius, also created at that same unknown pe-
riod, “the beginning,’ and their light, too, may be now
rushing toward us with the same lightning speed, only to
reach our world after the lapse of hundreds of thousands
of years more! And that light was not self-created: it
had a Creator. “GOD said, let there be light: and there
was light.’? God then existed; God then was the Alinighty
God! Who cun comprehend the elernity of God? Go
back Len hundred thousand millions of quiutillions of de-
cillions, not of years, but centuries of years, aud God (hen
was. How awiul the eternity of Jehovah!

And that light has been ever continued—sustained
every instant from that period antil now.

From all these hundred millions of mighty light-cen-
ters, without @ moment’s interruption, tt has been ever
streaming forth to the joy of all liis animate creatures—a
ceaseless benediction to the whole uuiverse. How vast
the resources of Omnipotencel

The new Stars, then, give us at once more vivid con-
ceptions of the inconceivable depths of occupied space
and a faint apprelrension—but very faint—of the everuily
aud resources of the Great Jehovah,

There ig auother Class of heavenly bodies called

VARIABLE STARS.

While it is generally true that the Stars shine with un-
diminished light, yet there are a few exceptions.

Thus, a Star in the neck of the Whale was observed in
1596 to undergo such changes that it was called Stella
Mira, the “Wonderful Star.’”? It would appear as a Star of
the second magnitude for about a fortnight; then it would
gradually diminish during three months, and at last be-
come entirely invisible, aud thus remain for five months.
Then again it would appear just as a faint Star, and in
about three months would regain its former briglitness,
and go through the same changes again. About 330 days
are thus occupied in completing the whole series of mu-
tations, although sometimes it would be invisible longer
than five months, aud it did not always return to its for-
mer brilliaucy.

But a more remarkable instance of change is observed
in Algol of Perseus in the head of Medusa.

This Star ordinarily appears as one of the second mag-
nitude, aud so remaius for about two days and fourteen
hours.

Then its light rapidly diminishes, so that in three-and-
a-lalf hours it appears only as a Star of the fourth mag-
nitude, It remains thus reduced in brightness only about
Jijleen minutes; then increases its light so rapidly, that
iu about three hours anda half it regains its greatest
brilliancy again. Thus the entire series of changes occu-
py only two days, twenty hours and forty-eight minutes.

Although these Changes have been going on so many
years, they are not yet satisfactorily explained. Some have
regarded them as produced by the rapid revolutions of the
Stars on their axes, ‘This is, perhaps, as plausible as any
theory; a3 our own Sun revolves regulariy on his axis,
and sometimes large dark spols are seen at regular inter-
vals on his surface, which perceptibly diminish his light
when carefully measured by the photometer, or lhght
measurer. The stars being suns, doubtless revolve on
their axes as does our own Sun.

As already intimated, sometimes the Star isentirely ex-
tinguished, aad never resumes any of its former brilliaucy,
but is wholly lost in the firmament.

In such @ case we must remember that only the light
of the star is extinguished; the body itself remains with
undiminished matter, but exists no Jjonger asasun, Itis
thenceforth a huge, black globe, traveling through the
dark abysses of fathomless space, use’ dark, and no
longer able to illumine its own path and make bright the
paths of other worlds, but a great mass of blackness and
darkness rushing on with frightful velocity into the
darker depths areund. We have reason to suppose that
thousands of such huge, dark, invisible, monster worlds
are to-day wildly careering through dark space, seeming-
ly serving no purpose, yet doubtless fulfilling some grand
design of their all-wise Creator.

These extinct suns may, perhaps, be relighted at some
future day, and again warm into life and fruitfulness a
whole family of worlds, aud make happy myriads of in-
telligent and rational beings; for the same Power that first
lighted them, and then extinguished their light, cau as
easily light them again.

OLUSTERS—“ISLAND UNIVERSES.’

Another very interesting class of heavenly bodies is
found in the Clusters of Stars. The number compesing
these is far greater than is generaMy supposed. Thus, in
the Pleiades, or Seven Stars, in which only six are seen
with the unassisted eye, over two hundred are seen with
a powerlul telescope. Sume of these clusters are globu-
lar in form, and their whole appearance indicates a cen-
tral force; that is, the whole cluster revolves like a wheel
on its axis, and seems to have some great atiractive pow-
er in itself, and that power located near its center. Hence
it has been inferred that such a cluster constitutes in itself
animmense system of systems on a most magnificent
scale—a family of worlds apart from the rest, aud gov-
erned by its own internal laws,

Dr. Herschel remarks that ‘‘many of these globular
clusters must contain upward of twenty thousand stars,

 

nized him as the devil. He invited me to his quarters,
and showed me his horses—a truly superb collection; but

compacted and wedged together in a space not exceeding
the teuth part of the Moon.’? What an exhibition of Al-

 

mighty power is this! Twenty thousand suns, each supe
rior to our OWn, crowded into Space so small that the tini-
est infanut’s hand would more than twice cover it! Aud
then, each sun surrounded by its planets; and these plan-
ets attended by their moons, or satellites; aud yet, not-
Withstanding their apparent proximity, each sun removed
from its fellow sun at least ten hundred billions of miles,
or as distant from each other as they allare fromus! Of
these “Island Uuiverses,”? more than four thousand have
been already discovered. “Verily, the heavens do declare
the glory of Goa,”

But when, aided with telescopic power, we direct onr
gaze to that mysterious Zone or belt of light, the Galaxy
or Milky Way, a new and greater wonder bursts upon our
view; and as we turn that almost angel eye, the tele-
scope, along that dazzling zone, We find eighteen millions
of mighty suns so densely crowded together as to forma
literal pavement of stars, and that pavement extending
not only above our heads, but beneath our feet—even
around the whole circuit of the heavens. And as we look
with solemn aweupon that glorious scene, we almost
think the angels’ path has been unvalied, and man may
see where seraphs tread. It will aid us to form a more
correct estimate of the immense distance of those bodies,
one from the other, notwithstanding their seeming near-
ness, When weremember that our Sun belongs to the
Milky Way, and our Sunis a pebble in this wondrous
pavement.

A GRAND DISCOVERY.

We come now to what ts justly regarded as one of the
grandest discoveries of modern times. Hitherto we have
regurded the Stars as jlved in space; and, to the cotn-
mon Observer, they are so. Were our great progenitor
to rise now out of his unknowy grave, he would find the
heavens wearing the same general aspect to-day us when
he and Mother Eve looked with wondering awe upon
their splendors, as they walked the grassy groves of
Eden. Each Star would seem to his unscientific eye to
occupy precisely the same place in the firmament. Nev-
ertheless, there is a Change, and it ig vow discovered that
ail the Stars are in motion. Wehave most striking evi-
dence of this motion in the change of place of the Stars of
the northern sky, in the constellation Hercules, These
Stars are separating from each other, while those in the
opposite part of the heavens are crowding cioser together.
A good tilustration of this is furnished in what we see in
passing through a forest, where the trees in advance
seem to separate, while those from which we recede ap-
purently come closer to each other. This proves most
conclusively that our Sun is in motion through space
tuward the north, carrying with him our world and all
the others belonging to our family.

Now if ous Sun can be proven to be in motion, it is
proeimanay evidence of the motion of other Suns or
Siars. But we have better proof of thetr motion, as we
shall see. If there is motion, it must be in a curved line,
for there is no direct motion—that is, in a straight line—
in the universe. I{ the mution is in a curved line, it must
be in acircie, and around some center, That center, it
is thought, haus been approximately found. In the Ple-
iades, or Seven Stars, there is one brighter than the rest,
Called Alcyone; and there, or in its vicinity, is supposed
to be the center of our Starry system; not the center of
the whole universe—for that in mortal life wiil never be
found—but the center of all the Stars visible to us.
_Maedler, a distinguished German astronomer, by a se-
ries of most profound and laborious investigations, found
a large number of Stars having a motion which indicated
this Star, Aleyone, as the sidereal center.

Around this central Sun, then, our Sun, with all his
planets and satellites, and all the other Suns visible to us,
revolve. And do you luquire the rate of motion of our
own Sun? Science answers, it is 33,350,000 miles each
year. And do you ask the time required to complete one
revolution? The astounding reply is, 18,200,000 years.
What a mighty circle is that, that requires more than
18 000,000 of years te complete one circuit through it;
and this, too, when the body is rushing on with an annua!
velocity of 33,350,000 miles. Thus, then, our Sun, and all
the Stars of our firmament, are obedient to the attractive
power of that far-distant mass; so distant, that its light,
though traveling 182,000 miles each second, is more than
five hundred years in reaching us. How mysterious, how
far-reaching, how potent, that force we call gravitation,
to control bodies at such inconceivable distances! Think
here a moment! That far-distant mass, that central Sun,
stretches out its invisible arms over the mighty abysses
of space, and stretclies them in all directions, and seizes
each of these ponderous Suns, as if with Omnipotent
grasp, and holds them ail in their appointed spheres, as
they rush on with almost lightning pace, and thus pre-
serves order and harmony throughout the whole.

_ What & Wondrous creature of the Creator is this force
in nature we, in our ignorance, term attraction. As we
confeinplate its power in holding and controlling distant
worlds, we are almost tempted Lo look upon it as some-
thing more than a mere property of matter, and to re-
gard it as an intelligent agent, acting as Jehovat’s vice-
gerent in the material aniverse,

But pause a moment longer before this wondrous spec-
tacie. Que hundred miilions of mighty suns with their
mnany huudred millious of planets and satellites moving
in nuiseiess grandeur around their mightier center, obe-
dient to his silent but resistiess influence. And what the
Inaguitude of that central Suu, which by the laws of at-
traction must be far greater than the whole combined
inass_ of these 100,000,000 of suus and their planetary
worlds, in order to so uttractall, as to hold them all in
their respective orbits? The mind is overwhelmed at the
thought of so much matter in one huge mass, One such
world would seem enough fur a universe.

But how complex the motions of these myriad worlds,
Systems revolving around systems; suns revolving around
suns; planets revolving around their centers; moons re-
volving around their planets, while 350 trillions of raging
comets dash in all directions, their fiery trains streaming
out millions ef miles over empty space. Andin all, neither
sound nor yoice is heard. O, how oppressively sublime
is the silent march of the stars,

And is this the whole of creation? Are these the limits
of Jehoval’s empire? No, no, no; tor then would tne
finite have grasped the infinite, and the creature, approx-
imately, have comprehended the Creator,

Tuke to yourself the wings of light, and fly to the most
remote of these millions of suns, and there, you would
look out upon another universe of worlds. No one of
the familiar censtellations of our sky would be seen. Fly
then to the remotest Star visible from that new point of
observation, aud there again you would see in the depths
beyond, another new firmament of stars; and then once
more, With the wings of light, fy to the most distant of
the suns of that newly unfolded creation, and from that
point too, you would again see in the fathomless abysses
beyond, new and most glorious displays of the creative
power of the Almighty. And so, on the pinions of light,
continue your flight through ten thousand years, and you
would not thei have reached the outskiris of creation.
Tunis stapendous system of one hundred millions of suns,
and their attendant planets aud satellites 1s probably but
one of a vast number of systems of equal magnificence,
revolving around some mighty center, and this vast con-
gregaiion of systems of systems may again be but one of
a thousand more of equal grandeur, all circling around
another and mightier central Suu; aud these may again
unite to form a still more immense system of systems, and
all revolving around the great, unknown ceuter of ail
matter,

What an idea of the immensity of space does this give
us. As we contemplate those mysterious bodies, which
we in our simplicity call comets, as they come dashing
down from heights immeasurable, or rushing up from
depths unfathomable, with a velocity of ten hundred
thousand miles au hour, and then dash away again from
usto traverse the regions of space at neurly the same
speed through thousands of years, we wonder if it is pos-
sible that they can find room for their mighty wander-
ings; but our wonder may cease in view of the immense
distances of these myriads of suns that faintly twinkle
above, beneath, and around us,

The thoughtful reader will appreciate the sentiment
that here follows.

A FRIENDLY CAUTION.

We are exceedingly liable to imagine, that among all
these mighty suns and mightier systems; these numerous
planets and multitudinous satellites; these huge clusters,
or “island universes’’—-these thousands of nebule and
oft-repeated Milky Ways, dimly seen in the great pro-
found—we are exceedingly liable, in the presence of these
more than one hundred millions of worlds, to imagine
that, as individuals, we shall belost sight of, and that
our personal acts, whatever they may be, are too insigni-
ficant to attract the notice of Deity; that He is too much
exalted above us to be concernedin any way whatever
about us, or mindful of what we think, or do, orsay. But
can He be an Omniscient—an all-knowing God—and be
thus ignorant of our acts, or only partially acquainted
with them, because of indifference?

Can He be a proper ‘Judge of all the Earth” if He has
not made Himself thoroughly conversant with each indi-
vidual act, and even with each motive that prompted it?
Let us not be deceived. In the Divine Government the
individual is never for a moment lost to view, but will be
judged as rigidly as though he were the only accountabie
being in existence. To Omnipotence itis as easy to take
account of quintiliions or decillions of rational beings,
and ofall thelr multitudinous deeds, as of a single act.

Let us then ever remember that it is with this incom-
prehensible and Almighty Being that we ail have to do;
that we are @W the subjects of His Government, and, wil-
ling or unwilling, mus¢ ever so remain. We can no more
escape from our respousibility than we can escape from
our existence. ;

Before Him we are to stand, and to Him render our ac-
count.

“WHAT ARE COMETS"? will
article,

be the title of our next
oc a re

Air-Engino for Street Cars,

An engine for drawing street cars has been tnvented in
Scotland by Mr. Scott-Moncrieff, who has obtained a pat-
ent forit. Itis thus described in a Glasgow journal:

The motive power ts atmospheric air, and this air is
pumped into six tanks, three being placed at either end
of the machine, and acts upon two engines which occupy
the center. The whole is contained in a framework about
the ‘length of an ordinary street car, and upon wich it is
intended to place the vehicle. The interior of the car
will not in the least be interfered with by the machinery,
and the floor will be about the same hight from the ground
as in the case of the common omnibus, Itis intended to
fill the tanks from receivers stationed at convenient dis-
tances along each of the tramway routes, from which the
air will flow {nto the tanks in about two minutes. The
air tanks have been tested up toa pressure of about 500
pounds to the square inch, but itis not intended to use a

 

 

higher pressure than between 300 and 400 pounds. In a
recent tial, made under several disadvantages, the ma-

ot THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3-

ones _ —

1 r "hie r
chine ran for about 1,400 yards, attaining a maximum
speed of about twelve miles an hour,

Speed.
Chine backed with the greatest facility.
> o~+4

THINGS GENERALLY.
BY MAX ADELER.
THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY.

— A few days ago a dilapidated mian Came into my
office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the
table, removing a ruined lat, and wiping his nose upon a
rugged handkerchief that had been so jong out of the
wash that it Was positively gloomy, he said:

‘*Mister, l’nt canvassing for the National Portrait Gal-
lery; splendid work; comes in numbers, filly cents apiece.
Contains pictures of all the great American heroes, from
the earliest tlines to the present day. Everybody’s sub-
scribing for it, and | waut to see if 1 can’t take your
name?’? “No, I dont want it.”

“Now just cast your eyes over that,” he said, opening
his book and pointing to an engraving. **That’s—iemme
see—yes, that’s Columbus. Perhaps you've heard sumfin
about him? The publisher was teRing me to-day, before I
started out, that he discovered—no; was it Columbus that
cis—? Ob, yes! Columbus, he discovered America, Was
the first man here. He come over in a ship, the publisher
said, and it took fire and he staid on deck because his
father told him to, if | remember right, and when the old
thing busted to pieces he Was killed. Handsome picture,
aintit? Taken from a photograph; all of ’em are; done
specially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but
they say that’s the way they dressed ip those days.

“Look here at this one. Now isn’t that splendid?
William Penn; one of the early settlers. 1 was reading
the other day about him; when he first arrived he gota
alot of Indiaus up atree and when they’d shook some
apples down, he set one on top of his son’s head and shot
an arrow plumb through it, and never fazed him, They
say it struck them Indians cold, he was such a terrific
shuvoter! Fine countenance, liasn’t’ he? Face shaved
clean—he didn’t wear a mustache, | believe; but he seems
to’ve let himse!f{ out on hair. Now my view is that every
man ought to have a picture of that patriarcl; so’s to see
how the first settlers looked, and what kind of weskits
they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers a little
short, may be, ag if he was going to wade in a creek, but
he’s ali there. Got some kind of @ paper in his hand, I
see. Subscription list, | reckon.

“Now, how does that strike you? There's something
nice. That, I think, is—is—that is—a—a—yes, to be sure,
Washington, You recollect him, of course. Some people
call him ‘Father of bis country,’ George Washington,
Had no middle name, | believe. He lived about two hun-
dred years ago, and he wasa fighter. Lheard the pub-
lisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware
river up yer at Trenton, and seems to mie if 1 recollect
right, ’ve read about it myself. He was courting some
girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights
to see her, when the old man wag asleep. The girl's
family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like the
man to do that, now don’t he? He’s gotitin hiseye. If
it ’d been me I’d a gone over on the bridge, but he proba-
bly wanted to show off before her; some men are so reck-
less, Now if you'll go in on this thing I'll get the pub-
lisher to write oul some more stories about him, and
bring ’ein around to you, s0’s you can study upon him,
I know he did ever 80 many other things, but I’ve forgot
‘emi; my memory’s so thnndering poor.

‘Less see, Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benja-
min Franklin! He was one of the oid original pioneers, I
think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for,
but I believe it was flying a—oh, yes! flying a kite, that’s
it. The publisher meutioned it. He was out one day fly-
ing a Kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while
she was flickering up in the sky aud he was giving her
more string, ap apple fell offa tree and hit him on the
head, and then he discovered the attraction of gravela-
tion—I thiuk they call it. Smart, wasn’t it? Now if you
or me’d a been hit itv’d just a made us mad, like as not,
and set us a cussing. But men are so different! One
man’s Meals another man’s pisin. See what a double
chin he’s got. No beard on him either; though a goatee
would have been becoming to such a round face. He
hasn’t got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier;
fil some when he was a boy muybe, or went out with the
home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain’t oue my-
Self, and I think all the better of hin for it.

“Ah, here we are! look atthat! Smith and Pocahontas!
Johu Smith, Isn’t that just gorgeous? See how she
Kueels over him and sticks out her hauds while he jays on
the ground, aud that big fellow with a club tries to ham-
mer him up! Talk about woman’s love! There it is. Mo-
docs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there
somewheres; and the publisher teils me that Shacknasty,
or Whatever his name is there, Was going to bang old
Smith over the head with that log of wood, and this girl
here she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she busted
loose aud jumped forward, and says to the man with the
stick: ‘Why don’t you let John alone? Me and him are
going to consolidate, and if you kili him l’il ueyer speak
to you again as long as | live,‘ or words like them; and so
the man he give itup and both of them hunted up a
preacher and were married and lived happily ever after-

During the greater
part of the trial, however, the engines were only at half
The engines were stopped, reversed, and the mia-

ra MO A a

 

sound and kind jn harness, but I discovered that it wasa
very poor kind, He had an irresistible propensity to back,
He seemed to be impressed with a conviction that nature
had put his hind legs in front, and that he could see with
his tail, and whenever | attempted to start him he always
proceeded stern foremost, untill whipped him savagely
and then he would go in the proper manner; but sudden.
ly, Aud with the air of a horse who had a conviction that
there was a‘luuatic in the carriage who didn’t kuow what
he was about, One day, while we were going down the
street, this theory became so strong that he suddenly
stopped and backed the Carriage Lhrough the plate-giass
window of Mackey’s drug store, After that | always
hitched him up with his head toward the carriage,and then
heseemed to feel better contented, only sometimes he
became too sociable and used to put his head over the dasin-
bourd and try to chew my legs or to eat up the lap cover.

Besides, the peculiar arrangement of the animal excited
uupleasant remark when I drove out, and when I wanted
to stop, and would hitch him by the tail to a post he had a
very disagreeable way of reaching out with his hind legs
and sweeping the sidewalk whenever he saw anybody
that he felt as if he would like to kick.

He was not much of a saddle horse; not that he wonld
attempt to throw his rider, but whenever a saddle was
put on him it made his back itch, and he would always
iusist upon rubbing it against the first tree or fence, or
corner of a house that he came to, and if he could bark
the rider’s leg, he seemed to feel better contended. The
last tine Trode him was upon the day of Aleck Bunger’s
wedding. Ihad ou my best suit, and on the way to the
festival there was a creek to be forded, When the horse
got into the middie of it he took a drink, and then looked
around at the scenery. Then he took another drink, and
gazed again at the prospect. Then he suddeuly felt tired
und lay down in the water. By the time he was sufficient-
ly rested I was ready to go home,

The next day he was taken sick, My hired man said it
was the epizooty, and he mixed him up some turpentine
in a bucket of warm feed. That night the horse had
spasms and kicked four of the best boards out of the side
ol the stable. Cooley said that horse hadn't the epizooty
but the botts, and that the turpentine ought to have been
rubbed on the outside of hin instead of going into his
stomach. So we rubbed him with turpentine, aud next
morning he hadn’t a hair ou his body.

Jadge Pitman told me that if 1 wanted to know what
really ailed that horse he would tell me. It was glanders,
and if he wasn’t bled he would die. So the judge bied
him for me. We took away a tub full, and the horse
thinned down so that his ribs made him look as if he had
swallowed a hoop skirt. It made him hangry too, for that
night he ate the feed box, a breeching strap, and two
trace-chains,

Then I sent for the horse doctor, and he said there was
nothing the matter with the horse but heaves, and he leit
some medicine “to patch up his wind." The result was
that the horse coughed for two days as if he had gone in-
to galloping consumption, and between two of the coughs
he kicked the hired man through the partition, and bit our
black-und-tan terrier in half.

1 thought perhaps a little exercise might improve his
health, so I drove hiin out ong day, and he proceeded in
such a peculiar mauner that [ was afraid he might sud-
deuly come apart and fall to pieces. When we reached
the top of White House hill, which is very steep by the
Side of the road, he stopped, gave a sort of a shudder,
coughed a couple of times, Kicked a fly off of his near
shoulder with his hind leg, and then laid down and cali-
ly rolled over the bank. I got out of the carriage before
he fell, and I watehed him pitch clear down to the valley
beneath, with the veliicie dragging after him. When we
got to him he was dead, and the manat the farm-house
close by said he had the blind staggers. I sold
him for eight dollars to a mau who wanted to make him
up into kuife-handles, suspender buttons and glue; aud
since then when we have wanted to take aride we have
walked. The next time I attempt to buy a hoise I will
get a niule. ;

“OVER THE BAY.”

BY NED BUNTLINE.

 

 

 

“Where were you, that you failed to keep your engage-
ment to go to the opera with me, Clarence?" asked Lina
Becka, the pretty heiress of as foud a father as ever hud a
home on Filth avenue.

“] was over the bay!’ said Clarence, blushing. ‘The
wind fell calm and we could not get the yacht in in time.
Iam very sorry that you were disappointed.”

Clarence Fisher looked at his friend, Ned Truman, as he
spoke, for he was telling a deliberate falsehood, and Ned
knew it, for he had been at the same dinner party with
Clurence, and knew that he had got so intoxicated at
table, that he had to be removed to bed before the rest of
the company broke up. 4

But Lina, as artiess as she was beautiful, had no
thought of this deception, and replied:

“It was a disappointment, indeed, to papa, as well as
myself. We both wanted to hear Nilsson in ‘La Sompam-
bula,’and we waited for you untilit was too late togo. .
But wind and weather are in the hands of Providence, so
you are absolved from all blame.”

Clarence made but ashort visit to his betrothed that

 

ward, Besutiful story, ain’t it? A good wife sie made
him, too, I bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And
don’t she just look lovely in that picture? But Smith ap-
pears Kiuder sick. Evidently thinks lis goose is cooked,
and | don’t wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on
him with such a discouraging club.

“And now we come to—lto—ah—to Putnam—General
Putuam. He fought in the war, too, and one day a lot of
Jem caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied

‘him flat on his back on a horse, and then hcked the horse

like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but
go pitching duwn about four hundred stone steps in front
of the house, with General Putuam laying there nearly
skeered to death, Leastways, the publisher said some-
how that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he
come out safe, and lreckon sold the horse aud made a
pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn’t
break his neck; but maybeit was a mule, and they're
pretty sure-fuoted, you know. Surprising what some of
these men have goue through, aiu’t iL?

“Turn over a couple of leaves. That’s General Jackson.
My father shook hands with him once, He was a figitter,
iknow. He fiitdown in New Orleans. Broke up the
rebel legislature, and theu, when the Ku-Kluxes got afier
him, he fought ’em behind cotton breastworks, and licked
Yem till they couldn’t stand. They say he was terrific
when he got real mad. Hit straight from the shoulder,
aud fetched his man every time. Andrew his first name
was; aud look how his hair stands up! And then here’s
John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates,
anda whole lot moze pictures, 80 you see it’s Cleap as
dirt, Lemme have your name, won’t you?”

“T believe not to-day.’?

“What! won’t goin on William Penn, and Washington

and Smith aud the other heroes? Don’t want ’em??? ‘No.’
“Well, welll you’ve got uo more soul than a ciam.
Hang me if I’a a wasted so much information on you if
l’d a knowed you wouldn't subscribe. If every mau was
like you it'd bust up the business,”?

Then he wiped his nose and left. I hope he is doing
better wilh the work than he did with me,

HOW TO GO TO SLEEP.
Butterwick hada fit of sleeplessness one night lately,
and after vainly irying to lose himself in siumber he hap-
peued to remember that he once read in an almanac that
aman could put himseifto sleep by imagining that he
saw a flock of sheep jumping over a fence, and by count-
ing them as they jumped. He determined to try the ex-
periment, and closing bis eyes he fancied the sheep jump-
ing, and began to count. He had reached his one hun-
dred and fortieth sheep, and was beginning to doze off,
when Mrs. Butterwick suddenly said:

“Josephl? ©O! what???

“| believe that yellow hen of ours wants to set.”
“OQ don’t bother me with such truck as that now!
up ana go to sleep.”

Then Butterwick started his sheep again, and com-
menced to count. He got up to one hundred and twenty,
and was feeling as if he would drop off any momeut,
when, just as his one hundred and twenty-first sheep was
about to take that fence, one of the twins began to cry.
*“Biame that child,’? he shouted at Mrs. Butterwick;
“why don’t you tend to it and putitte sleep. Hush up,
you little brat, or I’ll spank youl”

When Mrs. Butterwick had quieted it, Batterwick, al-
though a littie neryous and excited, concluded to try it
again. Turning on the imaginary mutton, he began.
Only sixty-four sheep had slid over the fence, when But-
terwick’s mother-in-law knocked at the door, and asked
ifhe was awake. Whenshe learned that he was, she
said she believed he had forgotten to close the back shut-
ters, and she thought she heard burglars in the yard.

Then Butterwick arose in wrath and went down to see

aboutit. He ascertained that the shutters were closed as
usual, and as he returned to bed, be resolved that either
that woman would leave the house for good in the morn-
ing, or else he would. However, hie thought he might as
well give the almanac plan another trial, and setting the
sheep in motion he began to count. This time he reached
two hundred and forty, and would probably have got to
sleep before the three hundredth sheep jumped, had not
Mix’s new dog in the next yard suddenly become home-
sick, and begun to express his feelings in a series of pro-
longed and exasperating howls. Butterwiek was mad.
Dropping the sheep he leaped from bed and began to
bombard Mix’s new dog with boots, soap cups, and every
loose object he conld lay his handson. He hit the ani-
mal at last with a plaster bust of Daniel Webster, and in-
duced the dog to retreat te the stable to think about home
in silence.

1t seemed almost ridiculous to resume those sheep again,
but he determined to give the almanac man one more
chance, 80 as they began to jump the fence he began to
count, and after seeing the eighty-second sheep safely over,
he was gliding gently into the jand of dreams when Mrs.
Butterwick roiled out of bed and fell on the floor with such
violence that she waked both the twins and started them
crying, while Butterwick’s mother-in-law came down
stairs, four steps ata time, toask them if they felt that
earthquake.

The situation was too awful for words. Butterwick re-
garded it fora minute with speechiess indignation, and
then seizing a pillow he went over to the sofa in the back
sitting-room and lay down on the lounge. He fell asleep
in ten minutes without the assistance of the almanac, but
he dreamed all night that he was being butted around the
equator by a Cotswold ram, and he woke in the morning
with a terrific headache and a Conviction that sheep are
good enough for wool and chops but not worth a cent as

Shut

 

evening. He felt morally mean and physicaliy unwell, -
and as soon as he could drew his friend’s attention, and
asked him to go, begging Lina to excuse the brevity of his
call. He would be sure to go to the opera the next night,
“That is, if he is not over the bay,” said Ned Truman,
with a laugh, as they leit.

“Ned, how could you! She might take the hint, and if
the old man Knew | drank hard, my case would be peril-
ous!’ said Clarence, as he went on up the avenue, after
leaving Mr. Becker’s house.

“I wanted to scare you, so you would not tell so cool a
lie againl’? said Truman. ‘ ‘Over the bay,’ isa very good
term for getting dead drunk. I think I'll adopt it after
this!”

“Well, well,’? cried Clarence, petulantly; “you needn’t
ring it iu my ears all the time. Ihad to make some ex-
cuse, for I had promised to take them to the opera, and
held the tickets and box for that night.”

“Tell me one thing, seriously, Clarence—do you love
Lina Becker ?”?

And Ned was very earnest when he asked the question.

“Why do you ask, Ned ??

“Simply because I want to know, and I want 2 truthful
pswer. I know how thick you are with Gussie."

“Well, to tell the truth, Ned, I love Gussie far the best,

but Lina has the money, aud that is What 1 need and must
have. Sol shall marry Linal’’
“Not if this court kuows itself,’ murmured Truman to
himself. ‘For 1 love Lina, not for her money, but for her
pure, loving heart, her peerless face and form, her intel-
ligeuce and sound common seuse, She shall not be a
drunkard’s wife, if I can save her!”?

But he did not say all this to Clarence. He only said:
“Take my advice, if you want to do yourself justice, and
fit yourself for such good fortune as you desire. Quit
drinking entirely, and join the Guod Templars, as | intend
doing to-night!” —

“Bah! make a milksop of myself? No, sir,.not for a
dozen women or a dozen fortunes. I like a good glass of
wine too well for that!”

“Well, take your own course, and if you find yourself
too far ‘over the bay’ to ever get back. Don’t blame me,
ve said my say!’? :

Tue youug men parted. Clarence kept onin his fast
course, while Ned Truman joined the Good Templars as
he had said he would.

Ciarence kept up his regular visits to the Becker man-
sion, and one night he was rather startled by a question
from Lina’s father.

“Have you been ‘over the day’ lately, sir?’? asked the
old gentleman.

Clarence blushed and stammered as he said:

“No, sir—not lately. I ave given up yachting!’

A look of intelligence passed between the father and
daughter when his confusion was noticed.

Clarence felt strangely uneasy, for he could see that he
was not treated with the usual warmth. He left early.
Two days later he made up his mind to hurry up his
matrimonial projects. He called at the Becker mansion,
intending to try to urge the setting of the wedding day.
But he was not admitted. Theservant told him, when
his card was presented, that Miss Becker was eugaged,
and handed him a letter.

The latter was from Mr. Becker, and ran as follows:

‘Mr. CLARENCE FISHER:—Debauchery and dissipation
are iuexcusabie in @ young man whio seeks to hold up his
head in good society. Aud when to this he adds deliber-
ate falsehood to cover his faults, he renders himself un-
worthy the title of a gentleman. You are at liberty lo go
‘over the bay’ when you desire, but not at liberty hereaf-
ter to visit my house or pay any attention to a daughter
who abhors intemperance as much as I do.

“Yours, with only the respect you merit,

“L. L. G. BECKER,”
Clarence turned from the perusal of this note first in
anger then in agony. He had lost the fairest venture of
his life by going ‘‘over the bay.”

—__-——_ >- e+
A Deserving Charity.
A most deserving charity is thus referred to by the New
York Times, & paper which has been very influential in

enlisting the sympathies of the humane in the interest of
poor and destitute children:

The managers of the Children’s Aid Society have estab-
lished a ‘‘Sea-side Home” for and destitute children,
which they hope to keep open throughout the summer,
A kind-hearted lady has given $1,000 toward the Home,
and collected $1,500 more from her friends. With this
money tio houses have been taken at Bath, Long Island,
a stock of provisions hus been laid in, three cows bought,
and other arrangements made for the comfortand welfare
of the children who will be sent down this summer. At
an expense of $4,000, fifteen hundred children can be giv-
en the great boon of a few weeks at the sea-side, and Mr.
Brace and his associates can be trusted to pick out the
chiidren who are likely to be most benefited by the
change. The sum of $1,500 more Will enable them to ac-
complish this object, and we aré quite sure that mothers
and fathers who are able to send their own children to the
sea-side at this time of year will cheerfully subscribe this
small amount for the benefit of the sick and the crippled
boys and girls, who are only too numerous in this great
city. We are always reluctant to appeal to the public for
money, but this is so good a cause that many Of our read-
ers will thank us for making them acquainted with it,
Contributions should be sent to Mr. ©. L. Brace, Ohil-
dren’s Aid Society, No. 19 East Fourth street, and that

=

 

 

@ narcotic.
OUR HORSE.
— Last summer 1 bought a horse. He was warranted

gentleman will doubtiess promptly acknowledge them
through these columns.

 

 

 

 

 

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