(

 

 

 

  

.easy ebsix, and tsying_ her white arms @

 

VoL. XXXI.

 

 

 

THE YOUNG WIDOW.

JOHNSON

 

BY ELLA -Y.

 

I saw her last night at a party,

The brilliant reception at Lead's,
Gayest of all the gay dancers,

A widow, still young in her weeds.

As billows of crape, softly heaving
With her bosom’s ravishing swell,

She stepped to the time of the music
In Germans, and waltzes as well,

Bat whet they were passing, I fanéted,
She drew the faint breath of a sigh;
Perbaps she remembered that moment

Her husband, the late Mr. Bly.

A cool hundred thousand he left her,
*Iwas whispered aloud at the ball;

Bat though she has plenty of suitors,
Of course she won’t marry at all.

What widow in cheerful bereavement
Was ever expected to lend

Her charms again toa Benedict
That any odd fortune could sendt

But still it was sweet to behold her,
Last night at the party at Lead’s,

As she tripped through the maze of the dances,
So charming she looked in ber weeds.

CHATEAU DOR.

By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.
{*Chatean a’Or” was commenced last week. Ask any News
Dealer for No. 19, and you will get the opening chapters. ]

CHAPTER IL—(ConTINvED.)

“It would make the story too long to describe in
detail -that elaborate dinner of ten courses, which
was served from. solid silver and glass of Bevres,
with two or three servants in attendance. Haver-
leigh was very rich and very purse-proud, and it
suited him to hive like a prince wherever he was;
besides, he wished to impress the simple New Eng-
land girl with a sense of his greatness and wealth,
and he enjoyed her evident embarrassment, or ra-
ther bewilderment at so much glitter and display
for just themselves and no one else. Anna had not
forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and af-
ter their return tothe salon where a bright wood
fire had been kindled,asthe autumn night was
chilly, she stole up behind him as helounged in oie
u
neck, drew his head back until her lips touched his
forehead. Then she said, softly and bashfully:

**“Ernest, this is our first coming home, and twant

to thank you for all the beautiful things with which
you have surrounded me, and to tell you thatI
mean to be the bestand most faithful of little wives
to you.’
_ “Tt was quite a speech for Anna, who really stood
in great fear of the man she could not understand,
and who seemed to her to be possessed of two
spirits, one good and one very, very bad, and should
she rouse the latter she knew it would not be in her
power to cope with it. Butshehad no fear of rous-
ing it now,and she felt asif turning into stone
when, for reply to her caress, he sprang to his feet
and placed a hand on either of her shouitders, and
stood looking at her with an expression in his eyes
she could not meet and before which she ecowered
at last, and with quivering lip said to him:

“***Please take your hands from my shoulders; you
hurt me, you press so hard. And why do you look
so terribly atme. You make me afraid of you, and
I wanted to love you to-night. What have I done?’

“Then he released her, and flinging her from him
left the salon without a word, and she saw him no
more that night. Ateleveno’clock Celine came in
to undress her, and when Anna managed ta make
her understand that she wished to know where
Monsieur Haverleigh was, she only received for an-
swer a meaning shrug and a peculiar lifting of the
eyelids, which she could construe as sheliked. It
was not so pleasant a home-coming after all, and
Anna’s first night at the chateau was passed with
watching, and waiting, and tears, and that intense
listening which tells so upon the brain. Once she
thought to leave the room, but the door was bolted
on the other side, and so at last, when wearied with
walking up and down the long apartment, she
threw herself upon the rosewood bed and fell into
a disturbed and unrestful sleep.

Meanwhile the master—Haverleigh—was fighting
a fiercer battle with himself than he had ever fought
before.. He had said that his mind was made up,
and he-was one who boasted that when once this
was so nothing could turn him from his purpose;
his yea was yea, his nay, nay, but those white arms
around his neck, and the touch of those fresh lips
upon his forehead had not been without their effect,
though ‘the effect was like the pouring of molten
lead into his veins,and had made him what, at
times, he verily was,a madman. When he rushed
from Anna’s presence, with that wild glance in his
eye and the raging fire in his heart, he went straight
to the dark, dreary room where Agatha had died
with the sweet refrain, “Je vais revoir, ma Norman-
die,” upon her lips, and there amid the gloom and
haunting memories of the place walked up and
down the ok night, now thinking, thinking,
with head bent down, and now gesticulating in
empty air with clenched fist, and again talking to
himself, or rather to the spirits, good and bad,
which seemed to have possession of him.

Was she in earnest ? Did she mean it? Is it
possible that she might learn to love me through
these baubles she prizes so much? he questioned
of his better nature, which replied:

Try her, andsee. Don’t leave her here in this
dreary place. Don’tshut out all the gladness and
sunshine from her young'life. Giveher a chance.
Remember Agatha,’

Just then, through the easement he had thrown
open, there came a gust of the night-wind, which
lifted the muslin drapery of the tall bed in the cor-
ner ene ercr’ it toward him, making him start, it
was so like the white, tossing, billowy figure he had
seen there once, begginghim for the love of God
to set her free, and let her go back to ‘la belle Nor-
mandie, where the father was watching for her
and would welome her home again, all fallen as she

was.

Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy
for Anna, the singing-bird from New
Possibly; andif so, she pleaded well, and might
have gained her cause if the wicked spirit had not
interposed, and sneeringly repeated: ‘Do not love
him—shrink from his caresses—can’t endure to
have him touch me—married him for money—can
Wind him round my little finger” And that last
turned the scale. No man likes to be wound round
any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest
Haverleigh was not an exception.

She shall pay for that,’ he said—shall suffer
until the demon within me is satisfied, and I rather
think I am possessed of the devil. Eugenie says I
am, in her last interesti document, and he
laughed bitterly, as he took from his pocket a dain-
ty little epistle, bearing the London post-mark, and
stepping to the window, through which the early
morning light was streaming, he glanced again at
the letter, which had been forwarded to him from
Paris, and a part of which had to do with Anna.

Vho was the doll-faced little girl Isaw with you
in the Carriage, and why didn’t you call upon me
after thatday? Were you afraid to meet me, and
What new faney is this so soon after that other af-
Matos sry Maverieigt. I belisve you are pos-

vith a i c ime
maine. emon, which makes you at times a
. , 408, I believe I am mad at times. I wonder if it
is in the family far back, working itself outin me?
Haverleigh said, a8 he stood with his eyes riveted

 

leading
tngland ?

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose SEé.,
Proprietors. VP.

 

Tinieved According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1816, by Street &

 

, a the Ofice of the Librarian of Conaress. Washington, D. C.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

0. Box 4896, New York.

 

 

 

 

 

 

L$

eermaner

NEW YORK, APRIL 3, 1876.

en

  
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
  

MY

 

{\— -—— Bei oe ee ee

| tue ene

 

 

 

 

Shree Dollars Per Year. | FRANCIS S. STHEET
Two Copies Five Dollars. ¢ fate.

FRANCES 8S. SMITH, No. 20.

 

= aes =

% ac.

- ° , { \ Py ;
D Dasa ur S
i oe te

ey EE

gou hurt me, you press so hard.*’

 

°* Please take your hands from my ners ;

that spell she holds over me. If it were not for her
a might have been living, and I might forgive
Anna, for i do believe I am nearer loving her than
any woman I ever saw, and thatis why I feel so bit-
ter, so unrelenting, so determined upon revenge.’

“Phere were signs of waking life in and around
the chateau now. Theservants were astir, and so
Haverleigh left the room where he. had passed the
night, and which since Agatha’s death had borne
the cognomen of ‘the haunted chamber.’ On the
stairs he met with Madame Verwest, who stood
with hands folded and eyes bent down, her usual
attitude while receiving his orders.

‘Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he
said, and be waited on by Celine, and then about
ten. o’clock he would see her alone, for he must be
off'that night for Paris.

It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and
fruits, and French rolls, and limpid honey and

‘zs which Celine took to her mistress, whom she
had dressed becomingly in a white cashmere wrap-
per, with broad blue sash, knotted atthe side, and
a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In spite of the weary
night, Anna was very beautiful that morning,
though a little pale and worn, with a shadow about
the eyes, which were lifted so timidly and question-
ingly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the
sation and closed the door behind him.

Oh, Ernest, husband!’ she began, but she never
called him by either of those names again, and half
an hour later she lay on her face among the silken
cushions of the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-
crazed creature, to whom death would have been a
welcome relief just then.

He had succeeded in making her, comprehend
her greizon fully, and in some degree to compre-
hend him. He was aman who never forgot and
who never forgave. He had loved her, he believed;
at least, he had conferred upon her the great honor
of becoming his wife—had raised her from nothing
to a high and dazzling position, because he liked
her face and fancied she liked him. She had cer-
tainly made him think so, and he, whom many a
high-born damsel. of both Scotland and England
had tried to capttvate, had made a little Yankee
shoe-stitcher Mrs. Haverleigh, and then had heard
from her own lips thatshe loathed him, that she
shrank from his touch, that she could wind him
around her little finger, that she married him for
money, for fine dresses, and jewelry, and furniture,
and horses, and carriages, and servants—and he
he added with an oath: ‘You shall have all this.
You shall have everything you married me for, ex-
cept your freedom, and that you never shall have
until [change my purpose; then, without giving
her a chance to speak in her own defense, he went
on to unfold his plan formed on the instant when
he stood by the door in New York and heard her
foolish speech to Mrs. Fleming. She was to remain
at Chateau d’Or, where every possible luxury was
to be hers, and where theservants were to ee her
perfect obedience, except in one particular. She
was never to go unattended outside the grounds, or
off the little island on which the chateau stood.
Monsieur Brunell, who kept the gate, would see
this law enforeed,as he would seeto everything
else. All letters which she wished to send to him
or her friends would be given to Brunell’s care. No
other person would dare touch them, and it would
be useless for her to try to persuade or bribe them,
as they all feared him absolutely and would obey
his orders. For societyshe would haye Madame
Verwest, and plenty of books in the library, and a
splendid piano, which she would find in the same
room, with asmall cabinet organ for Sunday use,
‘as you New Englanders are all so pious,’ he added,
with asneer. Then pausing a moment,as if to
rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and
distinctly:

““Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are
my wife, but I have told them you are crazy, and
that rather than send youto a lunatic asylum, I
shallkeep you inclose confinement here for a
while, unless you become furious, in which case
there are plenty of places for you, not so good as
this, oras much toyour taste. Tothe other ser-
vants I make no explanations, except that you are
crazy, and that it isa fancy of yours that you are
not. This fancy they will humor to a certain ex-
tent, but you cannot bribe them. They will give
you every possible attention. Celine will wait upon
youasif you wereaqueen. Youcan dine in state
every day, with twenty courses if you like, and
wear a new dress eachtime. You can drive in the

rounds when it suits your fancy, and drive alone
there; but when you go outside the gates Madame
Verwest, or Celine, or some trusty person will ac-
company you, as it is not safe for a lunaticto go by
herself into strange quarters. At_interyals, as it
suits my convenience or pleasure, I shall visit you
as my wife,and because itis better soand hasa
better look. Ishall be the most devoted of hus-
bands in the presence of the servants, who will
thus give me their sympathy and wholly discredit
anything you may tellthem. 80 beat your pretty
wings as you may, and break your heart as often as
you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme

 

 

 

upon the last two lines, ‘Curse this woman with

 

here. I am your master, and Madame Verwest

 

ee, of me sometimes that I am a madman—
ha, ha!

“Tt was the laugh of a demon, that ha-ha, and the
look of the man was the look of a madman as he
pushed from him the quivering form which had
thrown itself upon the floor at his. feet suplicating
for pity, for pardon. He had neither, and with a
coarse laugh which echoed through the salon like
the knell of death to all poor Anna’s happiness, he
left the room and she heard his heavy footsteps as
he went swiftly down the stone stairway and out
into the court.

“Was it all a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible
reality, she asked herself as she tried to recall the
dreadful things he had said to herand to under-
stand their import. risoner, a maniac,’ she
whispered to herself. ‘Oh, mother, oh, Mary, that
I should come to this. . Oh, if I could die, if I could
die;’ and in her anguish she looked about her
for some means of ending her wretched life. Her
New England a however, was too strong for
that. She dared not deliberately and suddenly die
by her own hand, but if this thing were true, if she
was aprisoner here with no means of escape, she
would starve herself to death. They could not
compel her to eat, and she would never taste food
again until she knew that she was free.

There was a murmur of yoieesin the court below
and a sound of wheels crushing over the gravel.
Was he really going, and without her? She must
know, and springing from her crouching attitude
she started for the door, but found it fast, locked
from the other side it would seem, and she was a
prisoner indeed, and for a time a maniac as well, if
sobs and moans and piteous cries for some one to
come to her aid could be ealled proofs of insanity.
But no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on
till she heard the house clock strike four, and then
Celine came in to dress madame for dinner, but
Anna waved her off, loathing the very thought of
food—loathing the glitter and display of the day be-
fore—loathing the elegant dresses which Celine
spread out before her, hoping thus to tempt her.

‘**Go away, go away, or else let me out,’ she cried,
while Celine, who could not understand a word,
kept at a safe distance, eying her young mistress
and thinking it very strange that her master should
have two crazy girls in Sucre hoor Agatha
Wynde and this fair American, who Madame Ver-
west said was his wife.

“““Perhaps,’ Celine had thought with a shrug of
her shoulders. ‘If the ladyis his wife why leave
her so quick ?’

“But wife or not it was Celine’s business to attend
her, and she had no intention of shrinking from
her duty.

“*Poor girl, and so young,’ she thought, and she
tried to quiet and conciliate her,and brought out
dress after dress and held up to view, until, mad-
dened at.the sight of the finery so detestable to her
now, Anna‘shut her eyes and stopping her ears
shrieked aloud in the utter abandonment of de-
spair. ?

*** Mon dieu, mai’s elle est bien mauvaise,’ Celine ex-
claimed, as she fled from the room in quest of Ma-
dame Verwest, whose face was white as marble and
whose eyes hadin them a look which Celine had
never seen before. But she did not offer to go near
the lady whom Celine had represented as being so
bad, nor did she see her during that day or the
next. She, too, was acting very poorys the ser-
vants said to each other as they talked in whispers
ofthe American who refused to touch a morsel of
food, and who had not tasted a mouthful since the
master went away. ; :

“She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her
face to the wall, and moaning so sadly and saying
things she could not understand. madame
would only gotoher and_ speak one word—An-
glaise, she said to Madame Verwest on the morning
of the third day, and with that same white, pinched
De upon her face, madame started at last for the
salon.

 

CHAPTER III.
MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

"Tt was now the third day since Haverleigh’s de-
parture, and Anna had adhered to her resolution
not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death
she so longed for and yet dared not achieve by
rasher means. Four times a day regularly Celine
had carried her the most tempting dishes which a
French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs,
and gestures, and a voluble rattlery of her mother
tongue to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least,
sip the -delicious chocolate, or cafe-au-lait, whose
perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all
in vain. Anna neither turned her head nor spoke,
but lay with her facetothe wallonthe massive
bedstead of rosewood gilt, whose silken and lace
hangings seemed to aggravate her misery. So
much grandeur, so much elegance, and sheso
hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearn-
ings she thought of her New England home and
the labor she had so despised.

"Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I
shall never see you again. Ishali die, and nobody
will ever know. L[beliseve Iam dying now,’ she

 

 

 

sepdeiicngoieetacetemmcen tl eanceteeitatarats

moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst be-
gan to make themselves felt, and there stole over
her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy sweat
which so often precedes a fainting fit or a severe
attack of vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m giad,’
she whispered, as everything around her began to
grow dark, and she seemed to herself to be floating
away on a billow of the sea. ) ;

**No, you are not dying. You are only faint with
hunger and excitement, Takeasipof this wine.’
was spoken in her ear in thorough English accent,
while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot,
throbbing head.

“Tt was the English yoice,the sound of home,
which brought Anna back to consciousness, and
turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she
saw Madame Verwest bending over her, witha
glass of spiced wine and some biscuits, at which
she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire
todie. The English voice had saved her, anda
fiood of tears rained over her young face as she
glanced up at Madame Verwest and met the same
kind expression which had greeted her the first day
of her arrival at Chateau _D’Or. 3

““Oh, you can hes English. You will help me
to get away, to go home to mother? You’ll save me
from him, won’t you?
before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she
laid her head upon the bosom of the woman, and
sobbed convulsively. ‘Are youecrying too? Crying
for me?” she said, as she felt the hot tears falling
upon her hair,and drawing herselfa little from

adame Verwest, she gazed ather in astonish-
ment, for every feature was conyulsed with emo-
tion, and the tears were running like rain down her
pallid cheeks. :

“*Whatis it? Are youaprisoner? Does he say
you are crazy like me? Who are you, and why are
you in this dreadful place?? Anna asked, and then
madame was herself again, and answered calmly:

“Tam Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh’s bouse-
keeper, and Iam here from choice. I am neither a

risoner nor crazy. butIlam your friend and can

elp you in many ways.’

“Can you set me free; oh, can you set me free and
send me home to mother?’ Anna cried, but the
lady shook her head. ;

“*T dare not do that, and could notif I would.
Monsieur Brunell keeps the gate, the only way of
escape, and would not let you pass. I can, however,
make your life more endurable while you are here;
but the servants must not suspect, that is, they
must not know that I talk English so fluently. They
are aware that I speak it a little, a very little, so
never expect much talking from me in their pre-
sence. But learn the French yourself at once; it
will be better for you.’ ’

‘Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think fora
moment that Madame Verwest was not French,
though she did wonder at the perfect ease with
which she spoke English, and saidtoher: |.

‘ ts You talk almost as wellasIdo. Where did you
earn ?

““*T have lived three years in London and two in
Edinburgh,’ was the quiet reply,as the madame
held the wine again to Anna’s lips, bidding her
drink before talking any more. {

“Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued: _.

‘***You lived in London three years, and in Edin-
bureh two? Were you with Mr. Haverleigh all the
time ?’

“Part of the time I lived with him, and part of
the time alone, though always in his Says. :

“You must have known him a long, long time,’
Anna rejoined. ‘Tell me then who he is and what
heis. What kind of man,I mean? |

“That is a strange question for a wife to ask con-
cerning her husband. Who did yow think he was,
and what? Surely your mother, if. you have one,
did not allow you to marry him without knowing
something of his antecedents,’ Madame Verwest
said, and Anna colored painfully, for she remem-
bered well how her mother and sister both had at
first opposed her marrying an entire stranger of
whom they knew nothing, except what he said of
himself. , ,

““Did you know nothing of his history ? Did you
not inquire? How long had you known him, and
what was hedoing in your town!’ Madame con-
tinued, and Anna replied:

“He was traveling for pleasure, [ think, and on
ped for a few days in Millfield because he liked the
scenery; then he was sick, I believe, and so staid
on as everybody was kind to him and made so much
of him. He came from New York with a Mr. Ste-
vens whom he knew and who said he was all right,
and he had so much money and spent it so freely—’

“*Ves, but what did he say of himself?’ madame
persisted in asking, and Anna answered: |

“**“Hesaid he was of Scottish descent on his father’s
side, but born in England, at Grasmere, I think—
that he left there when he was three years old—that
his father died when he was twenty-two, and left
himalarge property which by judicious manage-
ment had doubled in value, so that he was very rich,
and that weighed so much with me, for we were so
poor, mother, and Mary, and Fred, who wants to
go to college. I’ll tell youjust the truth, I worked

Why didn’t you cometo me}

in the shoe-shop, and my hands were cut with the

waxed-ends, and my clothes smelled of leather,

Ana tssugh £ went with the best people I was noth-
fing but a shop-gtrl, and I hated it, and wanted
| handsome dresses, and jewelry, and money, and
| position, and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these,
| i thought, and he showed us letters from London
| and Liverpool, and so I married him, and he over-
| heard what I said of him to Lucy Fleming in New
| York, and it made him so angry and jealous that
, he brought me he ad that is all. Oh, madame,
\ tell me, please, what you know of him, and what
| people say of him who know him best, and will he
ever set me free?” ‘

Anna asked her questions rapidly, but madame
replied in the same quiet; measured manner, which
marked ali her movements.

**T think be told 5 ie truly with regard to his birth
and his money, and people who know him best say
he is honest, and upright, and generous to a fault.
Did he tell you anything of his mother? He must

have 9 err of her. :
; e was the questioner now, and Anna re-

ica:

“ “He never said much of her, nothing which I re-
call, but I have an impression that her family was
not as good as his father’s. Do you know? Did
you ever see her ?”

., 268, I have seen his mother.’ :

‘. ‘Ob, tell me of her, please, Wasshe a lady ?’

Notas the English account ladies, perhaps,’
madame said; and Anna went on:

‘Was she nice? Was she good ?

*‘I believe she tried to be good,’ was the low-
spoken answer, and Anna cried:

_ “Then there must be some good in bim andsome
time he’ll relent and set me free. It would be so
terrible to die here, and mother and Mary never
know. He says I am crazy; he has told you so, but
ee believe it; tell me, you do not believe me
mad!

“Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to
get so fearfully excited. Be quiet and make the
best of the situation, which is not without its ame-
liorating circum ces. Everybody will be very
kind to you here, and believe me when I say it, is
better to live here without him than to travel the
world over with him; so make the best of it, and at
least seem toacquiesce. If youare fond of read-
_ing there are plenty of books in the library, many
of them English. here is a fine piano, too. Are
you fond of music ?”

Yes; but do not play. Lalwayshad to work and
could not afford the lessons,’ Anna replied, and
Madame Verwest said: ‘

I think [can get you a teacher. I know Mr.

Haverleigh will not object to that; and now you
mast rest—must sleep. Pil draw the curtains of the
bed and leave you alone for a time.’
. “There was something so soothing and re-assur-
ing in madame’s manner that Anna felt the influ-
ence, and, worn out as sig was and tired, she turn-
6d voon her villow anf ie intq a quict siecp
— h lasted tiil the sun Went lower and the evening
8 ws were gathering’ in the room. Madame
was sitting by her when she woke, and on a table at
her side was a dainty supper which Celine had just
brought in and which Anna did not refuse.

* Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home
in, Millfield. lam always pleased to hear of foreign
countries and bhw the people live there,” Madame
Verwest said, as she saw the color coming -back to
Anna’s face, and knew that she was stronger,

“So Anna told of New England and her Millfield
home, the hills around it and the little ponds sieep-
ing in the valley and the Chicopee river winding its
graceful way to the west where it was lost in the
noble Connecticut. And Madame Verwest listened
eagerly with a deep flush on her pallid cheek and a
bright gleam in her eye. et

“And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge,
and the boat-house is near by,’ she said, in a half-
whisper, as Anna told her of the_ beautiful lilies
which open their petals in June and fill the summer
air with such delicious perfume. |

***Why, were youeverthere? Did you ever seethe
boat-house?’? Annie asked,in some surprise; and
madame repliede ah :

“*Vou describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I
had seen it. Llove New England, and some day,
perhaps—who knows—we may go there together—
you and I.’ e .

“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under
some strong excitement, and Anna looked at her
wonderingly, while she continued: E

* Yes; some day we'll go together away from this
prison-house, but it may be long hence. He is vig-
lant, and cunning, and mad,I verily believe; so
be quiet, and seem to be content, nor beat your
wings till you die like poor——

* She checked herself ere the name of Agatha es-
caped her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna’s
mind, making her unmindful of what madame was
saying. She would write at once to Millfield, tell-
ing her mother where she was, and begging her to
send some one to her relief. Strange she had not
thought of that before as a way of escape, and she
begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing
material, that she might at once begin the letter
which was to bring relief. i

“Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you
will be stronger and fresher.’

“And tothis Anna was finally persuaded; but
early the next morning the letter was . written, de-
tailing every particular of her unhappy position,
and asking her mother to send some one at once to
liberate her. : 3

“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame
Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart
that in all human probability the letter would never
reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there
to be read by Haverleigh and committed to the
flames.

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

“Tt was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red
house which Anna had once called her home the
table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary, Fred,
and the Anna over the sea, who had never been ab-
gent before from the festival which in New England
means so much and is kept so sacredly. They
knew she would not be there, and they had grown
somewhat accustomed to living without her, but on
this day it was Mary’s fancy to lay the table for her,
to put her plate just where she used to sit and place
by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which
had been Fred’s present to her on her last birth-

day. :

“We'll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said.
‘She will bein fancy. Surely she’ll remember us
to-day of all days, and I ’most know she'll wish
herself here once more. How long itis now since
we heard from her. Only one letter since she reach-
ed Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting us
with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?

““Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is _prob-
ably too much occupied in Paris, and too happy
with Mr. Haverieich to, write many_letters, Mrs.
‘Strong replied, but her face belied her hopeful
words. 3 ‘
“She had felt many misgivings with regard to
Anna’s marriage, and her chance for happiness
with a man as cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr.
Haverleigh. Butit could not now be helped, and
so she made the best of it, and prided herself on
having a daughter abroad and rather enjoyed the
slight elevation in society which it really had giyen
her. In the little town of Millfield it was something
to be the mother of the rich Mrs. Haverleigh, and
to talk of ‘my daughter’s country-house in Scot-
land and Chateau D’Or in France;’ and _on this
Thanksgiving day the good woman wore her new
black silk—Mr. Haverleigh’s gift—in honor of him,
and committed the extravagance of celery and
cranberries, too, and wondered as she. basted the
turkey browning in the oven, where Anna was and
what her dinner would be. |

“Perhaps Fred will bring us a letter. I told
him to stop at the office. It is time he was here,
she said, as, her arrangements for dinner complet-
ed, she stood a moment looking. into the street
where the first snowflakes were falling.

“Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her
and why wasthere such an undefined dread of
something in her heart? Was it a presentiment of

 

 

 

 

Y
Yh
y

-
I
|
Ce

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

i

 

 

  

 

who appeared round a corner running rapidly and
ee ae cap when he saw his mother’s face at
the window. :

“*Here’s a letter from Anna,’ he cried,as he burst
into the room, and held the precious document to
sight. ‘Isn’t it jolly to get iton Thanksgiving day?
*Most as good as having her here. Let’s keep it for
the dessert!

“But the mother@ould not wait, and taking the
letter from her son she spancey atthe superserip-
tion, which was in Mr, Haverleigh’s handwriting.
But that was not. strange. The other. letter, had
been directed by him, and so she had no suspicion
of the blow awaiting heras she hastily broke the
seal. )

“*Why itis written by: Mr, Haverleigh,’ she ex-
claimed; and then, with Mary and Fred both look-
ing over her shoulder, she read the following:

“Paris, November 10th,

*“*Mrs. SrronG:—Dear Madame:—I am sorry to be
obliged to tell you the sad news about Anna, and I
hope you will bear my bravely, for there is hope, and
insanity is not as bad as death.’ ;

“Insanity, the three whispered together, with
white lips, and then read eagerly on:

*“*My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so
much, and she every day was growing more and
more into my heart, has been very sick herein
Paris, and when the feyer left her her reason
seemed wholly gone. The ablest physicians in
France were consulted, but her case seemed to
paffle alltheir skill, and as she constantly grew
worse, they advised me,asalast resort, to place
her in a private asylum, where she would haye ab-
solute quiet, together withthe best and kindest of
care.

*“T need not tell you how I shrank from _such an
alternative, feeling for atime, that.I would rather
see my darling dead than behind a grated windoy,
but it was my only hope of restoring her, and as
she was at times very violent and uncontrollable, I
yielded at last to the judgmentof others, and yes-
terday I took her to a private asylum in—’

“Here was a great blot, which entirely obliterated
the name of the place, but in their sorrow and sur-
pipee, the three did not obserye it then, but read on
rapidly: :

‘It is a charming spot, with lovely views. Sho
has her own apartments, and maid, and private ta-
ble, and carriage, and is surrounded by every com-
fort which love can devise OY ROHOR buy, but oh.
my heartis wrung with anguish when I think of
her there, my beautiful Anna, who enjoyed every-
thing so much., She was happy for brief space
that T held her, a pearl-drop on my breast, and I
am glad to remember that in the dréariness and
darkness which have so suddenly. overshadowed
my life. But oh, dear madame, what. can I say to
comfort you, her mother. Nothing, alas. nothing,
except bid you hope, as I do, that time will restore
her to us again, and that reminds me of a question
the physician asked me. Is there insanity. on
either side of her family? If not, her eventual re-
covery is almost certain. Meanwhile, do, not be
troubled about her treatment; it will be the tender-
est and best, as I know her doctor and. nurse per-
sonally, and money will secure everything but hap-

piness. Itis notthought advisable for me to see

er often, but [shall keep myself thoroughly in-
formed with regard to her condition, and report to
you accordingly. :

“The last time Anna was out with me before her
sickness, she saw and greatly admired an oil paint-
ing from a scene ‘among the mountains of the Ty-
rol. It reminded her, she said, of New’ England,
and the view from the hill across the river in Mill-
field. Recently Ihave seen the picture again, and
remembering that she said, ‘Oh, howI wish mother
and Mary could see it,’ I purchased it, and yester-
day it started for America, marked to your address.
In the same box is a porcelain picture of Murillo’s
Madonna (the one inthe Louvre gallery), andI
send it because it bears a strong resemblance to
Anna, as Ihave seen her inher white dressing-
gown, with her hair unbound, her hands folded
upon her breast, and her sweet face Bavernen to
the starry evening sky, which she loved to contem-
plate, because, she said, ‘the same moon and_ stars
were shining downon you.’ Ihope you will like
them and accept them as coming—the painting
from Anna and the Madonna from me. Should you
ever be in need of money, I bee you will command
meto any extent, asI greatly desire to be to you a
son for the sake of the daughter I have taken from
you. ; roe

“‘As IT may not be in Paris the entire winter, di-.
rect to Munroe & Co., and: your letters will be for-
warded: Very truly, dear madame, yours, ’°

“ERNEST HAVERLEIGH.’

“‘This was the letter received at the red house that
Thanksgiving day, end for atime the mother and
sister felt that Anna was as surely lost to them as
if she had been ly ud i ne farsoff..

   
 
  
  

  
 
 
 
 
   

ve) ey upon the sorrow which had come so sud-
denly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful
Anna asa maniac, confined behind bars and bolts
and so far away from home. : ; ’
“Tf we could only see her,’ Mary said, while Fred
suggested going to France himself to find her if sh
did not recover soon. } i ‘
““*Where isshe? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say
the asylum was?’ he asked, and then reference was
had to the letter, but the name of the place was
wholly unintelligible, and after trying in vain to
make it out they gave it up and gathered what com-
fort they could from the apparent kindness and
cordiality evinced in Mr. Haverleigh’s letter, so dif-
ferent from his cold, proud manner when there,
Mrs. Strong remarked, and she felt her loye go out
toward him as to ason,and before she slept that
night she wrote him a long letter, which contained
many messages of love for poor Anna, and thanks
to himself for his kineness and interest in her sor-
rowing family. ds :
“That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the
ball-room of the village hotel. It had been the cus-

  
 

| bond as ye are!”

   
  
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 

 

Anthony Dare paused under the cedar, and his
clasp grew tighter. é ie Ce
“Tell me Ginny,’ he faltered huskily,‘‘on your
oath—haye you never had alover but me?” _
Mechanically the words fell from her false lips,
“Never, upon my word!” Y ;

We erushed her two hands in his,and led her
across the fairy bridge.

Again a shiver shook the woman and. her flesh
turned cold. ‘The water was swirling round ‘the
rocks on a, side, and the narrow doorway ofthe
tower was before her. \ ;

“Come up here,” muttered Anthony in a strange
voice.

She remembered the last time she had run up
those narrow winding steps, when she was alone,
and had her plot upomher. How excited\and gay
she had been! Howshe had laughed when she saw
the lovers approach, whom she was to part! :

But the plot was defeated now and she was flying
from justice, and her heart was heavy.

But she followed him to the turret. They both
looked down, and saw how’'the sea of waves dashed
itself into a narrow gully as from the summit ofa
mountain. The roar was so deafening that he held
et “ih. with that long, strong arm while he

alked.

“Virginny,”’ said he, very slowly, “somehow I
don’t believe ye that you’ve been true to me. You’re

handsome gal—why shouldn’t ye have had lovers?
for the love of Heaven tell me true, my girl; I
won’t be angry—I’ll forgive ye—only tell me true,
hey you been faithful to me as a good wife
should?” Rk

Seeing in these reiterated questions the signs of
his ee. her false heart swelled with gratified
vanity.

How pale his brown face was! How dilated his
lazy eyes were! How solemnly, how imploringly
the dare-devil spoke now! He was her slave, this
handsome, magnificent, half-savage, whom for the
second time she was befooling—her slave, like all
the rest of them. eeReT : .

She threw back her. head, leaning it against his
shoulder; she looked into his eyes, and said:

“T’ll swear it to ye then, Anthony—I have.”

“That’s enough,” said Anthony Dare.

~Ona sudden his arms of steel locked together
with her in their midst; suddenly she felt his heart
leaping against hers with frightful bounds. His
fierce eyes burned into hers; his fierce mouth fast-
ened on hers; she shuddered with a terrible joy,
and yielded herself to the fatal kiss. :

She began abruptly to struggle—the man took no
heed; she attempted to shriek—she had no breath
left; she fought madly for her release—no, no, he
held her in his fron arms. Her limbs writhed; she
tried to rend herself from him; she tore him with
her hands; she was suffocating. He felt her turn-
ing limp in his murderous embrace—she was al-
most gone. :

As suddenly as he had fastened upon her with
vengeful murder in his heart, so fastened a mem-
ory of bygone words upon his soul;

“Oh! Anthony Dare, why are you so reckless?”

He was blinded by a lightning flash from heaven,
which showed him pedition. His arms of ‘steel
melted—fell apart; his prey reeled backward, and
fell upon the narrow balcony floor; he groaned
outin a panic:

“Oh, Heaven! I was
for a devil like her!” / : ,

Murder! his reward to his false: wife was to have
been that. How near the verge of ruin he had been!
And a pure woman had not so long ago thanked
Heaven for sending him to save her. For sending
aman who would murder! And God had sent him
(how he had liked to think of that!) the very same
God was looking at him a moment since
strangling the woman who had lied tohim.

The woman had heard all. Gasping, yet not in-
sensible, she understood what he meant when he

roaned to Heaven that he was just about to lose

is last chance for her.

He knew her treachery—all of it. He had been
leading her to death eyer since she had put herself
in his hands. A miracle had saved her, just in time.
Was she glad? NESE Bi

The wretched woman looked into her heart, and
rose up shrieking. Not from terror now, nor from
rage, She was struck with despair.

“Tony, ye’ll not cast me off?” she gasped. “I
love ye, so help me Heaven! Oh, Anthony, try me!
Iam not cheating ye now!’. ;

‘I don’t want your loye,” answered the man, with
slow and difficult utterance. owre: too black-
hearted even for me!
me again to murder ye!” — :

She crawled to his feet, and knelt before him.
Who can tell butat this last hour her wretched
heart was sincere? ’ ; 3

“T confess all!” she shrieked like a lost spirit.
I’m black with crimes, and I’ve been yery false,
false, false to ye, Tony! Buttake me back, poy, for
Tl ye so well that Ill even ti ood to keep

 

 

goin’ to lose my last chance

   
 

 
  
 

 
 
 
  

 
  
 
 
 

-at her with, ing Her
wiles* , ‘

 
 

i ; your place is not by
k to Mother Mouser’s ken, vaga-

  

She staggered to her feet, and looked wildly in

face. Seeing there the eternal loathing of a
heart foreyer turned against her, she clasped-her
hands above her head, and reeléd over the railing
of the baleony. . Without a cry she went. down,
struck the rocks below, and rolled into the swirling
rapids. Ina moment she was clutched by the tre-
mendous rush, and swepta fair object on the green,
unbroken depth, yellow hair trailing after, white
hands waving weirdly over the Horse-shoe Falls,
and into eternity.

That very hour the soul of the man from whom
a mighty Hand had plucked the vengeance saying:

It is mine”—that very hour a penitent soul bowed
tremblingly and weeping for a past that was sin-
blackened, before its Maker.

Anthony Dare went up those steps a fiend, plan-
ning murder; he went down aman in Heaven’s
grasp feeling all hissins.

Itis needless to follow the career of a man like
our lion-tamer. Such a strong nature once aroused
would never relapse. Sucha great heart as his,
denied and betrayed by its earthly treasures, would

 

tom to have one there for years, and heretofore
Anna Strong had been the very prettiest girl there,
and the one most sought for in the g@mes we play-
ed and the merry dance. But that night she was not
with us. and the news that she was insane and the
inmate of a mad-house came upon us with a heavy
shock, saddening our spirits and casting a gloom
over the gay scene. Poor Anna! How little we
guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many
times that day her thoughts had been with us, or
how until the last ray of sunset faded she had stood
by the window of her room looking to the west, as
if with the departing daylight she would fain send
some message to her far off home.

t [TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

WAS HE MAD

When He Married Her?

By Annie Ashmore.

 

(‘Was He Mad When He Married Her?’? was commenced in
No. 8. Back Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent.]

CHAPTER XXXI.

It was night. }

From the long line of rail-cars just arrived walk-
ed a man and a woman arm in arm through a quiet
village street. ,

The woman lifted her vailand looked earnestly
at her companion. 2

“Why d’ye want to stop here, Tony?” asked she
euriously. , aN de

“‘Ain’t ye tired of moovin’ on Virginny ?”

“Not a mite. I. don’t like the look o’ this place!’
glancing nervously about her. ‘

“Well forty-eight hours on a stretch is enough
for me, We kin stop here to-night.”

She said nothing, but her look was strange.

The roar of water was in their ears, a silvery mist
rolled upward from a rocky gorge beside them; for
the second timein her life the woman who had be-
guiled Gerald Travers, saw Niagara.

She had—trembling for her safety, for was she
not a murderess?—induced Dare to.sena on his
caravan and the horses before him to Chicago, and
shehad led him hither and thither in her secret
terror of pursuit, hoping to cut off all chance of be-
ing pounced down upon by the officers who she
well knew Trayers would place upon her track.

But to-night Anthony had taken her hand when
they crossed the bridge which spanned the giant
riyer, and said in her ear: ;

“‘Let’s take Niagara in our little wedding trip.”

She started—met the fixed look in his glimmering
eyes, and succumbed. ;

She was very weary and faint yet he did not
hurry her to a hotel; and indeed so vivid were her
fears of recognition in that place that she had no
heart to manage him as had been her wont.

“We'll do the grand thing,” said Anthony, and he
hired a carriage to drive her round the sights, in
the moonlight.

At last they reached Goat Island and he sent the
carriage away. ; oo a,

Anthony Dare passed his arm round Virginia’s
waist—she might haye noted how his pulses thriil-
ed—and watched her beautiful, enticing, hypocrite
face, with sparks of infernal fire in his eyes.

Ne acl been here afore,, Virginny ?” he drawl-
ed.

“No, Tony. What.a dreadful place it is!”

Her limbs were like lead; she felt a weird chill
ae her flesh as if a spirit had passed her by.

t was when she came in sight of the fairy bridge,
and the mad cascades, and the grinning black
rocks with Terrapin Tower perched upon them,

Under this cedar had stood St. Cloud Trevanion
and Gerald Travers that night when she from the
turret had first spied them.

 

   

take a strong and everlasting hold on the love that
changeth not.
He went to the far West, and from thence he wrote
one letter to St. Cloud which told her of Virginia’s
death, and of the change it worked in him. He
blessed St. Cloud for the gentle words she had
spoken, which, recurring to his mind in the ex-
tremity of his passion, sayed him from the crime of
murder, ;

To the end he will love the pure woman who
thanked Heaven for sending him to save her life,
for se in turn was instrumental in saving his
soul.

Assomeof our readers may feel a human inter-
est in the future lot of the old person who so ably
personated Aunt Becky, it may, perhaps, be inter-
esting to know that she removed her little sehool
from New York, and hid herself in some of the
quiet retreats which Boston affords, until the fur
ofthe pursuers placed upon her track was abated,
after which she returned to her native city and set
up what she called a “boozing-ken,” (a low grog-
shop), which became in time a regular trap where
the myrmidons of the law repaired to find such
personages as were particularly wanted to grace
the criminal docks.

There Mother Mouser may be still, for aught we
know, plying her honest, calling and rubbing her
ferrit-eyes now and again, as she thinks of her de-
parted Tom.

   
 
 
 
 

—_———-_

CHAPTER XXXII.

Gerald Travers arrived with Mr. Trevanion at
Memphremagog as was proposed, and was, of
course, all fire to see St. Cloud.

To his amazement, Bertha took him aside and
broke some very unexpected tidings to him.

Judas Stainer_was in very poor health, and un-
happy; St. Cloud had thought it her duty to stick
by him and comfort him as much as she could: she
had even come to the conclusion thatshe would not
seek a divorce from him,

Gerald was dreadfully “cut up,” of course. and
refused to belieye such madness unless St. Cloud
would come and tell him herself that she preferred
Stainer to him, or that that was her way of punish-
ing him for deserting her, as if his punishment had
not been terrible enough already.

Bertha endeavored to explain that St. Cloud was
an angel (which the young man had the impudence
to disbelieve at that minute), and that it was only
because Stainer was sick and remorseful that she
had thought this course of forgiveness her duty.

Gerald grumbled that he was as sick as Stainer,
that his body was soaked with poison that would
cling to him for months; but. there was nobody to
pity him and nurse him; ah, no, the miserabléswin-

ler was preferred.

Bertha cried, and kissed him, and said she would
nurse him, instead of St. Cloud, and he must not—
mus not hinder the dear girl from doing. what was
so beautiful and Christ-like.

Gerald went and complained to Mr. Trevyanion,
and wanted to know if alow felon was to carry off
St. Cloud, after all. :

Carrington Roselle joined in the melee, and
fumed disgustedly oyer thé women’s cracked no-
tions, till old Trevanion. promised to go and speak
to‘her about it. j

Travers galloped over himself_to see St. Cloud in
the infirmary, where she had had poor Stainer car-
ried back a day or two since, and Travers was firm-
ly denied an interview.

“Mr. Trevanion arrived soon after, and found him
standing under the grim walls of the jail looking

bewildered. ;
sent him. back to, Bertha, and

The old gentleman

went in alone. . é ye
He found her inthe sick ward attending Tuas

Stainer as if she adored him. At that sight Trey-

anion lost temper, and in a low tone swore an

or two; but St. Cloud heard him, and looked very

reproachful,

  
 

ne afore the devil tempts | th

 

she,:as she hugged her guardian;
lot without pelng harshly used by us. ;

“Stuff!’ grunted Trevamion, and asked the sick,
man. inatesty whisper, lest the other patients
should hear:

“Yo man, ai
to Si ines heyou F

Stainer’s haggard’ face Became suffused with a
burning flush of shame, but he gazed firmly at the
angry old man. ‘Ty

“Sir, I have entreated herto take her freedom,”
he said, “but she’s too generous—my angel!”

Trevanion walked, his ward out of the room
and into an empty reception-rodgm, whose door he
Pore behind him,
h

“se

 
  

Rae. dreaming of taking my ward
you?’

ou won’t be divorced from a felon ?” thundered

e,

“No,” answered she, with nobt® calmness; ‘why
Speuid T aay that insult upon him? He has a
mother, sir; for her sake, and for his—for he is
penitent—I will help him to keep his disgrace a
secret.” ory

“Preserve me!” groaned the old gentleman;
“what the duse does she mean? Have you no re-
spect for yourself, you vacillati monkey? Do
you intend to end your 4 a forger in
prison ?” with a fine sne¢

“Uncle, you are—are
a very shaky voice—for
having their self-sacrifiees
comes of yourthinking t
at all of him. Don’t yo
tinual fear consumés hi
disease; I suffer nothin
me all his story and Ido.
toward him ever since. Ty
revengeful as it was _posi
circumstances, and I ca

   
    
     
  
  
      
 

urned she, in
em can’t bear
d—“‘and it all
e, and nothing
eis? A con-
e that is his
arison. He told
i I feel different
as wicked and
rl to be in the
m as if I was
1im as long as
for akind word

  
   

  
  
 
  
  
 

he is sick, and in
—so there!’’:

“Very well, puss; do
queer voice that tried to.
he owned himself ing]

So she went back to
self to him, and thoug
rave himself black int
her way.

_Not but that her hear
time of it about the wz
When she used to go b
night, (she had hidden |
away, that Dick might m
too much) she used to fe
of the heart that she o
Oh, it Was so hard to k:
ing her placeat Dick’s
and exhaustion/and le
deress had put tipon
system, to know that
much wo sick Sta
be denied that heaven :

Tam afraid S as grateful as
they should h d Bertha Roselle
in these tryin ays! f

St. Cloud put litth dependence on her lover’s con-
stancy much as she adored him. She knew that a
man is neyer ery patient; that he might fret and
fume for awhile, but since she dared not feed his
love by telling him of hers, he would tire and throw
her - as a coquette who didn’t know her own
mind. ;

And meantime, though she looked forward to
years and yearsof waiting, she loved him body and
soul, and spirit, just as boundlessas if he had never

prison.

  
  
   
   
 
   
  
 

said he, in a
eouldn’t, and

ted.

d devoted her-
a Roselle should
yall let her have

ae. |

> her a dreadful
losing her lover.
Dording-house at
r so cunningly
and tempt her
orrible hunger

 
 
 
       
    
     
   
   
   
  
   
 
  
  
 
  
 

rtie was usurp-
the depression,
n the siren-mur-
‘king through his
a nurse just as
that she must

 
  
     
 

       

jilted her. Pee Ae
Gerald made superhuman efforts to waylay her
and get some sense out of her.’ She balked him
everytime. Ss
She had got round her guardian somehow, and
he protected her. 7 ; ;
Gerald wrote entrancing letters, and ‘after read-
ing one and feeling so wickedly happy over it, she
kissed all the rest and sent them back unopened.
Gerald swore awfully, and behaved like a bear, but

went on writing. 4 &

Mrs. Roselle had a ged time between him and
Carrington; they both ra her, and worried
her to use her influence with her sister, and she
had to suffer ey uldn’t budge.

Carrington usec on St. Cloud,
and say, comfortingly: —_ 3

“Travers is goin s a

2 vill ng h It’s all

   
 
    
   
 
   
 
 

   

  
     
 
 
   
  
  

isn’t an ain 4
w wan and faint, anddelight

    
   
 
 
    

gleaned no small comfortfrom tic olen
He saw how purified and npble had his
become, and he began to understand. Hi
and impatience vanished, and he said;

“She’s worth a king’s crown, I'll wait for her un+
til she’s ready.” Teta

Meantime Judas Stainer did not rally. It was as
St. Cloud had said, a fever_yas consuming him, and
that fever was shame. Hs cheeks were stained
with that lustrous carming¢, which, with a brilliant
eye and sharpening featurss, means dying.
_ One evening when the igs shadows were steal-
ing into the ward, and th brief autumn day was
closing, he awoke outof% light slumber, with a
strange shining beauty onhis pinched face. 1

He put out his hot, wasted hand to feel for her,
and said, in his husky, tremulous voice;

“St. Cloud, come nearer.”

She bent close to his pillow, and put her cool palm
on his forehead.

What is it, my dear ?” she asked. 7

Put down your head,” he g aSTees eagerly. “I

want to tell you somethi I think the messenger
has called me away. Lamgoing very soon now.”

She noted the unearthlyjoy that broke over him,
transfiguring that wastedvisage into angelic linea-
ments, and a great shocked sob burst from her,

“Oh, poor Edward, poor Edward!” she uttered,
grievedly. } rf
(He had confided to her his real name, which,

however, she never divulged, ;

Her tears fell like rain, for so wondrous a talis-
man is self-sacrifice that ithad changed her fierce
abhorrence of him into asister’s holy love.

Feebly he pressed her little hand to the heart that
was throbbing so wearily,

“There is one thing more I want you to do, St.
Cloud. Will you write toa my mother, and tell her
how I died. Tell her thafI sinned, much, but that
my God accepted my penitence, and that I will wait
for her in Heaven. And you’ll meet me there, too,
some day, I know, and then I may love you and be
loved in return—both purified angels. Good-by,
St. Cloud, you are drifting away from me. Good-
by, my darling. My darling.”

And so he died, a stranger in a strange Jand.

* * * * * * *

So she was free to marry her Dick at last.

What did she think about that? Well, toteltthe
truth, she thought more about the dead than the
living—until she saw the living, and then she awoke
with a great unutterable sting of joy. .

_ She was with Bertha when Gerald, without warn-
ing, walked in. ‘

Oh, then she started up and eyed him, and press-
ed her hands upon heart to hold it in its place. He
was so wan and eager, and gazed at her so hungri-
ly, yet hung back as if hefeared even yet she was
not for him, that. she conld hardly recognize her
lover at all; and with a tremulous cry she rushed
Over to him, and curled about his neck like a wild

ing. F A
And when they looked up from that unutterably
absorbing embrace they found themselves alone.

Then it was: i

“Oh, my Di or girl, haveT got you at last!”

“Yes, Dick, my angel! my angel! Oh, is it you,
indeed!’ pushing him away to look up wildly, then
half strangling him. 7 , ;

“And you loye me yet, Saintie ?” with a suspicious
break in his voice. .

“Oh! oh! do I love you yet? Yes. Dick, ten thou-
sand times more madly than eyer! And do you—”

“Don’t ask. You know I adore you. No, you
don’t, you can’t begin to understand howTI adore
you, you ridiculous little mite of mortality. And
you’re worth it all—you’re true-you’re a saint—oh,
to think of jilting you-—~”

“Hush! hush! not a word, my darling. Forget
everything, everything, I say, but our happiness.”

“And do you really forgive m@é— ?”

“Oh, my own beguiled Dick! I neyer blamed you,
how could you help it? And hayen’t you suffered
all but death ?” :

“Saintie, you’re awfully good. You’re too good
for me—a fool who_threw away a diamond to pick
up—a bit of filth. But believe me, my precious girl,
I never loved that woman as you understand the
word love. You’re not going to bear meagrudge
then for my folly ?” i

“No, no, no, no! But don’t mention her—” bury-
ing a crimson face on his breast. 7

“Well, I won’t. Hang her! she’s out of the busi-
ness now. Oh Saintie, how-could you refuse to let
me see, you all thistime ? And wouldn’t even read
my letters!” ee

“Do, do forgive me! I was afraid if I saw youl
couldn’t—couldn’t refuse you!’ :

“Bless you,my angel! Was thatthe dodge? IfI
had only known!” f :

““Won’t you say you forgive me,Dick ?”

“Of course Ido. Forgiye you! Oh! how queer
women are! Why my precious girl I’m just speech-

less with admiration of your self-denial, and you

ask me to forgive you! But it was very hard on me
at, the time.” . ,

‘Was it? poor darling!’ with starting tears.
“Oh, I don’t mind it now, I’ve got you and

 

“Speak kindly to the poor fellow,” murmured

t;¢
*

Noag,,

ee

he’s
out ofour way, Heavens! howl hated him!” _

‘he has a hard

she’d go mad!.

 
    

, | plied.
‘| anything cron pe you.’
a

 
 
  
 

the cliff; I shall know where to find it.

  
  
  

    
 

“Oh Dick, don’t, The dear dying face—oh Dick!”
“Well my Saint, Ishan’t. I belieye you converted
him. Ishouldn’t grudge the time you spent upon
him, if it gave the poor dog a chance for Heaven.
And he’s gone now, thank Heayen. You’re my own
little wife. Hurrah!” |

“Darling—darling putting a hand on his
mouth, “‘don’t be so wad about his death. It was
vory. very strange and touching,” .

ut Saintie,I am glad, and what’s the use of
pretending Iam not? CanI help it? You delici-
ous little darling anybody would be glad to get
rene dear little head to lie on his breast again after
eing parted so long!”

But I got to love him—to love him dearly—her
eyes filled up. ‘

Hallo! by Jove though, that won't do. You love
me, don’t you ?”

You? oh my heart, I worship you! Why Dick,
what are you thinking of ?” }

Of course you do. Allright, and I worship you
only twice asmuch. I won’t be jealous ofa dea
man. Some day when I’ve had you to myself for
awhile, I’ll tell you how I admire your generosity
to the unlucky fellow. It did nearly turn my brain
at the time though. There, my darling, I’m a brute
to say that. Don’t ery my lovely, heavenly-minded
Saint. I declare ’m almost beside myself to have
you back again. When will you marry me?”

Whenever you likemy Dick. You’ve waited too
long for me, and: suffered too much to be put off
any longer. And Ineedneyer think with levity of
the poor fellow who died in my arms even if I am
happy with you.”

And so with asob and a laugh she gave herself
up to him ungrudgingly.

* * * * * *

So the day came round when Gerald Travers led
his long affianced to the altar and married her.

They say that when she walked down the. isle
leaning upon his arm, a more transcendently hap-
py, woman neyer walked the earth.

She was just one unutterable beam of bliss.

And her husband looked absolutely ecstatic.

It was as if the floor of heayen had cracked, and a
stream of beatitude had gushed over them. They
were bathed in it, they were dazzling.

Asfor Bertha, she beamed upon them like the
benevolent god-mamma of a fairy tale, and got
hugged accordingly by Saintie and Gerald whenthe
ceremony was over... And she never shed a tear to

losing her pretty sister, her pet, her cherished ob-

and who hated tomfoolery. .
But Carri

ad a connection worth thirty thousand a year. ~::

‘out of church, was heard to mutter:
There now, Nephew Henry, they’re married.’

bus of their happiness.
For happiness is the inevitable attendant. upon
true love. f
And true love is so girt with virtue, that whoso
possesses it, possesses all that’s worth having, out
of Heaven.
[THE END.]

Lady Evelyn’s Folly.

 

BY THE AUTHOR OF
A WOMAN'S TEMPTATION.

[‘‘Lady Evelyn’s Folly” News Agony in No. 53. Back Nos.

can be obtained from any News Agent.] |

CHAPTER LXY.

“Lisburn,” said Lady Evelyn, with a face w-
Hr deadly white as she spoke—Lisburn, ah
asI live, that boat has landed;*itis for me! ;
Hoeven it bethat the day of my captivity is
ended?”

She wept hysterically, she sobbed aloud: it was
in vain that the maid tried to console her; it was
the first real hope of escape that had dawned on
her, and it was too much for her. After atime she

rew calm, and ther she clasped Lisburn’s hands

re" or ete wills h d
“It all rests w you now,’ she said. “He is
there, Lisburn; Iam sure Mr. Henderson is there,
and you must see him.”
“Tean manage it,” said the maid; “there is no
strict watch kept overme. Ican get out of the
house before old Andrew fastens the outer gates;
but Ishall be obliged to remain out all night—I
cannot get back again.”

 

 

 

My poor Lisburn! but it will be cold.”

“T should not care if it were freezing,” she re-
“Oh, my lady, T would suffer heat, cold, or
“IT know th I do hot like the thought of your
going out alone; but itis for liberty and life. “Tell

© | me, how shall you manage?’

“The boat is sure tobe in that little bay pound

ave
often heard them say that. is the only place where
aboat can Jand. I shall go down to it, and then I
shall know in two minutes whether it be for us or

ot.
: aoe will you get out?” asked Lady Evelyn, anx-
iously.

“Tecan get out on the cliff; the road to the sea is
open, though not the road by land. I can get out of
the great gates before they are closed for the night.
Itis time I went—there isnot amoment to lose.
eee np your heart, my lady; you will got away in
safety, [am quite sure. I must takethe keys to the
dowager.

The usual ceremony was gone through; old
Andrew came to seeif the doors were securely
locked, and then the keys were taken to the dow-

er. :

SOW is Lady Evelyn to-night?” inquired Lady
Chesterleigh. __ ;

Lisburn replied that she was tired and cross.
The malicious face beamed with satisfaction.

“The malady is making steady progress.’ she
said, with ashake of the head. “I am very sorry,
but it cannot be helped. Good night, Lisburn.”

Thankful to be released, the maid hurried down
stairs. She went out into the coldstone court-yard,
and there she waited until old Andrew came out. It
was easy to deceive him, for he was growing old,
and had lostsome of the courageous stren, of his
youth. He opened the gates, after his usual fashion,
to look round; he looked down the narrow path
that led from the rocks to the high road; all was
clear, still, and silent. Then, quick as thought, Lis-
burn flung down a heavy stone against the door.
He ran hastily to see what it was, and did not notice
that he had left the gates open. During that one
minute Lisburn passed out unperceived, and di-
rectly afterward she heard Andrew and Elspie in

e yard.

“What was it?” asked Elspie; “the noise fright-
ened me. It was like a coffin thrown at the door.”

“Heaven save us!” cried the man, “‘talking about
coffins at this hour of the night! Mind what you
are doing, Elspie.” d

“Well,” returned the woman, “I have heard many
of them say, that there is always a warning like
that before any one dies.” -

“Phat is the ghost,” said Andrew, turning the
light of his lantern on the stone. “It has fallen
from the wall—that’s your grand warning, wife.”

“You will see,” said the woman; “I was never
mistaken in my life. You may show me as many
stones as you like, but Itell you that noise was a
warni neither more nor less. than a warning;
you will own that I am right yet.” ;

Lisburn did not feel particularly happy in listen-
ing to that dialogue, she was somewhat supersti-
Hou and Elspie’s tales had seriously impressed

er.

“T hope, if it be a warning, that the warning is
not for my lady,” she said to herself, and then she
shuddered with dread.

It was a weird, lonely spot; the great tall craigs,
rose white and high on each side of her, a.soft, mis-
ty gloom hung over the sea, the wind wailed round
the waters, the waves dashed with aheavy, booming
noise against the shore. ;

“T would not have risked this to save my own
life,’ said the girl to herself; “how shall I find my
way down that path? One false step and I shall be
dashed to pieces against the rocks,”

Presently, to her great relief, the stars. came out,
shining broadly and deeply, their light reflected in
the heaving waves. Slowly, cautiously, Lisburn
descended the steep path, and with a sense of pRoR
relief, she found herself atthe foot of the cliff.
few more steps and she stood on the shore, the
waves breaking in great sheets of foam at her feet.
She gazed around and she'saw the little boatata
distance.

She dare not pry ont to attract attention, lest by
some terrible mischance her yoice should be heard
by some of the castle people. She saw the boat was
still rising and falling gently with each action of
the waves. Those in it were watching the castle.
She stood forsome minutes wondering what she
could do; then, to her grens satisfaction, she saw
the boat rowed suddenly and swiftly to the shore.
Another moment it grated on the pebbles; she saw
the tall figure ofa man springonthe shore. Her
heart beat loud and fast; Was it for them, a rescue

lanned, or wasitacase ofsmuggling? Shestepped

orward, and all doubt. was dispelled. The star-
light fell on a pale, handsome face that she remem-
bered perfectly well, the face of Rex Henderson.
She held up her hand with a little ag

_ ‘Mr. Henderson!” she said; and Rex, looking
into the soft starlight gloom, said:

“Who is there?”

Then she came forward, and he recognized her.

“You are Lady Evelyn’s maid?” he cried. “For
Heaven’s sake, be quick, and tell me how she is.”

Lisburn was unable to answer him—she fell on
her knees with a loud, passionate ery.

“Oh, Mr. Henderson, Heaven has sent you. You
have died if

are only just in time—my lady would
she had been left here much longer.”

 

oo a

i eS

—— ——-

Fas PETS:

mar the sunshine of the hour, although she was

ject of life-long care, and was to be left to the sole
companionship of a*man who shone best in society,

n was mollified,; and looked very :
nearly amiable when at last he could say that he | ble region, and from there to London.

     
 

b's the 44.7 4
"And old Uncle Trevanion hobbling after thent:

We leave them, swallowed up in the radiant nim- |

 

“Tell me all about it, Lisburn,” said Rex; ‘‘we
can find aseat here on the cliffs. Do not lose one
minute. Tell me.”

They sat down togeth or on the cliff; the broad,
deep, restless sea stretched out before them, yet
half-hidden by the thick gloom. eens

“Tell me all about it,” he said; “how isshe? Has
she been very unhappy?” = ae |

Andsitting there with the wide sca Breaking at
their feet, thestars Shining above their heads, the
wind wailing mournfully around them, Lisburn
told the story of her lady’s imprisonment, |

‘They meant to driye her mad, Mr. Henderson,”
she said; “they have brought her here on purpose.
The dowager countess hates her like poison with
the deadliest hatred, The earl did care for her
once, but I cannot help thinking she is in the way
now.

Rex understood it all; he wanted her to make an
apology to Madame Dubois, andshe would not. He
rememberedthe scene between husband and wife
at Hardress House. Suddenly he turned to Lis-
burn with an anxious look.

‘Do you think the fear and the imprisonment
have been too much for her ?” he asked. “She was
always nervous. She had a strong presentiment of
an early death.”

 

bana think she could not bear it many days
onger.”

‘And now,” said Rex, “how are we to rescue her?
If I die for it, she shall not remain in this place any
longer. Ishall take her away at once. How ean it
be done ?”

“Where there is a will there is generally a way,”
said Lisburn. ‘We shall manage it.”

f possible, I want it to be done without any
great public seandal. I do not want to be knownin
the matter, for her sake. As no one else feels in-
clined to fight her battles, I will fight them, and win
them, too. ButIdo not want my name to be men-
tioned. As I have arranged it, she will get to Lon-
ist and no one will ever know how she reached

ere.” ; ;

“What arrangements have you Made, Mr. Hen-
derson ?”

“Tf she can but get out of her room down to the
shore here, there will be no particular difficulty;
we can row her to the yacht, and there are trusty
friends of mine who will not leave her until she is
safe in her sister’s house.” ”

“But, surely,” said Lisburn, ‘“‘you will gowith her
yourself?” 3

“No,” he replied; “I shall not go with her. It
would be better not, for many reasons—far ‘better
not. This little boat will bring me back to theshore
here, Ishall make my way on foot to some habita-
Thus not
even the faintest breath of scandal can rest on her
fairname. | : ie
_ ‘Perhaps it will be best,” said Lisburn, musingly-
-.,, There is another thing,” continued Rex, gently.

As Iam very anxious to prevent any open quarrel
th the earl, we must be careful in every way.
fter this there will be most certainly a separation
between the earl and the countess; she will never
return to him again. It would be well if we eould
manage to keep them in ignorance of her escape
for some days. But how could we get her down to

 

{the shore here? All seems easy when that is done.”

That is the great puzzle,” said Lisburn; “and E

candidly confess that I cannot see through it. Lady

Evelyn’s rooms are in the western tower, and at the
foot of the staircase there is a door which is always
kept locked; the dowager keeps the keys. The
door is opened whenever any food is brought to
my lady, but Andrew stands by to see that the door
is locked,and the keys are taken straight to the
dowager. She keeps them, too, all the night, Ido
not see how my lady can get out of the tower; if
Andrew saw the least sign of anything of the kind,
Perpuld rouse the whole household.” .

R ould it be possible to bribe Andrew ?” asked

ex.
* “No, [think not; in fact. I am sure not. You
might as well try to bribe the dowager herself.”

hey both_sat silent for some short time; then

the great difficulty of the enterprise did not seem
so easily overcome.

How to get_Lady Evelyn out of the western tower
—how to get her down to the shore.

I should hardly dare to ask her to trust herself
to the mercy of a stoutrope,’” said Rex, ‘‘but it cer-
tainly seems to me the only hope of escape lies in
the window, not in the door.”

t us think,” said Lisburn. “What has been
done before may be done again.”

 

Silence aaain durin,
Lisburn sudden]

I haye it, Mr.
ure.” ‘

“What is it? Tell me of what you are thinking?”
I can soon tell you, Mr. Henderson. The more I
a the plan the more feasible it becomes. Old.

some few minutes, and then
exclaimed:
enderson. I can manage it, lam

 

Andrew is very quiek and sharp. but he does not.
See very well; he is old, and his eyes are dim, IE
thought that to-morrow evening, when he comes to
lock up, I would dress myeale in my lady’s clothes,
and lie down on the couch with a book in my hand.
my face turned from him, so that he could not sea
me;. my lady is almost about the same size as I am.
She would put on my dress, my apron and cap, he
could never find it out, for he never looks at me.

never once remember that he turned his eyes te-
ward me. He is always surly and. silent. If my
lady only had the nerve to hold the candle while he
locked the, door, and then to take the keys to the
dowager, all would be well. She could take her
chance. She could go into Lady Chesterleigh’s

 

the table. Of course
dowager addressed her.”
ax, Can nothing be done to prevent this?” asked Rex.
Your plan is a mostexcellent one. This is the only
weak point in it.”
.. iL ¢an only think of one thing,” said the maid.
‘I might pretend to have asore throat, a bad cold,
anda face-ache, and so keep my face wrapped up
all day ; then of course my lady could wrap hers up
ae ih yen be well.” yes pes
ill she have nerve enough, do you think ?”
sai Rex, “You tell me she has grown very
weak.” ;
“So she has; but the prospects of an escape will
be enough for her. Ithink we can but try; if all

e danger would

 

goes well she can make her way out of the place
ust as Imade mine; then I_shall be locked up in

er room until morning. Early in the morning
Alice bti up tea; still pretending to be my lady,
I can take it, then I can get up, dress myself in my
own clothes, and go down. Ishall say that my lady
is ill, and we will get up. I will pretend to take
eyerything Bede her until Iam found out.”

And what then?” asked Rex.

“It will be easy enoughthen. Whenthe dowager
says something about coming to see her, I shall
pretend that she has suddenly disappeared. In
that way my lady will have time to get safe to Lon-

 

 

don, and safe and well before they make the dis-
coyery here.”

;,You are a braye girl,” said Rex, simply.

Ah! sir, if you knew all. en Ieame to my
lady years ago, she was the loveliest and brightest
girlin the world ; her heart was full of sunshine, her
voice full of music; she was so charming, with all
hearted and affectionate. If you could but under
her Pretty, willful ways; she was always warm-
stand the terrible change, you would never forget—
I never ferget. Sheisno more like what she was
than dead leaves are like blooming flowers. All
ne heat, her grace, her brightness, seem to have

eft_ her.” .

“They will come back in» happier times,” said
Rex; “‘that is, poor lady, if happier times are in
store for her. How shall you get back into thir
place, Lisburn ?”

I cannot. get back to-night,” she said; “I shall
be obliged to stay out until morning. e great
gates will be opened while Andrew sweeps the
court-yard, then I may slip in unperceiyed:; they
would not suspect me, even if they should see me.
I have been compelled to act.a part; I could haye
done nothing for my lady without. The dowager
believes Iam devoted to the Chesterleigh interest.
I would lay down my life for my own lady, but L
would not raise my finger for them.”

. “She will reward you,” said Rex, “when she is
ree,”

“T do not want reward,” said the girl. “I am de-
voted to her because I love her.”

“There is another thing,’ said Rex; “as she is
both weak and nervous, it will be better, perhaps,
not to say anything to her about. the plan; she
might think of it all day, until she became so ner-
vous that she could not possibiy carry it out. Telf
her everything is arranged for her rescue, but do
not say how until night comes; she will have no
time to think of it then, but will act upon the ex-
citement of the moment, and all will go well. Tell
her, Lisburn, that I send my dearest love, and I
will die defending her; tell her that she need have
no fear; all will, fam sure, go well. Iam sorry
you will have tospend the night outside, but you
shall not be left alone.”

He was silent for a few minutes, then he said:

“Tell Lady Evelyn, that now allis arranged, I
shall not keep, the yacht insight to-morrow; we
will sail omy before morning dawn, and return
when the darkness of night has fallen; it might at-
tract suspicion, Tell her that at ten o’clock I shall
be here, with two comrades brave and true, and
that I will not leave her until she is safe on board.
You will not forget.one word of it?” :

ies replied Lisburn, with @ smile, “not one
wor >>

“You are cold,” said Rex; “the wind round this
cliff is something to remember. Wrap this over

os
, He took off the great, thick coat that he wore, and
in spite of her exclamations and remonstrances, he
wrapped it round her. He would not have left the
brave, devoted girl alone there for the whole world,
so. they sat in the bleak wind until there came a
faint flush of the morning into the skies, then he
rose and bald out his hands to the girl.

 

1
“You have been a true friend,” he said; “I shall

do not think she is in danger now; but I cer-

CHAPTER LXYVI. <

room before she comes up, and lay the keys upon .
e if the |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nor

yt

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

Ss

 

 

4.

ncaa sania —cteggeige

ss

~_

- “
a

Sea.

'

———

 

 

 

e F te

 

 

2

{

 

 

Bes

 

el

_ eyes

if ae

|e

should see her; he also made some comment. Then }'

‘apply . Dr.
{. Pierce’s Nasal Douc ,
|. ing the upper cavities, where the discharge accu-

'.- matism, Headache, Cuts, Burns, Bruises, Old
pai Heed

/ TO OWNERS
NS o wHoO HAS

     

never forget you. I must go now, for the yacht
must be away before the sun rises over thesea. Tell
Lady Evelyn that I shall pray all this day as I have
never pesyod before, for her safety and freedom
from the hands of her. enemies,” ? .
Then they parted. Lisburn,in the dim morring
light, saw the boat rowed to the yacht, and then she
saw the yacht slowly sail away. Then the sun had
risen, and the world seemed wide awake, . She
went home. Again she was fortunate. She waited
until the gates were opened, and then she heard old
Andrew so busy with his brooms that she knew he
would not see her; then she entered. Her first pro-
ceeding was to doas she had said—complain of a
terrible cold, sore throat, and headache. She com-
plained so pore tk that no one felt any surprise
when, half an hour afterward, she appeared with
her face wrapped up in a large handkerchief.
‘There is not much to be seen of you now,” said

Elspie, ieee.

Then, when Alice had prepared Lady Evelyn’s

reakfast, she went pats take it. She found her

ressed and standing by the window, the very pic-
ture of misery and suspense. ;

. “Lisburn,” she said, “the yacht is gone! . Speak

to me—the yacht is gone!”

The smile on her ‘maid’s face reassured Lady
_Eyelyn. Lisburn would never smile so unless all
were well. Pare
. “Eat your breakfast, my lady,” she said; ‘‘it is the
last you will eat here, but I will not tell you one
word until you have done that,”

» © Lady Evelym was compelled to obey—she had

’ never taken her breakfast so quickly before—then
“she was by peering s side, with her pretty hands
_daid caressi on her maid’s arm.
“My poor Lisburn,” she said,,

“you haye been out
allthe night; you are cold and ill.” ,
The girl looked up at her with a bright smile.
““Tam eold, my lady, but I am not ill.” \
— Then ae haye you wrapped a your head and
“face in this fashion, if you are not ill?’
io Glas aaoaen , my lady, that you will understand
afterward better than you can do just now. And
now that-you have eaten your breakfast I will tell
yu all the news, my lady. If all goes well, you will
WG ROPE MERH ES o's. ese cnn
. “To-night?’ she replied. “Oh, Lisburn, can it be
true, then, the yacht was for us, after all?”

. 6*Itwas for us,and Mr. Henderson was in it, my/
lady.‘ ‘Thave been with him, [have been talking to

, and it is he who will rescue you to-night.”

mn she was almost frightened atthe deadly
2 rwhich.eame over the sweetface. =.
“-“To-nightl’ she repeated. “Is it possible that I
shall be free to-night?” » }

- “Thavye not time,’ said Lisburn, “to tell you all

 
  
 

| now: L have so much to say and to do. I must begin

~atonee. My lady, if you.will take my advice, you
' -will lie down and rest to-day, because you will have

so ciel a Sere Rest, that you may be strong
sf r or it.’ i
‘ajiooeuy y Evelyn was looking at her with dreamy
that hardly seemed to see,
You have been talking 40 Mr. Henderson,” she
-o.gaid, quietly; “‘tell me how he looked—what he said;
__ has he altered? Tell me about him.”
~~'fPhere was such pitiful entreaty in her voice that
' Lisburn could not refuse, She described how he

» looked, how he had talked, all his kindness in de-

priying himself of his coat for her; she gave all his

“Veheering messages. The tears ransweet and warm
.. down her face as she listened?’ °°":

.. “qe was always a hero,” she said, “in every sense
_ ofthe word.”

‘It is to Rex,” she said to herself, ‘‘that Ishall] .

“owe everything, that I shall owe my freedom, that
_t-shall owe my very life, for if I had remained here
‘must have gone mad. Itis to Rex that I owe
everything.” E ne
., And throughout that day she found infinite rest
in the thought. Then Lisburn began her work;
she purposely placed herself in the dowager’s way,
so that that statel

sy on, to ask if Lisburn had taken cold; and the
2>> hen, too, she contrived ‘that the earl

'. She prepared the different changes of dress that she
. required,and when all was arranged ‘it was after-

moony > > }
- Phen’ she went to Lady Evelyn) ‘and. was beyond
“measure relieved to find her calm and hopeful.

oak lady,” she said, “will you listen to me?” Mr. |
_, Hende

rson has done allhe can; I haye done allT
can; the remainder rests entirely with you. The
suecess of our enterprisedepends entirely on you.”

“TF will be attentive and brave,’ said the young
countess. “I will do. everything that you tell me,
and in the best way I can, :

“JT wish that [ could do it for you,” said Lisburn,
wistfully. “You have only to remember that there
is nothing to dread. If anything should! i
oi. pen phous roe at ee

ound out, Tam, _te,.meet Mr. Henderson -
night and tell ninese: then he win think
thing else. In any case, now, your escape is cer-

in.”

  

tain. if ;
And then Lisburn unfolded her plans. Lady Eve- |’

lyn listened, with a flushing face.

-“T-ean-do it all,” she said: “nothing frightens me}

except the dowager; Lisburn, if shespeaks.to me,
I shalldrop all that Tam h ee probably.
drop.myself on the floor. The sound of her voiee
fri Pirate me; it makes me t ble.” 1 Hive

“You shall ‘not see her if Ian help'it,” said’ Lis-
burn. “I will ask permission to take the keys half

an hour oanlics than usual; I will tell her that, .not

feeling well, I wish to go. tomy own room; then
you will escape her,” Nae

“The darkness, the sea, the narrow path, the'stee
cliffs, will not alarm me; but if I hear her voice
shall be undone? xi “ ;
» “DPhenj;if I can help. itpyou shall not hear it,” she

ie said. !‘Lwill go at once and see her.
She did so, and obtained gracious consent to lock | .

up half an hour-earlier than usual. li. bor 9;
“People of that class havene right to be ill,” said
the dowager to hérself that comes of over-indul-
gence.” ; 4 - oan : :

cortrxvip! ¥
[ro BE CONTI hs ps

rte

 

WHERE DOES IT ALL COME FROM?
. Pints and quarts of filthy Catarrhal discharges.
Where does it all come from? The mucous mem-
brane whiea lines the chambers of the: nose, and
its little glands, are diseased, so that they draw
from the blood its liquid, and oposite to the air
changes it into corruption. This life-liquid is
needed to build up the system, but it is extracted,
and. the area is weakened by the loss. To cure,
ain flesh and strength by .using Dr, Pierce’s
lden Medical Discovery, which also acts di-
, reetly fe these glands, correcting them, and
rT. e's Catarrh Remedy with Dr.
ouche, the only method of reaéh-

' mrulates and comes from. The instrument and

both medicines sold by druggists and dealers in
~medicines. atl
PRAIRIE WARBLER.

and novel invention for imitating all kinds of Birds,
‘Animals, and Musical Instruments, used by Ventriloquists, Ma-
gicians, and Actors.

 

The imitations have been believed to be a

  
     

    

 

na ft, all can become Masters of the Art. A useful article
for © amusement for oldand young. A child can produce
the sound, - Indispensable ae en and Hunters, for by its
use they can’imitate and callall'the Birds of the Air, such as the
Night Mocking Bird, Robm, Canary, Thrash, English Lark,
uail, ‘Geese, and in fact all other Birds that fly. Also,
for imita e Neigh of a Horse;the Bray of an Ass, the Grunt
of a Hog, the 8 or Whine of a Dog, and in short all kinds of
Birds and an ain creation. Price, by mail, 25 cents; 3 fors0
cents, 7 for $1) with directions for use. ” adress
20-13 )AVIDSON & Co., No. $6 Nassau street, New York.
7 gi229 a0 4 :
5 7. -and Morphine Habit cured, The
; - _ Original and Only Cure prepared.
, » Send stamp ‘for book on Opium Fating to
' rab . B. SQUIRE, M. D.,
canta» Worthington, Greene Co., Ind.

 

“<WHO WILL SUFFER?” |

It isiow 28 years Since DR. TOBIAS’ VENETIAN LINIMENT
was put before the public; warranting it tocure Chronic Rheu-
L Aine reverie follee eia Ge Drag:
im and C ; and it never has failed, y Drug:
gists, “Depot, 10 Park Place, New York. ;

OF HORSES.
ONE. WE EVER USED DR.
Tobias’ Horse Venetian Liniment will ever be without it;
it is a certain cure for, Colic, Sore Throat, Cuts, Bruises, old
Sores. Yared puneHory any other; in pint bottles, at $1.

~ Sold by the Druggists. Depot, 10 Park Place, New York.

 

 

UBP™ZR NAME STAMPS.—Agents’ Orders

ap 3 ‘ filica for ee an Outfit. Send for Circular.

G. W. TEED, 143 Chambers Street, New York.

rc Fancy Mixed Cards, 10 Tints,for 10c., or
ft 20 H) Mised for 2e. Address NASSAU CARD CO.”
h i

 

 

- Nassau, Rens. County, N.Y,
well on small investments; MAGIc LANTERNS
JJ KS and STeRROPTICONS of all kinds and prices;
ews illustrating every subject for Public Exhibitions and _Par-
lor Entertainments. OP ore Sree. McAL LISTER,
Nassau street, N. Y¥. w51-26,

15.00 SHOT GUN
. °
_A double barrel gun, bar or front action locks; warranted gen-
uine twist barrels, and a good shooter, OR NO SALE; with Flask,
Pouch and Wad-cutter, for $15. Can be sent C. O. D. with privi-
lege to examine before paying bill. Send stamp for circular to
P. POWELL & SON,
w50-26 238 Mainstreet, Cincinnati, O.

5 rt day at home. Samples worth $1
$5 = 20 ree. STINSON & CO., Portland, Maine.
w50- :

14. Se toeanyass for Vickery’s Fireside
, Visitor. Costs NOTHING to try it. ‘
$5255 P.O. VICKERY & CO., Augusta, Maine. _
GENTS WANTED.—Salary or Commission. Valuable
maaples free. Address F. M. REED, Sth street, New York.

 

 

 

lady might comment upon her}
»» head and face., She did deign, in the most freezing

answered, in a hoarse, strained whisper,|:

Saar Sitting desolate and jorn,

 

pa a +

 

 

 

 

° Oe tpee day’ Send foriontornio Catalogue. J.
310 = $25. ff. BUFFORD'S SONS, Boston, Mass.
Ww31-5: : i ( F f

EVOLVERS! ! SEVEN. SHOT NEW $3 OO
, Buffalo Bill Revolver'sent, with 100 Cartrid- e
i Satisfaction guaranteed. Illus-

ges, for $3. Full Nickel, Plate.
ess
10-13 WESTERN GUN WORKS, Chicago, Il.

 

 

 

 

 

trated Catalogue Free. Addr
UFFERERS FROM NERVOUS DEBILITY
of a simple cure by Te
50-52 DAVIDSON & CO., Box 2,296, New York.
$1 A DAY AT HOME.—Agents wanted. Outfit
A MONTH.—-AGENTS WANTED. 24
best selling articles in the world. One sample tree,
Address J. BRONSON; Detroit, Mich. 60-26
orders for Captain Glazier’s new work, **Battles for the
Union.” Just the book for Centennial times. All expenses
advanced. References required. DUSTIN, GILMAN . co

who have tried in vain every advertised remedy, will learn
and terms free. TRUE & CO., Augusta; Maine. 50-52

Ww A N ED —A FEW INTELLIGENT
e Ladies and Gentlemen to solicit

Hartford, Conn.; Chicago, Ill.; Cincinnati, Ohio. 33.”

 

Unique
Send for

FOR $2.—“THE PARTIES WiLL DO
all they claim:”—N. Y. Weekly Sun, Jan. 12, 1876.
Cc. F. WINGATE & CO., (Limited)
. 69 Duane St., N. Y.

 

 

 

 

VISITING. CARDS, with your name

: to Dealers. No peddling from
; f e@ house to house. Eighty dollars a
$250 A MONTH.-AGENTS WANTED
20-2 J WORTH & CO., St. Louis, Mo.
REDDING & CO., Publighers sGeasuaes Works,
Particular free.
sheets Paper, 15 Envelopes, Golden Pen, Pen-
Buttons,, post-paid, 25 cents.
>
finely printe nt for'25 cents. We have 100 styles.
AGENTS WANTED. 9 samples sent for stamp.

month, hotel and traveling ex-
176
everywhere. Business honorable and first-
; ! 2 New Masonje Works.
MASONIC. and highly iia
18-4 1 Broadway, New York.
19-6
FRE i Watches to Agents who will sell our Centen-
holder, Pencil, Patent Yard Measure, and a
Circulars free. M. MYIKOLAS & CO.,
194. :
19-4

Men to travel and sell our goods
penses paid... Address ROBB & CO., Cincinnati, O.
class, Particulars sent free. Address

complete Catalogue. Agents wanted.
$4. 06

nial Stationery Package, It contains 15
piece of Jewelry. , Single package, with pair of elegant Sleeve-

Philadelphia, Pa.

FULLER & CO. Brockton, Mass.

 

HOTOC yi ts,.send for_our new Catalogue \of
“Plain Copies, and Ane India Ink, Water Colored and Oil
Portraits.. The prices will astonish you; oldest and largest Copy-
ing house in America. Address Auburn Copying Co., Auburn,N.Y ¢

ve
:

 

AMATUERS ATTENTION!

Amatuer Plays, Ty . © fen
Amatuer Operas. ' For School Exhibitions, °
Amatuer Dramas. Private Theatricals,

Tableux, &c., £¢,

-Amtuer Face Preparations,
Amatuer Tableux Lights.
Amatuer Guide. ;

Amatuer Catalogueand regular catalogue sent free. - Amatuer
wigs, / ; mustaches. | ; SAM’L. FRENCH & SON, 122
Nassaw Sti, New York City. ted 3 ‘O4} >

     

sera Sos MOTE
“i wae I tag B¥/ADA, RB. CARSABAN,
“Do you hear the wild birds Singing?
Do you hear them singing clear?
_ What is it that can be bringing
Them so early in the year?
-Tis the tredcherous southern breeze,
That haslured them with the promise of green ‘fields and
leafy trees. : $

 

“In this February ‘season,’ é
Does this glad May make me giad?
With the human heart’s unreason,
I am sorrowful and sad,
Winter, with his beard of rime, , “
‘Tis the winter that was precious, dead and gone before his
{timie,

“So, before its time has perished
‘The dear love 1 thought would last;
Dead and gone the hopes 1 cherished.
Trembling in the chilling blast
Like a storm-caught bird, I stand,
Lured with promise like the southwind’s, to a bleak and
barren land.”

Thus, beside her hearthstonejoueiz;-. -

 

When the songs of wild birds, only, 9
Broke the silence ofthe morn, ©) yn 9 SeD
, ,The glad morning like the May," - -

_ Sadly mused the maiden: Edith—wept, the maiden of my

| AND HIS YOUNG MASTER,

hy wn

 

“

 

“

DETECTIVE

a &S

{By Lieutenant Murray, iy

f

 

(“The Dog Detective” was.commenced in No, 10. Back Nos.

can be obtained of any News Agent.)

CHAPTER XXX.
THE ENGAGEMENT RING.

tured convict, Jack Norris, had been
drinking freely all day of the vile poison called gin
and whisky, which Mother Maguire. dealt out_ to
her customers, and which, added to the bitter’ dis-
appointment of his being retaken, actually for a
while rendered him utterly delirious, and ‘at times

raving. . ‘ ;

He could talk of nothing. but the dog, and to him
he attributed, very justly, the discovery of his hid-
ing place. He eursed Morton also, and finally be-
came so boisterous and ‘dangerous ‘that he was
placed in. a. strait-jacket. until. morning. Ex-
hausted nature finally gave out, and after a couple
of hours sleep he was sobered down, and was con-
yeyed back to Charlestown. ¢

hen Morton and Mr. Short were following the
two officers who had charge of Jack Norris, from
the door of Mother, Maguire’s house, out: of Ann
Street, they were followed by an angry crowd of the
roughs, and the officers drew their reyolyers and
carried them. cocked ready for use. Morton Slip-
ed his handkerchiefthrough Brindle’s collar to
<eep him back, otherwise the dog would have had
mad angs into one or more of the crowd nearest..to
them. :

The ruffians dreaded Brindle if oer ibie more
than. they did the revolvers of the police, and kept
a respectable distance until Morton and the officers
with their prisoner turned into Hanover Street,
and then these birds of ill omen slunk back again
and hid within the dens of crime which formed
their, shelter, and which are not-entirely purged of
their vile character even at the present writing.

Austin Gray was not long in hearing the news re-
lating ‘to Morton Merrill’s good fortune, and: who
Lord Elmore really was. Knowing Mrs. Worthing-
ton so well as he did, he of course began tosee that
he: would haye no chanee now with Minnie. The
mother’s pride, which had heretofore been his
ehief reliance was now he believed. to be his great-
est misfortune, as it regarded his rivalry with

erton.
r. and Mrs. Worthington had resolved-to gts a
large party in honor of Morton, and in order to in-
troduce him to the friends of the family as Lord El-
more. Minnie’s‘mother was in her element now.
Cards were issued and ahundred guests and more
were invited, _Her daughter took very little inter-
‘est in the matter. An evening alone with him she
loyed would haye been much more in accordance
with her taste and wishes, but'her mother was very
proud of the chance to introduce Lord Elmore.

The good fortune he had realized did. not change
Morton. Merrill at heart. He was thesamestraight-
forward, truthful, and een nature as‘ before.
His natural bearing was one of dignity and: refine-
ment, but of what the world calls pride he had not
the least taintin his character. Morton had:grown
graceful and handsome, He had always dressed
well, but without. being in the least foppish, his
clothing was now simple and very rich. - :

There was no reason why he should not spend
his money feeely, for the income of the Coss-Orton
estate alone was ten thousand pounds per annum,
besides which his grandfather’s will gave him a
handsome competency. Indeed he had really more
money than he knew what to do with, in a certain
sense, os
The day before the party which Mrs. Worthing-
ton had arranged, Morton called at the house, He
asked for Miss Worthington, and Minnie’ came to
him in the parlor. Her mother knew very well
who had called, but. she offered no interference by
her own presence, for was not Morton now a lord?
Oh, poor human nature! It has been said that
rank is a great.beautifier. Morton Merrill.as Lord
Elmore, and Morton. the poor student, were totally
different persons in the estimation of Mrs, Worth-
ington.

hat very morning Morton had called upon Mr.
Worthington,and sought afew moments’ private
conversation with his former patron.

Mr. Worthington,” he said, “it cannot. be un-
known to you how deeply love your daughter,”

‘Well, Morton, I cHDDORG Thayve noticed your feel-
ings exhibited in that direction.”

“Never before the present time have I been in a
position to speak to you upon the subject as I
wished to do.”

aon freely,” said the father.

“Then I ask you for her hand, Mr. Worthington,”
said Morton, with earnestness,

is iese)

The ‘ca

 

 

 

 

‘and friendless

‘So far as I can give consent, you certaihly have
it, Morton,” replied the father. “But: how about
Minnie ?” HOw F

“I believe we understand each other, six.”

“Ah! Isuspected_as much,. Well, give me your
hand, Morton,” said the merchant. “It is difficult
to realize the strange fortuné which has attended
you since we first met.” :

Mr. Worthington wished him all success in his
future, and commended the spirit in which he re-
ceived the good fortune which Providence had sent

im.
Somehow, Morton did not feel so free to Speak to
Minnie’s mother-as he had done in asking the con-
sent of the merchant, and he left chance to settle
that formality. —
But we left Minnie and Morton together in the
parlor, in Beacon street. } :
“While I was in Paris, Minnie, dear, I took the
liberty of choosing aset of jewelry for you,” said
Morton, ‘‘and Lhave brought it to you.” |
‘Oh,-Morton, I am so much pleased, that you
should have thought of me when so far away.”
“Promise me you will wear them to-morrow evye-
ning, darling.”
\ Before I see them ?”’

¥

“If you wish it, Morton, I shall certainly wear
them,” she answered.

Morton then opened the large. morocco case,
which he had temporarily laid upon the table, and
showed Minnie the jewels. he had brought for her.
They were dazzling to behold. .A necklace of dia-
monds, solitaire ear-drops, a diamond ¢ross, and
pie solitaire oe a set. of marvelous

eauty. “3 ;

“Oh, Morton, I never Saw so beautiful set of dia-
monds in my life,’”’ said Minnie, perfectly dazed by
the brilliancy of the rare and costly stone

“Let me pus them on, darling,” said he, suiting
the action to the word, and when he had ‘done so,
and whispered to her, as he put the ring,upon her
finger, that it was an engagement” ring, he kissed
her sweet lips, and le@ her to the looking-glass that
she might see the effect of her superb ornaments.

“Now, dear Minnie, will you go to your mother
and. show her that engagement ring, and ask her
for her consent to wear it ?” }

“How can I, Morton ?” said the blushing girl.

“Will you tell her, then, that I wish to see her ?”
“Oh, yes; that wills better,” |

And so, forgetting that she had on the diamonds,
Minnie hastened to the ;sitting-room to find her
mother, who sat there, engaged upon some light
and graceful embroidery. She looked up as the
face of her happy pela, presented itself.

“Why, Minnie, what does this mean ! asked Mrs.
Worthington, as she fazedin astonishment at the
brilliant diamonds. Lies

“Oh, I forgot. T had them on, mamma,” she
eal, hurriedly,,,“They are a present, from Mor-

on.” wr ‘ 5

“A present!” nee her mother, Peg the pre-
cious stones. “Why, Minnie, they must have cost
afortune.”... , fit ; 1
“Tam. afraid they are too expensive,” said her

>

 

daughter, for the first time realizing their value.
Mrs. Worthington could Barty believe her eyes.
She knew that $20,000 could not duplieate them.

Mamma.
“Well, dear.” . ie :
“Morton wants to see you,” ee
“Oh, well, l will go to him,” said Mrs. Worthing-

ton. ‘

Then the mother and Morton sat together for a
long time. Morton was frank and manly. He told
Mrs. Worthington how tenderly he had loved her

daughter from, the outs mee that now, when he

found himself in a pec y Situation. to warrant

him ed s ing openly, he embraced the first mo-
0 80. a RS

ment sey :
- Mrs. Worthington, though secretly delighted, put
retentious airs, and intimated that she
must consént, as Minnie’s heart was
o much ine ped toward him. She did not fail to
int at a previous partial engagement with Mr.
Gray, etc. ete., but pudetey giving her consent, as
it were, under protest, . |
. Morton was not deceiy
her part. Mrs. Worthin
oe hi ats, wap nde
so long as Minnie) was his
that he owed his success
his new EOCCES OM to rank
membered . that, Minnie
poor. and friendless, and $0 he was content: .
“Oh, Morton,” said Minnie, coming into the
room. when she judged it was the proper time,
“where is Brindle? We heard of his acting the part
detective.” o¢ Tata
eis. down at the door.?
“Poor fellow! call hi

on. certain
Supposed s

by all this finesse on
was a worldly woman.
r her, and did not care
knew well: enough’

he re-

md fortune, ul
loved him when he was

of .a
i

  

,svon't you, Morton?”

|. “Certainly, if yop wish | ake ae
4. Mingle wag. upg the sofa then Brindlo-
5 eup, the. saw dger at once, and came to-,

ward her, laying ‘his jay Mupon hér lap as he was
wont to do with orton. was his one act often+
derness.. The dog had taken a singular fancy to
her, even as Morton had done, from the very first.

: is jaws upon
ing his tail by way of ex-
on in being. patted on the
hand, it seemed impossible

As Brindle stood quietly resting

Minnie’s lap -and nag
proceane his. satisfac
ead by her epee Py tty
bethe s
's th

  

that he could '
at a ruffian’s thr
stoutest rascal that
Erpeen ly he Japp
been caressing him, and
corner and lay down by himself. .
“T shall be jealous of Brindle,” said Morton, smil-
ing, “if this sort of flirtation continues.” f
ne have always. been jealous of him,” said Min-
nie, “for I know how much youlove him.” | |
“Good Brindle,” continued his master, “he has
been everything to me, and nothing but death shall
ever part us.” ohacy, :
The moment the dog heard his master utter his
name he was by his side, looking intently into his
face as though he would. read the expression of
Morton’s countenance. i
“To me,” said his master, thoughtfully, “he
seems more like a pitas than an animal,

,and who would bring the
er lived to the Round:

the tiny white hand that had
and then went soberly into a

We -have scarcely been separated for a day or an
hour since I swam into the riyer to save his life. He
was the merest puppy then, nearly drowned and
starved to a skeleton. 5

“Why, Morton, see how helooks you in the face;
it seems as though he really understood your
-words,” said Minnie,as she kept her.eyes upon

Brindle. [ a if

“T often sit and talk with him when Wwe are alone,
and faney that he understands me. Not exactly the
«words, but the tenor of their meaning.”

Brindle, as if in. response,drew still nearer to
Morton, and laid his jaws after the old fashion upon
his knee, still looking him in the face.,

“Darling,” said Morton, ‘you do not ask me what
your mother said.”

- “tis not necessary.”
“What do youmean?” $
“T know mamma better than she thinks I do,” re-
lied Minnie, “Itseems too bad to say so, Morton,
ut mamma is a very proud woman, and your title
won her heartatonce.” >
“But you, Minnie; you loved me when I was poor

“Indeed, yes.” said the beautiful girl, giving him
both her hands. ;

“T care for nothing élse,” he replied. |

“From that very evening inthe Public Garden to
this hour, Morton, it has always been the same. I
was too young at first toanalyse my feelings, but I
know now very well the child’s feelings were love,
loye which has been ripening all this time.”

“My own darling,” he whispered, as he drew her
tenderly to his arms. ¢ :

“And now. good-by, Minnie, until to-morrow
night,” he added. : p

““Good-night, dear Morton,” she said, holding up
her sweet face to be kissed.

CHAPTER XXXI.
BREAKING PRISON.

It was a cloudy night in the early port of Novem-
ber, the air was sharp and,eutting, the moon now
and then looked down through narrow openings
in the swift-flying clouds making brief shadows
upon the earth. It was between one and two o’clock,
and everything was still except now and. then, as
the sharp whistling of the wind. fell upon'the list-
ening ear. mis °

The Charlestown State y= was no exception
to the universal quiet ene nour. '

At the several angles of the walls the night guards
kept in their sheltering boxes, anu had a continual
struggle with the drowsy god in their efforts to
keep awake. Had these night watches known what
was going on below them, they would have felt no
sense of drowsiness, no desire to sleep. f

At'the hour which we have named three men in
convicts’ dresses might have been seen stealing
from. out the dark shadows of the prison walls, and
making their way to that part of the yard which is
separated from the water by a high stone wall.
hey my yed élose to th ldings as possible
with eat-like motion ands ;
in the clouds per-

Now-and then, as.an open te
mhitted the moon to illumine the scene for a mo-
ment, they crouched close to the earth, and then as
the flying scuds covered the moon’s disk they start-
ed. forward again tosrard the point in the yard
ee hoisting machinery formed a favoring
shelter. a eae

We have seen these an . The three con-
victs were Arthur Bailey, urley, and Dick
Burrage, all of whom haye played their part in
these chapters, and who, after long preparation
and cunning deyices, had once more by mutual aid
got on the outside of the prison, though still within
its lofty stone walls.
Jack Norris was there too, but he had been kept
in solitary confinement since his arrest as described,
ate eae et gid Ree were following his

e example without his co pany:

“Are we all right ?” whispered Bob Hurley.
“Ay, ay,” responded the others, in equally low
ton

 

 
  
 

6s

 

es.
Got the rope-ladder, Bailey ?”
Yes,”

rs. Worthington to,

e animal so ready to spring |

“And have

VAy, all rig
. “Onemore reach and we shall get in the shadow
of, that:derrick,” said Bob Hurley.

“Curse the moonlight,” added Dick.

Hush! Lay low, there’s the guard come out’ to
look about. Don’t move up,” said Bob Hurley.

The watchman, whose poet overlooked this part
ofthe yard. came out of his shelter for a moment,
gazed about the place, looked up at the moon, and
shivered for asecond ortwo,then sought his box
onee more. ;

All right,” said Bob Hurley; “now make one
reach and get behind the hoisting apparatus.”

The dark forms of the three convicts glided for-
ward and reached the spot undiscovered.

Here an ingeniously constructed roap-ladder was
at once unwound, and a couple of iron hooks at-
tached to one,end., After several attempts these
hooks, being thrown skillfully upon the capstones
of the prison wall, at last caught in the uneven
granite, and held firmly.

“You go up first, Bailey,” said Bob Hurley, who
seemed to direct affairs, “and see all fast.”

“All right.” : ;

And Arthur Bailey cautiously crept to the'top of
the wall by means of the rope-ladder. {

Lay down flat,” said Beb, and Bailey did so, at
the same time securing the hooks of the ladder so
that his Comrades might ascend in safety,for the
top of the wall was some fifteen or sixteen feet from
the level of the prison yard. ©

It was necessary for Bailey to remain in his ex-
posed situation until the other two joined him,as
they could not descend on the other side in ‘safety
without the aid of the ladder} the distance’ to the
ground on the wharf being somie eight or ten feet
mone on the outer than upon-the inner side ofthe
wall.

Dick Burrage followed. :

Heowas heavier than Bailey)and was necessarily
more cautious, one of the cross stands of the ladder
breaking. under him, and nearly throwing him to
the ground, when ke had almost reached the top.
Hé hung on, however, withhis: hands, and having
recovered his footing was: soom beside Bailey upon
the cap stones. . , 9

This little accident had caused Bailey to ‘raise
himself upon his feet to help his companion, and
when Dick Burrage reached his side, both stood
for a moment in a very exposed position.

It was now Bob Hurley’s turn. }

He stepped lightly on the strands of the ladder,
and had got more than half up to the top when the
flying clouds opened, and the moon shone out full
upon the scene of the escaping convicts.

‘Curse i
hands up to place them upon the cap stones.

“Quck,” whispered Bailey. i

But at that moment, with the moon shining full
upon them, now rendering their persons as clear
as by daylight, the guard eaught sight of them.

aS rifle was instantly raised, and the trigger
pu i

“Hah!” exclaimed Arthur Bailey, ashe fell for-
ward with aspring, landing in the prison yard, shot

dead eo uaT the heart.

The guard’s weapon was a repeater.

Crack! came a second shot almost instantly after
rthe first diseharge, and Dick Burrage fell backward
nearly twenty-five feet upon the stone wharf owtside
the prison wall. :

Bob Hurley. hung by his-hands;and dropped his
body on-to.the wharf, landing upon his feet.

In‘a moment more he was in the water, and float-
ing with the swift running’ tide, was soon passing
out. of sight under Warren. Bridge into ‘the open
harbor. 6. was a good swimmer, and guiding
himself on the top ofthe tide, reached the north

ae got the hooks, Dick ?”

end wharves.)

In the mean time the officers of the prison had
been, aroused, The body of Dick Burrage was
found, where it had fallen on the stone wharf, with
life extineto The bullet of the guard:had entered
his body, butthe fall was doubtless the immediate
cause of his death, as he struck on his head and
fractured his skull.~ ~- ma ;

- But Arthur. Bailey had ‘been’ killed at once by a
ball through histheart: «'.) » - :

Bob Hurley was nearly frozen and half-drowned
when he reached the wharf in the rear of, the gas-
works: Here he struggled on shore, and in his ex-

austed condition rathercrept than walked toward

orth street, as the neighborhood where he could
‘find congenial friends and a hiding-place.

He made ‘his way to Mother Mz :
barely escaped ing discovere ny a policeman,
who would have instantly taken him in charge
ao his prison clothes upon himif he had seen

im. ;
. He made his. entrance into Mother Maguire’s
house in so exhausted a condition that he could not

uire’s.

at once understood his situation.. A glass of brandy
put new, and temporary life into the escaped con-
viet, until he was hidden away where he might re-
wa eee by a long ge of sleep. « 4
e had not seen Jack Norris. since his Canenne

and return to prison, because he was in solitary
confinement; indeed ‘he did not know of his cap-
ture sinée his escape, all of which Mother Maguire
told bimy. spies dows on J

“You can stay until to-morrow,” she said, “‘and I
will get you'some proper elothes; but Mr, Short
and a tribe will come hereto seek you, depend
upon it.” ; re} !
Very well; be sure to get me some clothes and
let me sleep until broad daylight.” , eo
“AM rightly ou phy 14

“So they got Jack here in your house?”

aS. .

“Where was he hidden?”

‘In the brick vault.”

“The duse! How did they find the place?”
“With a dog.”

s¢ do, ? :

“Yes.’ : ( ’

“Hang me if I don’t believe it was that same dog
that was the cause of my capture.”

“A sort of Brindle color?” .

“That's it exactly,” said Bob Hurley. ‘‘Well, if
they have got. dog detectives we shall have to give
up usiness.”’ é

‘Do you say they shot the other twe of you?”
‘Yes.. I know Arthur Bailey was done for, Dead
as a hatehet, and I think Dick Burrage was.”

“All the good ’uns are being thinned out,” said
the woman, shaking her head.

“That's a fact,mother.. Well, stow me away some-
where. Iam dying for sleep.” 5

“Follow me,” said the woman, taking a lamp and
directing her steps to the rear of the house, but first
carefully double-locking the front door.

After stowing the fugitive in a dark closet under
the roof of the house, she made him give her his
prison uniform and tossed him acouple of blan-
kets to wrap his body in, while she went to the
large stove in the secret rear room and gotupa
big fire to destroy the clothes. She knew that she
would be liable to a visit on the next: day from Mr.
Short, and all evidence of Bob Hurley’s presence
must be disposed of. 5

Woolen burns slowly, and it was an hour before
Mrs. Maguire was satisfied to leave the stove.

Then she went to another part of the house and
got together a coarse suit of men’s garments and
brought them to the new-comer’s closet. She heard
him snoring soundly under the united influence of
the brandy and fatigue, and _ putting the articles
where he could easily find them,she went to her
own bed for an hour’s sleep before the usual hour
of her resuming the day’s duties. ; ,

As soon as the first rays of the morning light
found their way into Bob Hurley’s resting-place by
means of the open door, he was up,and seizing
upon the clothes left) by his side, he was soon
dressed. He.stole. downstairs before Mother Ma-

uire herself had come from her bedroom, and
helping himself to some erackers and cheese
which were in a plate upon the bar-room table, he
tried to get a glass of gin, but the liquors were
locked up.

He stole out of the house by a back door and went
at once to the end of Long Wharf.

“Tf they foundJack Norris at the house of Mother
Maguire they will, of. course, look for me there,” he
said to himself, “and my game must be to get away
from the city as quickly as possible.”

But how to.do it? That was the question.,

Fortune is very indiscriminate in dispensing her
favors, often helping rogues as promptly as she
does honest men. Andso it was on this occasion.

A brig was just, taking advantage of the tide and
casting off her shore-lines to drop down the bay
a away to sea, when Bob Hurley reached the
wharf.

“Tsay,my man,” exclaimed the captain, whose
eyes had fallen upon the fugitive, “do you want to
ship? We’yean empty berth on board.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Bob; “just what I’m after.”

‘Come aboard, then.” . '

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Bob, jumping over the low bul-
warks of the brig, which were nearly level with the
wharf,and saying to himself, “this is goodluck,
sure.”

In two minutes more the brig was out in the
channel and gliding down the harbor by Fort War-
ren, as sail after sail was set upon the yards.

Good-by to Bob Hurley!
When Mother Maguire came out of her room
early that morning, she went tothe closet to look

for Bob, but she found that the bird had flown, and
to tell the truth, she was very glad of it, for she was
expecting to see Mr. Short, or some other detective
inside her doors, looking: for the fugitive, any mo-
ment.

Thewoman was right,and Bob had been none
too early in his departure, for as Mrs. Maguire took
down the inside window shutters from her bar-room
window, she saw the familiar face of Mr. Short
watching her,and as she opened the door that
small but energetic officer quietly stepped inside.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Maguire.”

**Good-morning, Mr. Short.’’

“You hada late caller last night.”

“That’s true.”

“Got him stowed away ?”

 

“No. Heslept here but went away before I was
up.”

the light!’ he ‘exclaimed, reaching his,

saa ere

 

joa Deuipye you are telling me thetruth,” said Mr,
S pA

“Tf I never.did before#*»added thewoman.

The officer somehow as) though by instinct knew
thatthe woman hadspoken truly; andif he was to
search»for the fugitive it was notin Mother Ma-
guire’s house. i

[TO BE CONTINUED. | {
——___ > 9+ |
~ Pleasant Paragraphs. __

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing
toward making this column an attractive feature of the NEW
YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for phblica-
tion anything which may be deemed of sufficient interest for
general perusal. It isnot necessary that the articles should be
penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy,) and likely
to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. ]

Rev. Josia Ball's. Donation. -

In the town of Bushville there lives”a, mi
who experiences some tough times. His’year'
come is two hundred dollars, and with this hes
ports a wife and six children. He is the se
looking minister who ever filled a pulmt.
any, of the Bushvillians have an old cast-o
hat, pair,of pants, or any old qoaring appare
reserved: for ‘the Rey. Josia Ball. \Sometim
wears a coat too small for him, and sometimes one
too large. Still he isthe proprietor of “much ¢loth-
ing,” Such as itis. But he isnot happy. He has:
a despairing look. The fact is heis “hard up.” |

One day the Rey. Josia Ball said to his Wife:) |

Rebecea, suppose we try some way to, get ‘th

  
  
 
  

a
donation, and see if we can get some. money that
way. I am tired of living this way, and we must
have ‘something besides old clothes and beans.
What do you say, love?” ee
“Well, J think itisa good-idea.’ There is Jane
Pipps. She will be sure to donate something, and
*Manda Sawhead, she will donate something, and
Dr. Tightfist, he is reputed to, be very wealthy, and
a great many more whom I can’tthink of. We will
see what we can do. Atall events we can try.”
_Arrangements were made. among the congrega-
tion, andthe Rey. Josia Bail madelitypublic from
the Bi it.. The donation was to be .on. the follow-
ing Friday night, and Mrs, Josia Ball, early on Mon-
day morning, commenced cleaning: and making
preparations for the coming eyent. 3
; She worked till Thursday night, when all was in
fit order to receive the donators of Bushyille.
Friday:‘night came, and with it the house of the
Rey. Josia Ball was illuminated from top,to bottom
with kerosene lamps. He(Mr. Ball) was attitedin
his best (?) clothes, ready to receive company. ;

._ The first. caller proved to beMrfs.Sloeum, from
upamong the hills,” She came im with a
on, her arm, CoS nman ot

I didn’t expect to come,” said Mrs. Slocum
the ‘old'man said he thought you would thin
were, mean, and stingy, so I broughtyou .
things,” and with this she opened the basket. ‘
is a rollin’-pin I’ve had goin’ on eight year
Mrs: Ball, I wouldn’t give itto no one else o
but, Here is.a pair of beots—takin

   
 
  

 

Once he

iS companion of thieves and rogues generally,

ou.
of old cowhide boots (No. 11)—that the o
wore three months, and they kinder pinche
toes, s0 he couldn’t wear’em no moré,'so h
fur meto bring ’em down, for-he.couldn’t us
Mr. Ball thanked her, and by this time anothe
“donator” arrived. It proved ‘tobe Jane Pi
She had an old buck-saw. . \ oe a
“You know, Mx. Ball,” said Jane Pipps, “‘t
a poor woman, and this) is.all I can-spare, a
was setand filed it would. make a might

saw. ; “O)
Mr. Ballthanked her. ©.

The. next.*‘donator’ was Mrs. Hanna aa with

 
 
  
   

a, platter of beans. The next was old »Dorithy Pea-
body, who said “She hadn’t anything to bring; but
only come down to see the folks.”, i ¢
The next was. old Deacon Stubbs with three old
ealico shirts. { i 3
Then came Dr, Tightfist. Mr. and Mrs.Josia Ball
went,tothe door with smiling faces, and with the
expectation, of getting no less than twenty-five dol-
lars from him. ¢
“Mr, Ball,” began Dr. Tightfist, “you have always
-been a good minister here, and I haye always liked
ou, so I will not be mean, or anything of that sort.
ou have always taught me that it, is, better to give
than to receive,” and with this he Jaid down a

ragged.old twenty-five cent stamp... .
yo Bal and sean ke

tam
lL smiled a ghastly smile

The next of the “donators”. proved no
than. these. Le Rs

_ Mr. and Mrs. Ball, after the company had
ed, putout the lights and went to bed. The eount-
ing of the things next day footed up: Two old hats,
a rolling pin, one old hairbrush, a buck-saw, a pair

im.
iter

part-

‘of to, ,a bushel of beans, twenty-five cents, and
afew minor articles! Mr. Ballis going to work out
by the day this spring. BEN BUNKER.

A Good Reason.

N., a prominent lawyer, was retained by. the de-
fendant in a case in which the plaintiff's right to a
recovery was. undoubted, and the only thing he
could do for, his client was to postpone judgment
aslong as possible. On the call of the docketihe
quietly asserted that the case would be continued,
anditwas so marked. This was sopeee several
times. A short time ago the docket was again
called, and N., as usual, said that this case would
be continued. The judge, however, remarked that
before granting the continuance some showing
should-be made, as the case had already been post-
pongd several times by mere request. : §
hy, your honor,” said N., “my client thasn’t
the BDOFE of a chance to win the case, and our rea-
son for desiring a continuance is to put the case off
as long as possible in the hope that the
may die and thus dismiss the action.” .
The case was not continued. Gro, B, OGLEYIE.
His Cousins. j

Fritz Van Winkle, a young man of our town (Lim-
bupenuiiiey ts made the subject of many ajoke. One
day he happened to meet a young lady of his ac-
quaintance at the butcher’s, and whileshe was be-
ing seryed they chatted quite pleasantly.. After the
young lady had gone, the butcher asked Fritz who
the girl was. Fritz replied: :

“ee

plaintiff

ot’s my gousin.”’ :
A few days after he came in with anothér girl, and
was again asked who she was, to which he repiied:
“Dot’s my second gousin.” {

out several different young ladies as “‘his cousin,”
and the butcher began to think that all the girls in
Limburgville were Fritz Van Winkle’s cousins.

But there was one, however, whom he did not
claim as his cousin, as events will show.

A few days since, while Fritz was in the butcher’s
picking out asoup bunch, his colored washerwo-
man’s little girl came by, and addressed him
thusly: é ;

“Say, you Fritz, what’s you doing in dar finger-
ing der wegetables?” ea

“Och, go on vonce,” replied Fritz. ij

But she evidently was glad to see him, for,she
eame in and appeared so yery familiar with him,
that the butcher thought that must be one of Fritz’s
cousins. So whenshe had gone, he asked: }

‘Is dot vone of your gousins, too, Fritz?” _

Fritz left amid the laughter that followed,!and
has since been looking for a new meat shop. g

Xe . Je
A Pioneer Court. : F

The first session of court held in the county of
M——,, lowa, was in the year 1847, and convened ina
grove. The judge,on arriving at the appointed
place, where were already gathered the attorneys
and quite a respectable array of clients and lookers
on, seated himself on alarge walnut stump with
all the dignity of a Lord Mansfield, and apparent?
as proud as it he were occupying Westminster Hal?
Throwing one’ glance around him, he espied the
sheriff at some distance away astride a ne om-

Lagpanty playing mumble-peg with a larg dirk-

nife. ; |

“Mr, Sheriff,” he yelled, in stentorian | tones,
“whar’s that ar jury?” ig

“Oh, they’re all right, your honor,” replied the
sheriff; “ve got six of ’em down here in thé holler
bucked and. gagged, and seven more galoots out a
huntin’ up t’others.” ‘ i

“Mr. Clerk,” said the judge, “adjourn court till
sheriff, pass aroun rout

Xe . .

 

after dinner;, and,
licker.”
Divining One’s Thoughts.

A quack doctor, while on a professional visit, re-
marked to a man who was at the time a guest of his
patient: . {

“You are not looking well.”

The guest, who knew. him to
ability, said:

“T do not need the doctor’s care.”

Whereupon the quack stepped up and took his
wrist, and while feeling his pulse, remarked:

“You think I am a fool.” ‘

“T see you can divine one’s thoughts by feeling
his pulse,” said the guest. RuPERT.

An “Ould” Turkey.

A gentleman of my acquaintance, recently from
the Green Isle, went into the country to buy a milch
cow,.and while inthe barn-yard he espied a Pree
fiock of turkeys, among which was a tame owl, the
like of which he had never before seen. He looked
at it some time in amazement, and then suddenly
facing the farmer, he called out:

“Mr. Hall, phwat will you take for that broad-
faced turkey?” k

Mr. Hall answered that it was_notaturkey, bué
an owl. Pat thereupon exclaimed: |

“T don’t care a shnap how ould he is,
a dollar for him.”

Who Played Yorick?

“In one of our Southern cities,” writes a reader,
“Edwin Booth played for a week last month, taking
a different character each se The morning
after his Hamlet, one of several gentlemen sitting
round a breakfast-table, asked in the most serious
tone if Booth took the role of the grave-digger.
Not being at least abashed by the inevitable reply,
he next distinguished himself by the question,
‘Who played Yorick?’ Simultaneously two gentle-
men answered, ‘The skull!”

'
be aman of small

T’ll give you
D. M. K.

 

Well, thus things ran on until Fritz had pointed

 

 

 

[oa ere

 

 

 

 
 

sO errata conan

NS aterm:

ee om at

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PP PP waOmweoaeaa aN Oana»

srs se

NEW YORK, APRIL 3, 1876.

AALS

 

 

eee

Terms to Subscribers +
One month, (postage free) 25c. | One Year—1 copy (postage Sree)$3
Two months... . 50c. wT ms 2 copies... Roach ae
Three months . - Toe, ae oe STEN .
Womrmontns... 6. ui SIMO fro ti 8 - @

Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will’
be entitled to a Ninth Copy FREE. Getters up of Clubs can after-
ward add single copies at $2.50 each.

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

In addressing letters to SrregT & SMITH, do not omit our Box
Number, By a recent order of the Post-office Department this is
absolutely necessary, to insure the prompt delivery of

age TO SUBSCRIBERS.—When changing your address,
give former, ag well as present address, with County and Brose:
aise, be certain to name the paper for which you subscribe. <®¢

ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO
STREET & SMITH, Proprietors.
26, 27, 29 and 31 Rese St.. N.Y. P.O. Box 4896

 

       

 

  

 

 

A Strange Character.

There was lately brought in and laid upon the
marbie tables of the Morgue, or dead-house, at
Paris, the form of one whom nobody could recog-
nize, or at least whose friends, if he had any, did
not make their appearanceto claim the body. The
corpse referred to was found floating in the Seine
at early morning, and seemed to have been in the
water but a few hours.

By and by, after the usual exposure in the Morgue,
for the purposes of identification, the body was
prepared for’ burial in the paupers’ grave. But
careful notes are kept of every such case, and it is
the duty of certain officials to hunt up all possible
information and record it upon the strangely in-
teresting books of the Paris dead-house, so that
after this body was buried it was found to have
been that of a well-known Bohemian,

He had, undoubtedly, taken his own life at last
by leaping into the Seine, tired of the suffering in-
duced by poverty and hunger, and various mortifi-

5

tions.

it was found by the officials that he had managed
to barely exist for some four years past, it would
be difficult to say how, but as to who he really was,
or from whence he originally came, no one knew.
He was called among his Bohemian companions
L’Unique—the Original—eyen they knew him by no
other name, and he kept his own secret.

His physical aspect was very remarkable. He
was thick-set, beardless, very _dark-complexioned,
his hair red-brown, eyes very large, and nose quite
prominent. Always sedate in manner, yet he was
a boon companion and popular with his. class. It
was said that he was never seen to laugh! He was
of prodigious muscularity, and could burst open
the lock of a door with a single blow of his fist, and

rformed feats of tee almost incredible, yet
© seemed never inclined to make arbitrary use of
his herculean powers. Once he was known to have
released three of his comrades from the police who
had arrested them, are half a dozen police-
men in all directions, and for which he.suffered
a brief imprisonment. ;
As to himself he seemed inclined to overlook any
tty insult rather than to exert his giant strength.
€ was intelligent, and sometimes wrote a brief
article for the daily press, for which he received a
few frances, enough to keep him from starving for
some weeks as he lived upon a loaf of bread and a
giass of sour wine daily, and often sharing these
with a less fortunate companion. He also colared
prints for the cheap stores, and even made original
pictures in water colors for them when driven to
the last extreme of hunger, receiving literally fam-
ine prices forhis work. | ; .

His home at night was said to be in the Bois de
Boulogne in the broad branches of an oid tree. And
here he sometimes took his _houseless soatnanions
to share his resting place. For awhile he lent his
muscular figure on hire, and posed as a mode! in
the Atelier Suisse. He was very proud withal, and
this occupation was of the most humiliating char-
acter to him, but the loaf of bread must be had, or
he would starve. Finally the end came, The artist
students, perhaps, irritated by his proud bearing
and stern aspect, one day made a butt of him, and
ae of ridicule were launched at the humble
m .

He descended from the. platform, put on _ his
clothes, thrashed eight or nine young artists within
an inch of their lives, and went his way. It was the
next day that the body of L’ Unique was taken from
the Seine and exposed for identification at the
Morgue. But of this singular man’s real story
nothing is known.

BOOT BUTTONS.

Why will not some of the numerous inventive
geniuses in the world, with the good'of the public
(especially the feminine public) at heart, invent
something to banish boot buttons from the face of
the earth ? r

Somebody says there are elastic gore boots, and
laced boots, and suggests that there is no law to
compel us to wear buttoned boots. fee
_ Very true, but congress boots are an abomination
in the sight of man,and as for laced ones, why,
who can wear a pair of them a week before the eye-
lets will come out and the ragged edges make their
appearance, and the lacings wear rough and “frag-
gy,” and then they are continually untying, and
streaming out their dirty tin-tipped length from
under our ruffles and flutings and making us a
spectacle. ;

Poets and novelists have said so much about our
feet that we must be dunces if we did not know that
our feet are a very important item in our general
make-up.

Shoemakers, urged on by the dictates of Fashion,
have given us narrow soles which pinch us almost
beyond endurance, and high heels which make us
walk upon our toes like a barn-yard fowl on an icy
morning, and we submit gracefully; but boot but-
tons areto us asourceof never-ceasing annoyance.

Whenever anybody goes to dress in a hurry, then
the boot buttons fly. Who can dress without losing
one or more of these necessary little oe ? Itis
impossible to be calm, and use the button-hook
properly, when one expects every moment to hear
the whistle of the approaching train which is to
ao her to town after fresh ribbons and other

hings.

Who can button her boots with a hair-pin, on a
cold morning with the mercury below zero, and her
button-hook mislaid as it has the happy habit of
being on just such mornings ?

Half the ladies whose feet we have inspected,
have buttons missing from their boots, and one-
third of the others have their boots buttoned wrong,
and the button-holes fringed and ragged.

Gentlemen of inventive talents, to you we appeal.
Give us something pretty, and durable, and conve-
nient in the way of boot fastenings, and we will
support you for ngress, or lend you our influ-
ence in the coming election for the office of Presi-
dent. Kate THORN.

—_————__>-@<_______

A Card from Daniel Doyle.

Buack DramMonpD SHarr, March 6, 1876.

An erroneous impression is extant to the effect
that the Ancient Order of Hibernians and the Molly
Maguires are one and the same organization. This
is utterly false. The Ancient Order of Hibernians
is one of the most honorable, influential, and intelli-
gent societies of Irishmen in the United States. It
numbers in its ranks many men of culture, is en-
tirely catholic in spirit, and has its lodges all over
the Continent. The Order of “Molly Maguire,” onthe
other hand, is a hole-and-corner combination, con-
fined to the coal regions, and under the ban of re-
ligion and civilization. This explanation I deem it
necessary to make just now when the New York
WEEKLY is So eagerly sought, lest an injustice might
be done to any one. Every Irishman who discoun-
tenances the society of “Molly Maguire,” and as-
sists to break it up is doing a good work for theland
and the race to which he belongs. The Irish people
need organization, but let it be of that noble stamp
for which Emmet and Wolfe Tone gave their lives,
and for which Rossa gave the sunniest hours of his
existence in prison. Such groveling, sectional, and
suicidal institutions as Molly Maguireism should
be spurned by every honest man.

 

 

 

 

DaNteL DOovue.

 

 

 

 

 

THE INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT.
BY JULIAN GERARD NOE,

Twace falling snows have clad the earth,
Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest, ©
Since first I smiled upon thy birth,
And telt the breathing on my breast.

Now snowy wreaths will melt away,
And buds of red will shine around;
But heedless of the sunny ray,
Thy form shall wither in the ground.

Ott hath thy father dared the foe,
And while their arrows drank his blood,
And round him lay his brothers low,
Oareless ’mid thousand darts he stood.

But when he saw thee droop thy head,

Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,
And from thy lip the scarlet fled,

Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolied.
The land of souls lies distant far,

And dark and lonely is the road;
Neo ghost of mght, no shining star,

Shall guide me to thy new abode,
Will some good spirit to thee bring

The milky fruits of cocoa tree?
To shield thee stretch his pitying wing,

Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee?
Ohl in the blue-bird’s shape descend,

When broad magnolias shut their leaves,
With evening airs thy lisping blend,

And watch the tomb thy mother weaves.
I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest,

‘When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shine
On Mississippi’s furrowed breast,

By many 2 watery wreath entwined ;
Bat soon they rippled down the stream,

To lave the stranger’s distant shore—
One moment sparkled in the beam,

Then saw their native banks no more.

Origin of the Molly Maguires.

The “Molly Maguire” Society is but one of the
many secret organizations that sprang into exist-
ence in Ireland during the latter part of the last
century. These secret societies were known by
various names such asthe “Levelers,” the ‘White-
boys,” the “Hearts of Steel” or “Steel Boys,” the
“Peep 0’ Day Boys,” the “Rightboys,” and others,
who, although variously named, had generally but
one common object in view, and that was to resist
the rapacity of landlords who rented their lands
far above their value, and when the tenant had not
the money to pay promptly on “rent day” seized
on his goods, or flung himself and his children out
to perish by the wayside.

Prior to the accession of George the Third to the
throne of England secret societies were unknown
in the “Sister Isle,” as Ireland is sometimes eu-
phoniously termed in Great Britain. This was in
October, 1760,and the first agrarian outrages we
read of as having occurred in the Emerald Isle
transpired shortly after that date.

Without at all desiring to make an apology for
the existence of the secret societies which at that
and later periods formed a terror to every landlord
and and agent in Ireland, we feel justified in stat-
ing that various causes combined to call such or-
ganizations into life. The prime cause was the
despotism of the landlords, and second to that the
“tithe-mongers,”. who are described by an English
writer—Arthur Young—as “‘harpies who squeezed
out the very vitals of the people, and by process,
citation, and sequestration, dragged from them the
little which the landlord had left them.”

The people by their most strenuous efforts could
barely keep soul and body together. The ear of
justice was deaf to their appeals; their vote was
impotent, their voice mute, their hearts were
crushed, and their aspirations met with the cruelest
kind of punishment.

People must feel that they have a share in the law
of the land they live in; it is this that gives security
to all classes. The Irish people in those days felt
that there was no law for them. They were in
truth butthe slaves of tyrannical and exacting des-
pots, and so they set about constructing a law of
their own. It was the lex talionis of aspirit embit-
tered by a series of wrongs unparalleled in the
modern history of any land, and had for its aim the
murder of landlord and agent, and the destruction
of their property as a revenge for their cruel-
ty.

It cannot be ascertained who began these so-

cieties; and the origin of the ““Molly Maguires,”
which is one of the most modern of these combina-
tions, is known only through tradition.
- Atthetime when the name of alandlord in Ire-
land was the synonym of cruelty, there lived in the
County Roscommon an old widow. named Molly
Maguire, She had a small holding of land, and
struggled hard to bring up the family of boys
which her husband had left her. The constant fail-
ure of the crops made her somewhat tardy in pay-
ing her rent, and at length the land agent, an un-
scrupulous fellow, made up his mind to eject her
from the little home that was so full of sacred re-
collections to her. He summoned his “crow-bar
brigade’—a gang of men kept in those days by
every land agent forthe purpose of evicting ten-
ants, throwing the houses over the heads of those
who refused to leave, and seizing the cattle of others
for rent—and went to the sheeling (hut or cottage)
of Molly Maguire. The gray-haired matron was
alone at her spinning-wheel when the cruel gang
came. They commanded her to leave, but so at-
tached was she to the old hearth, so broken-heart-
ed atthe prospectof eviction, that she said she
would die first, and refused to be dragged from the
hut. The brigade then commenced the work of
destruction, and laying their iconoclastic hands on
the cottage, soon hurled it over the prostrate form
of old Molly Maguire, who was killed in the ruins.

The cruel act stirred the popular sentiment to a
white heat, and at the old woman’s wake a few en-
raged and desperate men pledged themselves to be
revenged for her death. They banded themselves
into a society, to which they gave her name, and in
ashort time it spread throughout the adjoining
counties of Mayo and Galway. Land agents were
occasionally shot, barns burned, and often in the
morning an agent went into his domain and was
shocked to see his fine herd of cattle disfigured by
having their tails cut off during the night. These
atrocities continued for some time, but at present
are unknown in Ireland. A more enlightened
spirit prevails, and the Irish people now yearn only
for the liberation of their land, and her complete in-
dependence from English rule. The several secret
societies have lost their individuality and are
merged into the great Fenian movement, or the
Home Rule agitation, both of which are honorable
and patriotic, having in view the advancement of
Ireland as a nation, and the Irish people indepen-
dent of creed.

The introduction of the Molly Maguire move-
ment into Pennsylvania is quite recent. Whatever
excuse may have existed for its reyengeful prac-
tices in Ireland in days gone by, it is certain that
here at least, it is a crying crime against God
and man, anda blot upon civilization. It was re-
vived for the purpose of having revenge on mine
bosses and others in authority in and around the
coal mines, and received its title from some of the
old workmen, whoin their younger days at home
held tryst with the leaders in some secluded spot
where the “peelers” would not be likely to find
them. We are glad to know that in the country of
which Oliver Goldsmith so sadly and sweetly said:

“Tl fares the land to hast’ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay,”

the spirit of Molly Maguire no longer holds sway.
That day has past. and is suceceded by a brighter,
better, and more auspicious one.

That ignorant men should make the fearful mis-

 

 

 

 

take of introducing such a sanguinary society into
the rich regions of the Keystone State is tobe
deeply regretted, but we trustthe time has come
when its speedy dissolution is at hand, and when
the people who for years past have been infatuated
by its baleful influence will have the strength to
shake off the shocking nightmare of ‘“Moliy Ma-
guirism.”

WHAT EFFIE SAID.

BY JAMES L. BOWEN.

 

 

 

John Budlong was an unfortunate man, just as
sO many others are unfortunate. He had not been
born to wealth, but to that which is better—good
common sense, and a disposition to work earnestly
and faithfully in the sphere in which Heaven had
placed him. And so he had worked all his life,
without bettering his condition at all; in fact, as
his family increased and there came additional de-
mands upon his purse,the more frequently that
pee contained no ey and there was no fund
aid up “against Sram ay.” John had a good,
true-hearted wife, who filled her station well, per-
formed her duties in a most commendable manner,
loved and cared for her children, and worshiped
her husband. Ifsometimes her heart was wrung,
and there came dark clouds across the way of her
daily life, she bowed her head when_none saw the
act, and let the tears flow till she felt better, till
thore came relief, arid then lifted her burden again
with a quict smile—for she was a quiet woman,
who neither ind tor in sorrow indulged in any
excessive demonsyrations. se :

The truth was that, notwithstanding all his good-
ness of heart, his industry and mechanical skill,
John Budiong had one serious failing—that espec-
ial failing which hangs a dark pall over 80 many
homes, and clouds the lives of so many thousands
of dutiful wives and poor, suffering children. He
loved the intoxicating cup. In his helor days
he had been a “fast,” generous young man—not
disposed to lawlessness, but fearfully inclined tosee
how closely he could draw the line, and how popu-
lar he could make himself with all classes. So he
used to be a favorite, because he could tell a good
story, always had a stock of first-class cigars in his
case, and never refused to do his part toward furn-
ishing or disposing “of “the drinks.” At parriage
he had intended to drop all those habits, and really,
for atime, found a substitute in the-society of his
wife and the budding children that came as love-
tokens, full of bright promise. _ :

But home grew less attractive, it seemed. to him,
and so he often met the former associates, drank,
smoked and talked with them, until he had pretty
nearly returned to the recklessness of his earlier
years. Poor Carrie noticed the change that came
over her husband, saw how often he came home al-
most staggering, and how every evening his once
pure br was loaded with the ting fumes
of alcohol. Yetshe uttered no word of reproof or
pomplaining neg ve to make home as attrac-
tive as possible, and used all her powers of pleas-
ingin the hope thatshe might reclaim her way-
ward husband. In vain every effort, every hope;
they only became amockery to her aching, bleed-

ing 80
But the crisis was near at hand. Every day the
world seemed growing darker to John, and-his
rospects gloomier, In fact he was fast nearing
at point where deSpair sets in, and the demon
drink becomes sole ruler of the man. Many were
the reformatory influences that had been brought
to bear upon him—ali had been fruitless. A tem-
perance wave had swept over the village, and sey-
eral of his former associates had enlisted under a
brighter banner. and thrown off their slavery; but
their example had no net for him.
“There’s no use of my trying to reform,” he
mused and said. “Nobody cares for me. Iam an
outcast, and there is no help for me.”
atal delusion, that has wrecked so many a

soul!
It was sabbath evening. The church bells were
peal their varied summons, but John Budlong
eeded them not, Ali through the day he had been
at home, ill from the effects of the peo night’s
shameful carousal, sick in body and at heart. Earth
never had seemed so dark to him before. All his
week’s wages had gone, vanished in an hour, and
his family was unprovidedfor. A hundred times
he had felt an impulse to rush forth and drown his
shame in intoxication, butsome power had thus
far restrained iim. | ;
Little Effie, a beautiful four-year-old was _ beside
hie knee, and gazing up with childish sympathy into
e heated features. The mother was busy in the

 
  
   
 

 

kitchen, as the little pattler sorrowfully asked:
“Be papa sick?” :
Anod of thg-head.was the only answer. while
Detrne n im to push his child
away. A bri ence/and she continued very earn-
“Me tell oo What 6 take.”
“Well, ros little physician, what shall I take?”
Apa a smile came over the haggard features, despite

he man’s wreteh C885

“Qo take the pledge—that cure you!”

“Who has been telling you that stuff?” he ex-
claimed, half angrily. :

“On, I tell 00, papa. Las’ night, when oo gone,
and mamma thought I sleep, she feel so bad, she
cried, and got on her knees, and says to God: “Let
papa take the pledge,’ and cry, and ery, and cry,
great long while.” | ;

Was itan electric spark which darted through
John Budiong’s frame, and rested, os at his
heart? Or wasitthe more subtleinfluence of Heav-
enly grace, sent from the throne above to answer
the pions wife's prayer, and arouse his waning
manhood? Perchance it was but the manhood it-
self, touched bythe gentile eloquence of the prattler,
who scarcely comprehended the words she spoke.
Whatever it may have been, a new resolve burned
in his breast. For a moment he pondered, and
then, grasping his hat, he passed to the door.

“I shall be back in a few minutes, Carrie,” he
said, in answerto his wife’s inquiring glance. “I
am only going over to the office.’ s

There was a pleasant smile upon his features,
and, reassured by this, Carrie waited for his return.
She never knew fill years had passed why he went,
and then she read the story upon a@ worn piece of
folded paper, which bore these words: __

“Witness, Almighty God, that while life lasts I
never will touch another drop of strong drink to

Peay, my manhood and bring sorrow and shame.
°

to my loved ones.” a

It was in her husband’s handwriting, dated that
Sunday evening, and signed with a bold though
somewhat trembling hand. |

It had been kept—is kept still.

What a change it has wrought in but a few years!
A beautiful cottage, allhis own—a homethan which
none in all the world is happier—prosperous, re-
spected, esteemed John Budlong looks no more
upon the world and calls it dark. There is no
cloud or sorrow now upon his earthly way that an
upright life can not remove, and little Effie, grown
almost to womanhood, little dreams of the magic
influence which, coming from her prattling words,
shaped and changed all their earthly destinies.

oe

WoLFsBuRG, March 5th, 1876.

Messrs. STREET & SMITH:

Dear Sirs: Allow me please, to offer my congratu-
lations, through your columns, to Mr. Daniel Doyle,
the author of the new story, commenced in No. 17
of the New York WEEKLY, entitled ‘“Molly Maguire;
or, The Terror of the Coal Felds.” . :

His story commences with a vivid picture of a
class of men employed in raising coal to the sur-
face, for consumption. | re

I have been engaged in mining for some twenty
years. I know what kind of society there is around
a large coal district. i

By the opening chapters, I think Mr. Doyle un-
derstands his business.. The Molly Maguire is a so-
ciety that really exists, for I have suffered some-
what by them. His letters are truly fac-similes of
those issued by that notorious band, the Molly
Maguires, which are issued not more than three
times to one’ victim of their hate. The readers of
the New YorK WEEKLY may relyon the truthful
foundation of Mr. Doyle’s story. As a_ miner I
would recommend this story for everybody’s peru-
sal. Those people who never had an opportunity
to visita coal fleld will be delighted with the de-
scriptions from Mr. Doyle’s pen, for every. one who
reads his story will be favored with a clear painting
of the sufferings and hardships of those who pass
their lives where a ray of sunshine never pene-
trates.

Trusting Mr. Doyle will aceept my congratula-
tions for his vivid pictures, and thanks for bring-
ing some of the actions of this obnoxious brother-
hood beforethe public, Iam yours respectfully,

Tom PHILLIPS,
Bedford Co., Pa.

ROMANCE OF BATTLES IN ’76.

FOR OUR CENTENNIAL YEAR.
BY NED BUNTLINE.
No. 7.-A FIGHTING PARSON.

Burgoyne, moving southward from Canada with
the intent to desolate Northern New York, capture
Albany, secure the navigation of the Hudson, and
finally to join Clinton in New York, preparatory to
a Southern campaign which was to finish the re-
bellion if all their plans had succeeded, had de-
tatched a party of his Hessian mercenaries under
Col. Baume on a marauding expedition after horses
to draw his artillery and mount his. dragoons.
Baume had also a party of Indians along to assist
in plundering, and to do the scalping, which the
Hessians h not yet learned to do in scientific

 

 

 

style.
General Stark, rallying his Green Mountain Boys,

«ot! THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3---

prepared to meet the marauders in the hills of Ver-
mont, whither they had penetrated. But while
gathering force enough to risk a battle, a tremen-
dous rain storm rose, which rather dampened his
exertions, while it forced the enemy tocamp., In
the height of the storm, Col. Symonds, with a body
ot Berkshire militia, arrived. Among, this party
o

was the Rey. Mr. Allen, of Pittsfield, who had many
of his flock in the company. wana :
Approaching General Stark at midnight, and in

the height of the storm, Mr. Allen said:

“General, we people of Berkshire have come out
here to fight for God and our nattve land. Either
lead us on to attack the enemy or let us go home.
We’ve been out before for nothing, and don’t want
to be fooled now.” :

“My vat Dominie,” said the general, shaking
himself like a Newfoundland just out of the water,
“do a little praying just now, and you shall have
fighting enough in a few hours. k the Lord to

ive us alittle sunshine when daylight comes, to
dry us off, and ll give you a chance to burn all the
powder you can spare.’ .

The parson was satisfied, he called his flock to
prarer. When day came the sun shone, and soonon

he heights of Bennington Stark gave Parson Allen
all the fighting he wanted. : :

All the day long fighting behind. intrenchments
hastily thrown up, Baume defended himself witha
valor worthy of a better cause, but dese by his
Indians he was utterly defeated, and himself made
prisoner after being mortally wounded.

Parson Allen kept ever in the foremost ranks,
and when the fight was over heturned his attention
to the wounded and dying, Rroying that. he was a
soldier of the cross—not of St. George, but of the
God of Liberty and Right.

ee
To Corresvondents.

To BuYERS.—Ali communications in regard to the prices or the

archasing of various articles must be addressed to the New

ORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, contain the full address of
the writers, and specify the Size, quantity or quality of the goods
desired. Those requiring an answer must have two three-cent
stamps inclosed. ing to the large increase of letters to be an-
swered in this column, a delay of several weeks must necessarily
ensue before the answers appear in print.

Norice.—With rete we receive a nuraber of Jetters on
various subjects, in which the writers request an answer by mail
instead of through the various departments. Todo this we are
compelled to employ additional help, beside being put to consid-
erable trouble and expense to obtain the information. This we
will cheerfully submit to when the questions are answered
through our columns, as the knowledge thus imparted will inter-
est and benefit the mass of our readers; but in the future, to se-
eure an answer by mail, personsdesiring it must inclose a FIFTY
CENT STAMP, to pay us for our trouble ana expense.

4 GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Frank P—— writes: “I have been going with a young lady for
@ little over two years, and yet when I began to with her I
was not looking for one to keep com 7 with. But on my first
call I was invited to call again, and I di and have ever since
continued to call larly. She being the first one I ever went
with often, or to go with, I thought a great deal of her at
the time, and I think she did of me, or she would not have treat-
ed meso well. One thing ce , it was not anything hand-
some about me that attracted her. Nearly ayear ri e
acquainted with her, she formed the uaintance of a young
man in the country, whose circumstances were far better than
mine. This lady is far better offthanIam. I have nothing, ex-
—— a fair trade. Since she © acquainted with him he has
led on her but a few times, on account of his being in the
country. He has given her a number of presents—more than I,
for what I have given her is not worth mentioning. He thinks a
eat deal of her, but she does not thik as much of him as she
oes of me, She, indeed, has tokd me that she never can esteem
him oe ees more than as a friend, but I considered him blind-
ed, and could not see it. Now he has asked her to e e her-
rred tome amonth before he asked her to

 

 

selftohim. It eccu

make the e ement, that I was doing wrong in going with this
young lady, situated asITam. I am li at home with
my father and mother, and I have brothers an and a

part of the support of the family fallson me. This I take a pride
in doing, as I consider it a duty to care tor those who have cared
for me. The young lady is twenty-one, and I am nearly twenty-

ee. Iam not one of those who are in @ hurry to get married,
nor do I think that she is; but when the time comes that I can
marry, she is the only one that I could take, as she is my first.
Not being able to express, as ee Snes I think of one, yet this
I can say, that I think as much of her as ever man yet thought
of woman. All this I have told her, and talked it over before this
other young man asked forher, I told her how I was situated,
and perhaps she could do better, as there was another who
thought*a great deal of her. Only three weeks ago I spoke to
her at it, and left it all to her to say, and asked her what I
should do. Her reply was, ‘stay,’ for she did not think that
either of us would be happy if we parted. I have not asked her
to wait for me, for I did not think that I ought to ask so much.
All that I told her is that she is the one that I would have when
the time should come that I would be able to take one as my
own for the remainder of my natural life. We are still going to-
gether, as happy as ever. She has refused the other young man,
which I knew she would do. Now I ask you what you think of
my course? Is itright or wrong? Even now I have doubts
whether I am doing right, or whether I had ought to leave her
on account of her ae eel otf than I am, and would perhaps
find some one better. I hope it is all right; at le Iwill wait
until I hear from you.” We think you are entirely too back-
ward in respect to yourownclaims. A man’s or a woman’s
worth is what he or she has in himself or herself, not what is in
the which surround them. She is not better off than you
unless she has well-invested property in her own name and
title, for in this country the richest ay may have nothing to-

 

 

 

morrow. Any young man who stands nobly by his family, as
you do, and is proud of it, will make a husband, and if your
Sweetheart sees these lines, we tell her that she should congrat-
ulate herself on the prospect of such a prize. The only thing we
see to blame in your conduct is, that you have not gone near far
enough. Go to-night, confess your false sensitiveness, and ask
her to be your own, now and forever. ,

. G. S., Paris.—We were much pleased with your last letter.
We read it to a number of good judges, and they all agreed that
it was a wonder of composition for one ot your years. We were.
also much pleased with the stanzas of the poem which you for-
warded. The verse was especially good, and there is not a
word of it that we would alter. By examining the second verse,
however, you will discover that the measure is not correct. When

ou have finished the entire poem send it on and we will publish
t. We have ascertained that the skates we sent reached their
destination, sure? We sent you a letter contaiming the receipt
and certificate that they were received. Did you getit? Weare
delighted at the progress you oe Keep on, but do not
work too hard. The photograph is simply splendid
H, A, N.—We did propose to give the names of all who answer-
ed the puzzles correctly, but they came in insuch quantities, 200
to 300 a day, that we found we could not spare the space the
names would occupy. - A
L. &. D.—“Can a fish drown ?” The works we have examined
say it can, and we give in brief the result of our reading: Fishes
breathe aerated water, the water in most cases bei en in
the mouth, and expelled through the gills. Sheuld a be caught
in the upper part of the mouth, it is ee possible for him to
set the muscles in action which move the gills, while the rod is
applied as a lever to the line, and as no aerated water can be
respired, the fish drowns. In running water algo, a fish lies with
its head nst the stream, because with its head down the
stream it is compelled to travel more rapidly than the water or
the water will find its way into its gills, and by becoming station-
ary, will suffocate the fish. Allfish need air, and cannot live
without it, though some kinds can exist with less than others. In
support of this, we sometimes see all the of a pond killed,
when the ice everywhere covers the surface, and’ no air ean be
obtained. Again, if a hole be made in the ice, the fish will dart to
it from all points in order to obtain the air. J
eet, Fisher.—A letter addressed to the lady at this office will
reach her. :

. S. C.—By the census of 1871 England had a population of 21,-
495,131; Wales, 1,217,135; Scotland, 3,360,018; Ireland, 5,411,416;
channel islands, 144,638.

Franklin.—We know nothing of the firm.
Harry Morgan.—ist. New Mexico isa, territory of the United
States, northeast of and adjoining the State of Texas, and has an
area of 121,201 square miles. 2d. We know nothing of either of

 

 

E. A. W.—The address is Marshall Jewell, Postmaster-Gene
Washington, D.C. You have just cause for complaining. Th
postmaster has no right to keep you out of your Pileee for two
months on the plea that he has no time to look them up.

E. M. Pearson.—The following is the text of the Messages be-
twen Queen Victoria and James Buchanan, the only Messages of
a public character which passed over the Atlantic cable of 1858.
Both messages are dated August 16:

“TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, WASHINGTON:

The Queen desires to congratulate the President upon the suc-_

cessful completion of this great international work, in which the

ueen has the greatest interest. The Queen is convinced that
the President will join with her in fervently hoping that the elec-
tric cable which now connects Great Bri with the United
States will form an additional link between the nations whose
friendship is founded upon their common interest and recipro-
cal esteem. The Queen has much pleasure in thus communiea-
ting with the President, and renewing to him her wishes for the
prosperity of the United States.”

: “WASHINGTON City, Aug. 16, 1858
“To HER MAJESTY VICTORIA, QUEEN OF GREAT BRITAIN:

“The President cordially reciprocates the congratulations of
Her Majesty the Queen on the success of the great international
enterprise accomplished by the science, skill and indomitable
energy of the two countries, It is a triumph more glorious, be-
cause more useful to mankind than was ever won by conqueror
on field of battle. May the Atlantic telegraph, under the bless-
ing of Heaven, prove to be a bond of perfect peace and frendli-
ness between the kindred nations, and an instrument destined
by Divine Providence to diffuse religion, civilization liberty and
law throughout the world. In this view, will not all nations of
Christendom spontaneously unite in the declaration that it shall
remain forever, and that its communications shal! be held sacred
in passing to their places of destination, even in the midst of
hostilities. JAMES BUCHANAN.”

In all something over 4,000 words were transmitted over the
wire, but m September following all intelligable signals ceased.

America.—ist. A foreigner or alien whocommits a crime in the
United States is amenable to the laws of the State or the United
States, and cannot claim the protection of the Government of
which he is a native or citizen. 2d. The practice of trying
aliens by a@ jury de medietate lingue (half aliens) has fallen
into general disuse in the United States. By an act of Par-
hament passed in 1870, aliens were debarred from claiming
pach a jury in the English courts, the act declaring that an alien
committing an offense should be triable like a British sub-

ject.

Virginia.—We should be giad to aid you in extending your lit-
erary reputation, but we have already more MSS. in hand than
We Can use in years, Under these circumstances it would be an
injustice to you to accept your proposition, and thus raise hopes
which are not likely to be realized. :

Jackson of Orleans.—We have never read or heard of the reci
tation, and do not know where it can be procured.

ae Reverdy Johnson was born in Annapolis, Md.,
May 21, 1796, and after completing a comets course, com-
menced the practice ot law. From 1821 to 1829 he served in the
State Senate, and in 1845 was elected a U. 8. Senator, resigning
in 1849, to accept the position of attorney-general in President
Taylor’s cabinet. He resigned on the succession of Mr. Fillmore,
and resumed the practice of law. In 1861 he was a member of
the convention in eeenenes which tried to prevent the out-
break of the civil war. In he was again elected to the U. 8.
Senate, and in June, 1868, was appoin minister to England,
whence he was recalled by President Grant in 1869. He resumed
his profession on his return, and was on a professional visit to
Annapolis when he died (Feb. 10), having gone there to ea
case before the Court of Appeals. He was a guest of the Gover-
nor, and after dinner went out totakea walk inthe grounds,
and is papemnen to have fallen down the stoop and struck his
head on the stones. When picked up he was dead. 2d. William
Penn was a Quaker, and was born in London, Oct. 13, 1644
He joined the sect while at college, despite the

position of his
father and friends. A sketch his life will be d in many
i books. 3d. Except in two or three States there is no pro-

schoo KS.
hibition -against first cousins ‘t= 4th. The main inci

 

 

bets lottery schemes, but would advise you to leaye all such
alone,

Molly Maguire.—tist. The distance from Baltimore to Cuba is
about 1,150 miles; from Cuba to San Francisco, via Cape Horn,
about 18,000 miles. The voyage, by sailing vessel, would occupy
about four months. The price of passage would have to be agreed
upon, there being no regular passenger lines. 2d. The fare by rail
from Baltimore to San Francisco is $138. The distance is 3,206
miles. 3d, Address a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle or
Call, 4th. The substance of the quotation is that is glorious to
die for our country. : '

Ruby Rivers.—Address NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agen-
cy, 31 Rose street. P.O. Box 4896, 3

Russian Chickan.—lst. Courland, or Kurland was an inde-
pendent duchy from 1561 to 1795, when it was incorporated with
Russia, though retaining some of its ancient rights and privi-
leges. 2d. Neither ps gaa nor Finland ever belonged to Prus-
sia. About one-half of the former belongs to Russia, and the re-
mainder is shared between Sweden and Norway. In 1721 part of
Finland was ceded to Russia by treaty, and the remainder was
captured from Sweden in 1809, the whole now forming a division
of the Russian empire, under the name of a grand principality.
3d, The first partition of Poland was made in 1772, about one-
third of the territory being divided among Austria, ia and
Russia. In 1793 Russia and Prussia took possession of another
large portion of the kingdom, and in 1795 another partition took
place, and the king was degraded to a pensionary of the Russian
court, dying at St. Petersburg in 1798. We_ have had consider-
able difficulty in deciphering your letter, and have answered the
questions as far as we could make out what you desired.

R. H. Benson.—We do not know the address.

Santa Barba.—\ist. The distinction in respect to meats—divid-
ing them into “clean and unclean”—arose out of a diyine com-
mand directing men what to use in sacrifice, and, as eating of
meats was directly connected with what was sacrificed, the dis-
tinction was applied to the eating. Among Christians it is un-
ders that these distinctions were abolished along with the
abolition of the sacrificial system after the coming of Christ.
We have not space to discuss the question fully here, but the pas-
sages in Acts x., 10-16, and xv., 20-29, and xxi., 25, seem plainly to
indicate that the old restrictions were abolished. 2d. The pas-
sage about the sun and moon standing still is in Joshua x., 11-14.
For a man to say that this was “impossible,” is simply to take
leave of his senses, for “to God all things are possible,” and it
would be as easy for Him to do as for you to move a candle from
one spot to another; and it is expressly said that the Lord did it.
The miracle is expressed. in everyday lan > We know that
the sun (in reference to the earth) is always still. The explana-
tions of the miracle are many. God could easily have made the
light of the sun and moon appear continuously by reflection Gust
as easily as you could take a mirror and reflect the sunlight into
@ room for hours into one spot while the sun moves), and this
would answer the conditions while the worlds continued their
motion. If you want to go extensively into the subject, consult
Deyling’s Observa, Sacra, 1 and 19, p, 100, and Bishop Watson in
his fourth letter of apology for the Bible. 3d. To secure a diplo-
ma to enable you to practice as a physician, you must undergo a
course of study at @ medical college. 4th. See ‘“‘Knowledge Box.”

‘ , Ben Shaw, T. &. Smith, and F. Kolb.—See toot of column.

H. P.—We do not know how many pounds of nitro-glycerine
will be required in blowing up the. obstructions at Hellgate.

Rovt. E. Miller.—F. G. Trafford is the nom de plume of Mrs. J.
H. Riddell, a popular contributor to English periodicals. A num-
ber of her works have been reprintedin this country. In 1867
she became co-proprietor and editor of St. James’ Magazine. This
is the latest account the éncyclopedia gives of her. The list of
the author’s works is quite lengthy.

Student of Pharmacy.—The United States Dispensatory will
give you the names of all preparations known and used in medi-
cal science, with the properties and uses of each. We will send
it to you for $10. ,

East Tarrytown.—The Black Hills form a part of an Indian re-
servation.
is F. W. S.—Your penmanship could be much improved by prac-

ice.

P. J. Casey.—We see no reason why they could not.

Earnest Inquirer.—Write to the postmaster.

Daisy D.—I\st. Applicants for the position of teacher in the pri-
mary schools are examined in the various branches taught in
those departments; for the higher grades, the examination is
more extended. 2d. The first European discoverer of the Pacific
Ocean was Vasco Nunez de Balboa, who, on Sept. 26, 1513, saw it
from one of the mountains near the isthmus of Darien.

S. J. B.—The words of the ballad, ‘Phe Curfew Bells,” are by
H. W. Longfellow, the music by Stephen Glover.

Wilbur.—We can findno description of the coin.

 

dents are taken from real life. 5 “Etiquette Depart-

ment.”

. G. Whaly.—What is called the central system is buying and
selling by the hundred, aswheat or corn by the 100 soem, in.
stead 0: 6 the bushel or measure.

Mohawk Chief.—A dill of divorce procured in Indiana, or any
other State, is Toscgniand as legalin all other and the
mary procuring itis free to marry when or where or she

ikes. A year’s residence is required in the State named before
the application can be made.

Daisy.—ist. The 29th of May, 1836, fell om Sunday. 2d. See
“Knowledge Box.” :

_ Jack Texas.—Chicago has more railroads leading directly into
it than any other city in the United States. ere are no less
than fourteen trunk or main lines centering there, beside a
dozen or more branch roads connecting with them.

. M. Cornelius.—The story was written by Mrs. Henry Wood.

¥F. S.—Have patience, and all will come out t.
at Governor’s

_ for the army are enl
The pay of enlisted men is $13 per mo
. D. Perkins.—We have no recollection of having received the
letters, and as we make it a point to answer all inquiries, we
presume they have not come to hand.

G. O. Ni .—Iist. The answer is correct. 2d. The story was
returned to the widow, at her request. 3d. We cannot repub-
lish it at present.

_ ©. J. McC.—The characters inthe drama may be drawn from
life, and the incidents have actually occurred, but real names
woukd not be used. :

¥, B.—‘Dashing Charlie’ will be furnished for 90 cents.

_ Landlord.—Where a tenant enters a house without agreement
in regard to time, itis held thatheis atenant from year to

ear, and if he fails tomake a new ment before the first ef

Island.
D. D.

May, the landlord may rent the place to another party, and’

3 him to remove on that day without previous

notice.
Cramer.—Discussions like that on the question submit-
ted can never be definitely decided except by experiment, there-
fore our opinion would be worthless.

Gussie May.—The poem entitled “The Maniac,” commencing
‘Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe,” was written by Matthew
Gregory Lewis, an English author, who died in 1818.

Cc. F. P.—We are overrun with applicants for work.

W. H. K.—ist. It is not known whether any other of the
planets are inhabited. 2d. By the quadruplex telegraph four
m™m res nay be sentover a wire at thesame time, and in con-
trary directions.

Arthur Nye.—We donot know thegentieman’s address. He is
the greater part of the time traveling over thecountryon a lec-
turing tour.

W. H. Taylor.—ist. The most direct route from Memphis to
Fort McPherson is by he St. Louis. The fare is about $40.
2d. Write to the Land mmissioner, General Land Offiee,
Washington, D. ©.

_ B.S. C.—“The Lone Ranche” is out of print. We have pub-
lished none since.

P. H.—Apply at the office of the Department of Public Works,
and you will be informed whether there is suck an official, and if
80 what the fees are.

G. H. T.—See reply to “Gilbert Scofield” in No. 15.

Evening Posi.—The files are valuable, particularly so at present,
and would no doubt be purchased by the State Historical

Lety.

F. Kahn.—Liewellyn is pronounced lew-el-lin.

The following MSS. have been accepted: “Pearl’s Three
Lovers,” “Men and Razors.”? The following will appear in the
Mammoth Monthly Reader: “Watching.” The following are re-
spectfully declined: ““A Nymph of Long Branch.” “Adventure
on the River,” “Life.”

TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS.

{n response to the queries of our correspondents who send no
address, we give the prices at which the following articles may
be procured through the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasi Agen-
cy: Book of Recitations, 50 cents; Edgar’s ‘“‘Wars of the Roses,”
$1.20; Winchell’s ‘Sketches of Creation,” $2; “Little Flirt,” 25
cents; “Manual of Chess,” 75 cents.

 

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Ignoramus.—ist. There are various kinds of visits—visits of
ceremony, visits of condolence, visits of congratulation, and
visits of friendship, and each has its different custom or eti-
guette. These visits, however, are all essential, in order to main-
tain good feeling between the members of society, and therefore
they should be carefully attended to, even if they do occu 'y a
large portion of your time. Visits of ceremony are those which
are paid after receiving attentions at the hands of your acqaint-
ances, after dining or Supping at a friend’s house, after attend-
ing an evening party, etc., and they should invariably be of short
duration, and one should never take either children or dogs
when making them. Hand your card to the servant at the door,
and ask if the lady or ladies are in, 2d. After attending a din-
ner party, or a ball, you should call within the week — your
hostess. 3d. When you are going to be absent from home for
months or years, you should call upon all gpa? friends and ac-
quaintances, orsend your card, enclosed in an envelope, with
the letters T. T. L. (to take leave) written at the right-hand lower
corner. 4th. In taking leave of a family, you send or leave as
many cards as there are members, but if the call is upon inti-
mate friends, you need only turn down the left-hand e. 5th.
A gentlewoman need not be reminded that she should always be
attired ina neat and becoming manner, and that her dress
ought to be adapted to the hours of the day. Such a woman will
never appear at breakfast in ashabby gown, and then dress in
the most stylish manner in street costume, or for eveni visits.
A simple, well-fitting morning-dress of lawn, muslin, thibet, or
Tamise cloth is always suitable and becoming. The hair should
also be neatly arranged, and a simple muslin or lace cap, with
pretty ribbons, is a pleasing addition to a lady’s morning toilet.

Geo. J.—Etiquette requires, when the servant announces that
dinner is served, the host give his right arm to the lady whose

» age, or position as a stranger guest entitles her to pre-
cedence, and lead the way to the dining room, and the hostess
invite the most distinguished gentleman, or the greatest stran-
ger present, to escort her to the table, and frequently begs her
guests to precede her. She seats herself and motions her escort
to the seat = her right, and the gentlemen and ladies are
duly informed of their positions at table. A gentleman is placed
on each side of the hostess, while the host seats a lady at his
right and left hand, and the remainder of the guests are so dis-
posed that, if possible, a lady and gentleman alternate on each
side of the table. In issuing invitations, there should not be
more guests invited than there isroom and conveniences to en-

in.

rtain.

Haste.—lst. Ask the young lady if she will allow you an inter-
view. 2d. Unless you are engaged to the young lady you do not
need to offer her your arm, except in the evening; then you may
ask her to accept it. 5

£veline.—ist. If astranger lifts his hat toa lady as he passes
her on the street, or elsewhere, she should not notice it at all.
it is a rude act, and one that no true gentleman will be guilty of
2d. Flirting should be avoided in every instance; it is not only
unladylike, but a most silly practice,and one any young lady
that values the good opinion of honorable and sensible people
will not indulgein. A gentleman flirt is despicable. 3d. There
is no impropriety in asking a gentleman to enter the house when
he has accompanied you home from church. 4th. Long e
ments are not generally to be recommended, yet in some in-
stances they seem to be unavoidable. 5th. Wehave expressed
our opinion many times regarding the propriety of ladies allow-
ing gentlemen the privilege of kissing them. e do not approve
of such familiarity, except from a husband, or an atlianced, ora
very near relative.

 

In Memoriam.

At his residence on Henry street, corner of Cass avenue, De-
troit, Mich., on the morning of February 24th, WILLIAM E. Tunis,
aged 41 years and 4 months.

William E. Tunis was born in the State of New
York, but his parents removed to Canada while he
was aninfant. Left an =o at an early age, he
was adopted by an uncle, from whom, in course of
time, he learned the printer’s trade; which after-
ward stood him in good stead. Uncle and nephew
were for afew years associated in partnership at
Niagara Falls. After the death of the former, the
youthful printer made his first venture in the news
business, in which he afterward became so widel
known. His stock in trade, on this essay, consis
of light literature, books, etc., contained in an or-
dinary hand-basket. By industry_and careful man-
agement his gains increased, and his strict atten-
tion to business attracted the notice and finally the
friendship of wealthy citizens in his town, and by
their aid he wassoon enabled to open a small book-
store, to which were added printing presses, and in
due time a weekly paper was forthcoming from the
little beehive in the rearof the store. At the time
of his death he was head of the firm of W. E. Tunis
& Co., publishers and wholesale news dealers, and
had control of eleven railroads for his business,
and had branch stores in six differept places in
Canada and the States.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. é
s 6
* ;
i
Y .
* .
~—_-
x .
¢
7 x
© +
¢ >
7 .
|
r ‘
a>

~—~..
rv .

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sew

 

 

 

 

 

a 4.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—_—_—_—_—
STATION-HOUSE LODGERS.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

 

 

Come to the station-house gloomy to-night,

And I'l) set before you a harrowing sight!

A sight that will cause all your senses to reel,

E’en though your nerves boasted the power of steel!
A sight that will call from your heart’s well sad tears,
E’en though you may not have sorrowed for years!

A sight that will, if you've a nature refined,

Oblige you to mourn o’er the ills of mankind!

We have reached the dread dwelling, and now let your eyes
Rest on the gaunt misery that all around lies!

That woman who sits with a look of despair

On her hunger-pinched face in the far corner there,

With a babe on her breast which she rocks to and fro,

Was left by her husband a fortnight ago.

She had nota friend here, and he left her alone

To appeal in her anguish to hearts that were stone.

And that other one near her, with tear-bedewed face,
Is a sad servant-girl who has just lost her place.

She landed but lately, and she had been told

That the streets of New York were aglitter with gold,
But now while her poor heart is aching with pain,
She prays to be home in old Ireland again,

And she sobs, “Mother, dear, could I only see you!
But I'm far, far away from ye. What’ll I dor”

And there sits a young creature, simple and plain,

A country girl left by the homeward-bound train.

She is sinless and pure, and she shudders to hear

The subdued maledictions that fall on her ear.

She dozes and dreams of the home of her ehikdhood,
And wanders with girlish delight through the wikiwocd,
Then suddenly groans and awakes with a start,

While tears of keen anguish well up from her heart.

Look the motley group over. Oh, pitiful sight!

Here are children turned out in the darkness of night

By parents made mad by the demon of drink—

And some are mere babies yet. Think of it! Think!
Here are rum-poisoned creatures who never knew prayer,
Their unwholesome breaths making fetid the air—

There are men sleeping here who were once high in place,
Bat are now lying low in the depths of disgrace!

And what will become of them? Nine out often

Will seek this same lodging again and again,

Till rendered distracted they do the mad deed,

And the soul from the dissolute body is freed.

Some will rush to the river—plunge in with a bound—
And their tale will be told by the verdict, “found drowned.”
Some will swallow quick poison, some starve, and some freeze,
And some in the hospital die of disease.

Tis a terrible picture, and frightful to view,

But believe me, oh, ye who have homes, it is true,

Scareely one out of ten that we see here to-night

Will sleep in a grave bless’d by funeral rite—

Scarcely one out of ten, though some might have been saved,
Had sympathy yielded the pity they craved.

Think of it, ye rich, who in carriages roll,

Think! One kindly action may rescue a soul!

MOLLY MAGUIRE,

THE

TERROR OF THE COAL FIELDS.

By DANTEL DOYLE.
A Mine Boss.

 

 

oy. Maguire” was commenced in No. 7. Back numbers
¢an be obtained from any News Agent. }

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE INQUEST—A SCENE AT SQUIRE BROWN’S OFFICE.

The attempted assassination of Father John
O’Neill in the church was the all-absorbing topic
of conversation in Shanty Hill, and in its discus-
ee | the murder of Miles Murphy was almost for-
gotten.

The funeral was hurried through, Miles was
buried, and during the remainder of ‘the day the
residence of the priest was thronged with anxious
inquirers. The same unsatisfactory answer was
given to all comers:

“You cannot see him; the doctor does not know
whether he will live or die.”

At two o’clock, the hour appointed for the in-
qpcei Squire Brown’s office was crowded. Harry

organ was there in custody of Constable Dwyer,
and the squire, in order to guard against a repeti-
tion of the scene of the day previous, had a dozen
special constables sworn in to remain on duty du-
ring the day.

The unreasonable port of the rabble looked upon
Morgan as being indirectly the cause of the tragic
scene that had been enacted in church that morn-
ing. They arrived at this conclusion by a line of
reasoning altogether unique and original In the
fivst place they held that Father O’Neill would not
have been preaching Miles Murphy’s funeral ser-
mon but for the latter being killed by Morgan, and
secondly, he would not have made the Molly Ma-
guires the subject of his discourse did he not sus-

t them of having been guilty of the murder
which Harry Morgan committed.

it was, therefore, not to be wondered at,if in
view of these suppositions, the mine boss was re-

a with adouble detestation as he sat in the

ock.

The squire did well to adopt the precaution of
having an extra police force,and their presence
had doubtless asalutary effectin restraining the
violent passions of the angry mob.

The inquest was at length proceeded with. The
four men who discovered Miles Murphy lying on
the road in the throes of death, testified simply to
what they had seen, and the fact of their having the
dying man carried to his home. The doctor testi-
fied to the manner of death, and stated that the de-
ceased had died from the effect of a stab inthe
breast, which had pierced the lung and produced
internal bleeding. There were other marks of vio-
lence, but the one he had cited was sufficient to
prove fatal. .

Murty Grogan, the saloon-keeper, who was also
employed atthe Black Diamond shaft as a miner,
was next called. He swore that about three weeks
previous, when Miles Murphy was working on the
day-shift, he, the witness, had heard a very sharp
argument between Murphy and the mine boss.
He remembered distinctly, he said, that Morgan
said to the deceased, “Murphy, you had better be-
ware and not be so independent, or you will not be
long mining coalat the Black Diamond shaft.”
This was saidin atone which convinced the wit-
ness that Morgan meant to do away with Murphy;

and it is me Own opinion,” added Grogan, “that
Harry Morgan kilt the man.”

“Hold! hold!” eried George Kinsella, attorney
forthe prisoner. “Hold, sir! We don’t want your
opinion in this case; you are here to give evidenee,
notopinions. Wedon’t want every witness who
comes here to constitute himself judge and jury.”
orra but you’re smart, Misther Kinsella,” re-
torted Grogan. “Maybe you’ll purvint a man from
speakin’ his mind when he is a witness. I want
you to understand this is a free counthry.”

I must protest against this man going on in such
a manner,” said the attorney.

Grogan yon must be quiet, and keep within
bounds,” said the squire.

Ah thin for what, Squire Brown?” said the wit-
ness. Is id for a pettifogger like that?”

‘If you keep on you'll be arrested for contempt,”
said the squire.

“Ob, very well then, if this is justice, all right.”

Now sir,” said the attorney, “what hour of the
day was it that you heard this particular discus-
sion between Morgan and Murphy to which you

“Well it was betune mornin’ an’ night,,” replied
Grogan. saucily.

Answer the question Mr. Grogan,” said the
squire. “About what hour was it to the best of your
knowledge ?”

Well, it was a little before dinner-time, yer
honor.”

Were you not working on the night-shift on
that particular week ?” said Attorney Kinsella.

pe was not.”

‘Where were you on the night of the murder ?”

‘I was home, where all dacint min should be.”
phe?” you sure you did not help to kill Miles Mur-

“Is id me you mane 2”

“Yes, you.”

The witness had fairly lost his temper at this
startling question, and rushing in the direction of
the attorney, would have struck at him but that he
was promptly restrained by an officer.

orra, Only for the law” he said, “I’d make
you suffer for that, an’ I’ll make you pay dear for
a aaeee pe kill BpGr Miles eae hy! tare-

- ys” addressin, e crowd, “did ye
hear the likes iv id !” pha od

I can prove that you helped to kill the unfortun-
ate man,” continued Kinsella calmly. “You sold
the Vaan to the re misguided a who did the

‘¢ you are therefore, m ’ acces
tothe murder.” orally, an accessory

.plood-alive!” said Grogan his eyes flashing
With anger, “did ye ever hear the likesivid? Til
make you hop for that me man when [ ketch you
omtOh, Mtr. G
, , Mr. Grogan is losing his temper and indulges
in threats, eh,” said the attorney, good humorodly.
anaes Grogan ade and be Pana more amiable,

swer my questions withou itating y
lamb-like disposition.” mre one

 

 

«tt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. >

 

 

 

“he divil a question more P’ll answer for you;
did-you hear that ?” said Grogan. ie

“What business do you follow, Mr. Grogan ?”

“You know very well I keep a hotil.”
“A hotel, hum. Is it not true that at your hotel a
band of Molly Maguires meeteyery night?” __

Grogan changed color, ‘“Arrah who told ye
that?” he asked leaning in open-mouthed aston-
ishment toward the attorney.

“T suppose you would like to know, Mr. Grogan,
so that you could send him one of those valentines
ornamented with skulls and coffins, eh?” said the
attorney, but I prefer not to give you my author-
ity. I want you to answer me a few more ques-
tions.’

Crogan thought to himself, ‘““He knows all, and I
am ruined,” and them suddenly resolved upon a
change of tactics— ;

_ Av coarse Misther Kinsella Pll answer yer ques-

“Well sir you say you heard this conversation be-
ow Harry Morgan and Miles Murphy on sucha

ay ? 22

“I did.” y ;

4 “Were you notout peddling on that particular

ay? 2

‘“Peddling what?” said the witness, perplexed.

‘Peddling whisky.” : ; .
‘Saints in glory! Peddling whisky! Ah, thin,
who ever heard av a man peddlin’ whisky? I sup-
pose you mane peddlin’ milk, bekase I duz peddle
milk wanst in a while.”

_ “Yes, that’s what you pretend to do, but I am re-
hiably informed that your shining cans instead of
containing the life-giving milk contains the death-
dealing fluid you call whisky, and that those wo-
men we see going out with their tin cans go to have
them filled with the vile grog that damns and de-
bases humanity. Do youthink that an honorable
calling, carrying poison to men’s homes ?”

“You can go to the divil, s0 you can, Kinsella. If
I had the timper av an angel I couldn’t stand it any
longer,” and so saying Grogan left the witness
stand in a great rage, and absolutely refused to tes-
tify further. Thecharge of dling whisky under
the pretense of retailing milk from house to house,
was too much for him. :

It was, nevertheless, too true, and is, alas! asad
truth in many of the most res districts of the
coal regions. The reader will be shocked to learn
that men make abusiness of peddling whisky from
house to house, among the miners’ homes, under
the pretense of retailing milk, and deal it out in

‘
é

 

 

the same manner to the wives of the workingmen
who, with the temptation so close before them, can-
not fail; sooner or later, to fall victims to its wither-

‘} ing influence.

Murty Grogan was one of this class. He was es-
sentially a money grasper, and would not scorn to
make it by any means, no matter how vile. He
worked occasionally in the mines, kept a groggery,
peddled whisky, and was ar growing rich in
Shanty Hill Indeed he had high aspirations for
the State legislature, and his prospects for being
elected a member of the Assembly at the next elec-
tion were quite flattering. :

He could not be brought back tothe witness stand
by any means, and Kinsella seeing that he had al-
ready destroyed his credibility by showing up his
character, was willing to lethim go. . ‘

“The next witnesses on the list,” said the squire,
“are Larry Looney and Jack Grimes. Let one or
both of them ay forward.”

The crowd, on hearing the names, pressed closel
forward, and whispered to each other: “Now it will
go hard with Morgan; these are the men that saw

e murder.” 2

There was a pause, and every man in court was
onthe tiptoe of expectancy waiting to hear what
the two strange men would have tosay. Groups of
women stood upon the street outside the office, and
on hearing that the two men whosaw the mine
boss kill Morgan were about to give their testi-
mony, they drew nearer to the door, and pressed
their faces against the dingy windows, now bereft

of ean Y
e names of Larry Looney and Jack Grimes
were again called, but there was no response. Rory
n, who so far had taken an active part in the
matter, and who had been instrumental in causing
Harry Morgan’s arrest, was asked for, but he was
not there either, and the crowd grew restless and
apetient at being disappointed.
‘“Mebbe they didn’t get back from the funeral yet,’,
said a little man, who stood close by the door.
“Very well then,” said the squire, “we will pro-
ceed with the other witnesses in this case. Who is
next? Ah! yes,I see his name is Neal Nolan, and
= say that he, too, saw the deed. Is Neal Nolan
ere?
A young man wearing a freize coat, and apparent-
ly very ea agitated, answered from the midst of
e. crowd:

‘Vis, yer honor, I’m here.”

“Come forward, then.” :

“I’m comin’, yer honor,” and the young man in

uestion made desperate efforts to go in the direc-
tion of the witness stand. ;

“Now, Nale,doy-rduty; deatbtothe mine bpss!”
was whispered in his ears, as he advanced.

The hissing sounds were more unwelcome to
Neal than if they had proceeded from the most
venomous reptile of theforest. He said nothing
but went on, and with a face very pale, took his po-
sition before the squire. He held his hat in his
hand, and fumbled nervously with it.

“You may lay your hat on the table,” said the

squire. oy

‘Oh, I can hould id just the same, yer honor,”
said Neal. :

“Take the book, sir, and be sworn.” Neal clutched
at the Bible that lay before him. “Hold it in your
right hand.” He did,and fairly trembled as he
took it. His agitation grew more intense as the
squire gave out the oath in hollowsepulchral tones,
and by the time he had repeated it through Neal
was trembling like an aspen, and it was with great
difficulty he found sufficient strength in his arm to
raise the sacred yolume to his lips. “Now, Neal,”
said the squire, “you solemnly swear, before Al-
mighty God, that the evidence you shall give touch-
ing the inquest of Miles Murphy, before this cour
and jury, shail be the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth, so help oe God!’

Eyery head was bent forward to hear Neal Nolan’s
testimony. To the majority of those present he
was an utter stranger, but they could readily see
that he was a “greenhorn.” ;

“What is your name?” asked the squire.

“Neal Nolan, yer honor.” ; :

. i Neal, how long have you been in this coun-
r

Only a couple o’ days, sir.”

“Only a couple of days, and you figure as a wit-
ness in this fearful case! Did you know the de-
ceased ?”

, He was my uncle, sir, my mother’s brother. Ah,
sir, little I thought on levin’ home that it’s this way
I'd find things here.” _

i eee say that you witnessed the murder, is that
rue ?”

Neal Nolan started. He remembered his double
oath. One was pledged in blood, and in the pre-
sence of the grim mementoes of death, with a pike
pointed to his heart, to indicate his fate should he
ever violate that horrible obligation ; the other was
the oath he had just taken. Which would he fulfill?
This was the question he debated within himself
before making answer to the query of the squire.
It was a violent struggle of the soul, a_ battle of
right 5 wrong, and truth triumphed.
Thought Neal to himself, “Thereis no obligation
to keep a sinful oath, and Father Lavelle tould me
at home that it was a greater virtue to break a bad
pth than to keep it. Dll keep the oath I pledged to

“Come, Neal. Neal, be quick; answer the squire,”
said a voice in the crowd. :

“Itis not true,” said Neal, slowly. “I did net see
the murdher. I won’t belie my uncle’s bones in the
grave. Idid not see him killed. May God have
mercy on him.”

“Neal Nolan, you’re a perjurer!” shouted an an-

ry man at the door, “and you'll suffer for this
ay’s work.”

“No intimidation of the witness,” said the squire.
Then proceeding, asked: “What do you know, Mr.
Nolan, of this sad matter ?” i

Nealthen recited the story of his arrival at his
uncle’s_ house, and how the latter was carried in
dying about midnight, and expired shortly after-
ward.

“Who put it into your head to come here as a wit-
ness, when _you saw nothing of the murder ?” asked
Attorney Kinsella,

“Don’t answer him, Neal; don’t answer him for
your life,” said a man in the crowd.

Neal hesitated, and the young attorney seeing his
confusion and sympathizing with one who strug-
gled so sincerely to do what was right, said:

“Iwill not press the question, Mr. Nolan; you
can step down. You are wanted no longer.”

Larry Looney and Jack Grimes were again ealled,
but they did not respond, tothe great disappoint-
ment of all present.

‘Ah, they slink away like the cowardly murder-
ers they are,” said Attorney Kinsella. “They dare
not come, Their courage failed them atthe last
moment, and they would not face in the open light
of day and of justice a man whose life they would
not.hesitate to take in the dark, They have disap-
peared, and it is well for them, or they would have
to change places with Harry Morgan, whom they
have persecuted so bitterly, but who stands to-day
spotless and untainted by the breath of crime.
will now call areliable witness who will throw some
light on this matter and show you why Looney and
Grimes are not here to-day, to plunge themselves
still deeper in the sea of guilt. Charlie Blake step
forward.”

Young Blake, calm and self-possessed, responded
to the call, and related the details of the murder of
Miles Murphy by Looney and Grimes, as already

d. The young man’s testimony created consid-
erable consternation. Some openly called him a
liar, but the majority believed him and saw in his
story the full excuse for the absence of the two des-
perate men from Schuylkill County.. But there was

 

 

 

 

a deeper excuge for their absence than that, anda

 

naauicws eee

)

 

blacker crime than the murder of Miles Murphy
rested upon them, Owney Keegan, the little slate-
picker, corroborated Charlie Blake’s story, and in
a short time the jury gave as their verdict that “the
deceased, Miles Murphy, came to his death by stabs
and blows inflicted upon him by weapons in the
hands of Jack Grimes and Larry Looney, who are
guilty of his murder.” a

Harry Morgan was then honorably discharged,
and with alight heart he stepped from behind the
rails and accepted the congratulations of many
friends, and the curses of others, whose spiteful
hearts desired his death regardless of his inno-
cence. The ordeal had won him many friends
however, and several of those who the day previous
were the most active in groaning at him and pelt-
ing him with stones, now offered him their hearty
congratulations on his release. He did not delay
long in_the squire’s office, but hurrying from it
hastened in the direction of Ellen Sefton’s home,
for he longed to learn if she still lived.

CHAPTER XIL,

A CHILLING RECEPTION—A MEETING OF MOLLY M4-
GUIRES DISTURBED BY A THRILLING INCIDENT—A
MOMENT OF REVENGE.

Harry Morgan found that Elien Sefton was de-
cidedly feeble and feverish when he reached her fa-
ther’s house, where he was coldly received by her
mother contrary to her usual custom.

““T would like to see her,” he said.
., that is simply impossible,” said Mrs. Sefton,

the slightest shock just now might prove fatal.
Poor Ellen is very weak, and has paid dearly for
her indiscretion.” :

These words stung her lover to the quick. He
fully npeccenee the materna! instinct which dic-
tated them, and made Mrs. Sefton guard with such
jealous care over the destiny of her daughter.

“It is needless for me to say.” said Harry, “that
no one regrets the accident toHilen more than I
do, yet under the circumstarigées should we not be
thankful, Mrs. Sefton, that her fife is spared ?”

“We should always be thankful,” said Mrs. Sef-
ton, in a cold, satirical tone, “but Iam notso sure
that Ellen’s life is yet saved. She may die at any
moment. Oh, why did she cemmit the fatal mis-
take of stopping at that house ?”

It was her goodness of heart, her pure sympa-
thy for a crushed and broken-hearted woman, such
as she saw my mother was,” replied Harry. “But
you must not despair of her life. You must not
chide her,” he added; ‘‘and as you say she is in
such danger, I would dearly like to see her again
before she dies. I begof you don’t oppose my
wish. You know Ellen andIare engaged to be
married, and you always loeked upon the matter
favorably. I don’t blame you, now that misfortune
has overtaken me;in a worldly sense, to oppose
our union, but let me at least see her. I promise
not to disturb her.” d

“It cannot be, Mr. Morgan,” said Mrs. Sefton,
very decidedly; “nobody can see her, nor will they
ee en is dead or out of danger, so that ends the
matter,’

Hiacey Morees turned ane with a heavy heart,
and left the house. The cold reception where he
expected such a warm welcome, the blunt refusal
to atender request to see one so dear to him, af-
fected him even more than did the persecution he
had sustained at the hands of his enemies.

“It may be,” he thought ¢o himself, “that Ellen
Sefton did not want to see me, and that she gave or-
ders to that effect. It looks that way, but I can
scarcely believe it. She who loved me so dearly.
Oh, it is too cruel! What if she should die without
my, seeing her again?” :

hus he reasoned to himself as he made his way
through the streets of Shanty Hill toward the house
of Bernard Blake, where “his. mother had received
a temporary shelter since her happy. littl home
had been destroyed. Whatacontrast between the
welcome he received there, and that he met with at
the hands of Mrs. Sefton! His mother heard of his
coming and-stood at the door to_meet him. She
wept tears of joy as they met. and Harry Morgan
was made to feel what divine consolation there was
in a mother’s love in the dark ‘hour of adversity,
even when all the world had arrayed, or seemed to
have arrayed its forces against him. _ :

That afternoon he rented a gottage in the neigh-
borhood of his old home, and furnished it scantily,
intending to occupy it untilhe should build a house
upon his own lot, and thatyery night his mother
and himself rested ben its friendly roof. Not
a vestige of their furniture did they save from the
old home, or of those numérous articles valueless
to the outside world, yet dear to them as the sacred
relic of some saint’s shrine are to the devotee.

“To-morrow _morning, mother, work will be re-
sumed at the ‘Black Diamond Shaft,” said Harry
Morgan, “and I want to be called as early as possi-
ble, should Pe chance to awaken first.”

“T think, Harry,” said his. mother, “in view of
all that has happened, and afl
you_had better not go to wor
need @ little rest.” ;

Harry would not hear of rest; he would not lose
his day’s work he said,and des they could not
very well get Tes he
was determined to go to work. ; :

_ The night was a tiresome one_to him. His eye-
lids closed, but no sleep came. Visions of murder-
ers, coffins, skulls, and horrid shapes in bloody
garments haunted his imagination. The thought
of the incendiary’s torch that had robbed him of
his home, the chilling reception he received at
the house of Ellen Sefton, the fear that at that mo-
ment she might be dying, all combined, assailed his
brain, and robbed him of rest, . ;

Where are they who piotted his destruction, and
how do. they ocaay their time? They, too, can
find no rest, although some of them expect to go to
work in the same mine with Harry Morgan the da
following, if indeed the latter—as they think—will
have the hardihood to venture into the Black Dia-
mond Shaft, a circumstance which they are putting
their minds tosothee to prevent. f

The Molly Maguire lodge is in session, and sev-
eral angry men are discussing various matters.
The events of the day previous, in which they were
so signally defeated, and the order so disgraced
and denounced, have driventhem to the point of
desperation, and their discussions are hot and in-
temperate. The meeting was not held at the sa-
loon of Murty Grogan this time. The language
used by Attornoy Kinsella atthe inquest had placed
the “Mollies” on their guard, and strategy suggest-
ed another and a more secluded, yet more uncom-
fortable quarter. It was‘an old abandoned slope of
a worked-out mine, four hundred feet deep, and
driven atasteep angle. In some of those slopes,
which are constructed. barely wide enough for the
passage of a coal car, there areat regular distances
on each side of the track recesses wide enough
oftentimes to accommodate a dozen men, so as to
afford the workmen a refuge of safety should they
in entering or quitting the mine chance to be over-
ae by acoal car ascending or descending the
slope.

It was in one of those recesses, some two hundred
feet from the surface, that the meeting was held.
It was attended by about ten men. All of them
wore miners’ hats, in which they carried the lamps
used by them at their work. The picture was a
weird one,and the human faces revealed in the
flickering lights seemed more like those of furies
than of men. The black wall of rock and anthra-
cite by which they were _engirt, formed a fit setting
for such a stony-hearted group. Along the sides of
the cave the water oozed slowly in dark streaks of
green, adding to the cold, cheerless character of
the place, while up and down the slope the mid-
night winds swept in sullen gusts like troops of
angry spirits on some aimless mission.

The captain of the desperate band of men who
had met in this desolate place, with knitted brows,
said they had many matters to consider. It was
Rory Regan who spoke. : Sti

“Curses on that mine boss,” he said; “he has
nearly ruined us, an’ now he gets free again afther
all ourthrouble. I’m glad that Larry Looney an
Jack Grimes didn’t get into the hands o’ the law, as
they would if they wint on the witness stand, but
I’m sorry that you, Misther Grimes, med the mis-
take o’ firin’ at Father John.on the althar.”

“He desarved it, the dog,” said_ Grimes, sullenly.
“Could any man wid a dhrop o’ biood in his veins
stand all he sed; and thin him to curse us. I don’t
eare af heis a ——s an’ af he was a bishow, yis,
an’ af he was the pope o’ Rome himsel’, ’d give
him his death warrant to say all he did af it put the
halther round me neck the next minit.” —

“Bully for you, Jack,” said several of those pre-
sent who were fascinated by the bold bloody hero-
ism of Grimes. : i ;

“Phat’s all very fine,” said Regan. “It’s a nice
thing to be a hayro to be shure, but what’s the use
0’ havin’ a society if every man is to act for himsel’.
What’s the use 0’ sendin’ people notices, an’ hould-
in’ meetings over them, af ivery mimber decides to
kill his own man?” ; ‘

“That’s right, Rory,” said some of the less radi-
cal of the gang. :

“Did any of yez hear how the praste was in the
evening ?” asked Murty Grogan.

“They sed he was dyin’,” answered Ned Malone;
“an’ if he dies it?ll be a bad job for the ordher, take
my word forid.” . , j * : 7

“Well let him die,” said Grimes. “Let him die;
he has got to die anyhow an’ he may as well die
now as any other time.” ic

“Thrue for you Jack,” said Looney, ‘‘but my boy
you were lucky to get away as you did.”

“Well,” said Regan, “‘there’s another matter before
us now, an’ that’s what’ll wo do with the mine boss ?
He has as many lives as a cat, and he'll fight like a
tiger. Now the man that kills him stands a good
chance ay a new coffin himself.”

“Let him be shot,” said Grogan.

“Boys, take yer time; don’t be too hasty,” urged
Ned Malone. If we can seare Morgan out o’ the
counthry it’li be a grate deal easier for us and we'll
all see better times at the Black Diamond Shaft.”

ou have endured,
to-morrow. You

Dan Davis the mine boss who had been discharg-
ed for druukenness to make room for Harry Mor-
gan now spoke up.

“My opinion is that dead men don’t come back,
but men that are scared away sometimes return to

the fight,and make it hotter than ever for their
enemies. Now do what you like.”

“Well we’ve thried death on him already,” said
Regan, and you see how it left us.”

«Who is to blame for that?” asked Davis hastily.

Isn’t it the men that had_the work to do, and that
were too eager to bungle the job?”

“Well maybe you’d do id bether,” said Looney.

Ordher gintlemen,” said the captain. “Let us
talk business. We'll put id to the wote whither
Morgan is to have another chance to lave the coun-
thry or not.” ‘

, The vote was taken, and resulted in favor of try-

ing once more to scare Morgan away at first, and if

he did not go to kill him.

..., We'll thry the third degree on’im” said Regan,
if om does not fricken him I don’t know what

will.

So accordingly it was decided to experiment upon
Morgan in the “third degree” at the earliest possi-
ble opportunity, and Thady Hooligan who acted in
the capacity of undertaker to the order, was in-
structed to haye a coffin ready for the committee
who should wait on him a little before dawn.

This matter being disposed of Murty Grogan
brought up for the consideration of the meeting
the case of Attorney Kinsella, who had done the
speaker a great wrong that day at the inquest of

iles Murphy.

Ned Malone opposed the bringing in of sucha
matter. Kinsella he said was acting in his capacity
of an attorney, and was entitled to certain privi-
leges. Besides he was an Irishman.

Ah, who cares if he is?” retorted Grogan sharp-
ly. “Did ye hear what he sed ? didn’t he expose us;
didn’t he say where we met; doesn’t he know what
we are doin’ and why should he live?”

You are right Murty; you are right every time
me boy,” said Mick Moran. “Begorra the man that
goes again you is no friend to the ordher.”

“Well now Mick,” said Ned Malone, “don’t you
think as asensible man, that one murder on our
hands at a time is enough e

Nonsense, Ned,” said the other. “If one man de-
serves death at atime let him be kilt; iftwo men
deserves death, let them be kilt too. Kinsellais a
dangerous man. He is in wid the mine bosses; he
collogues wid the priest, an’ he thinks to run this

lace himself. Now let us pe a halt to his gallop.

¢ is too good for this world.”

For me own part said Rory Regan I think it
would be better to let Kinsella alone for a while,
but av coarse Pll agree wid the meetin’. What do
you sa .

“Let him die, let him die!” wasthe answer.

yore then, the secretary will send him his
notice to quit”—meaning a threatening letter fore-
warning himofhisfate. =.

olan stood shivering in acorner of the

cave, and looked and listened in mute wonderment.

ionally he repeatedin his own mind some

short, familiar prayer that he had learned by his

mother’s knee in Ireland, ere yet he dreamed that

men could ever become so base as those who stood
before him.

The flippant way in which they discussed the
death of a fellow-creature, and their nonchalance,
astonished him beyond all measure. Oh, how sin-
cerely he regretted to himself that he ever took that
awful oath from, which his soul, like Zelica’s, re-
volted, and to which, like her, he found himself tied
too fast to escape.

The perspiration poured freely from his forehead
as he contemplated the obligation to which he had
pledged himself.and saw to what extremes and
what bloody deeds it might yet lead him. What, he
thought, if he should yet be one of those who should
cast lots to undertake a murder? The thought was
too horrible to be entertained, and while the other
occupants of the cave were discussing Kinsella’s
death, Nolan unconsciously exclaimed aloud, in re-
sponse to the question that had suggested itself to

im:

“Heaven forbid! Oh, Heaven forbid!” i

“What the duse have you to say about id, Misther
Greenhorn?” said Hooligan. ‘Maybe you’d like to
prache a sarmon for us.” f

‘Twas only talkin’ to meself,” said Neal, some-
what embarrassed at betraying himself.

“Well, you’d betther talk to yerself, and don’t
eee anybody else wid yer blatherin’ and prayin’

ere,’

Neal Nolan made no answer. What he said al-
ready had introduced him more prominently than
he hoped or wished for, and now his case was be-
fore the meeting. s GIS URE

‘Misther Nolan,” said Regan, “I think you are
entitled to give some explanation to your conduct
at the inquest, before this meetin.’ You wint there
toswear agin the mine boss. Did you doit? No,
sir; you perjured yerself, an’ ye sed you didn’t see
Morgan sthrike the blow. What kind av a saycrit
society man is id that'll do that, d’ye think?”

oe somewhat confused, commenced an explan-
ation.

“Shure,” he said, “you wouldn’t haye me break
myoath. Didn’t Isware before Almighty God, to tell
the thruth, an’ nothing butthe thruth, an’ I told the
thruth, I didn’t see the man killmyuncle. IfIsed
I did, & that Pd sware I did, I was out_o’ me sinses
Whin fsed tt, nu” Heaven forbid thut a Nolan would
ever sware away the life of aninnocentman. Ah,
boys, it’s a mighty fearful thing to hang aman in
the wrong an’ to blacken yer sowl to take the life av
another. I’ll never do it; yes, Pd rather die first.”

“Arrah dy’e hear him. Bedad ye’d think he was
at a meetin’ av Soupers be how he talks,” said
Hooligan. : ate

“Pshaw! he’s no Irishman; there’s no grit in
him,” said Jack Grimes. ; :

*Your’e a liar, Grimes,” said Neal, his eyes flash-
ing with anger, and the blood coursing swiftl
through his veins like a tide of lava. ou lie,
am an Irishman, but ’m no murdherer.” '

This pricked Grimes to madness, and following
up the argument, he said, satay: ’

_ You haven’t the courage to kill. You’re a white-
livered Omadhaun, and hayen’t the sowi ay a spar-

Ow.

“T haven’t the black heart to commit the murdher
ay an innocent man, butI have the courage to face
a murdherer, and a dirty dog like you who shed my
innocent uncle’s blood.” ,

Here was a commotion inthe cave. Several men
rushed to hold the young Irishman, who was now
angry and powerful as a roaring lion. He shook
them off, and dashed like a beast of prey. at the
throat of Grimes, who stood, knife in hand, at the
outer edge of the cave waiting to receive him.
There was a fierce struggle. Both men fell on the
track out on theslope, and in a grim grip as re-
lentless as death, rolled over and over in the dark
abyss that led two hundred feet deep into the aban-
doned mine, leaving their. companions in utter
amazement,

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

CAPTAIN
Danton’s Daughters.

By May Agnes Fleming.

 

 

 

[Captain Danton’s Daughters” was commenced in No, 16.
Back Nos. can be obtained of any News Agent in the U. States.]

CHAPTER VI—CONTINUED.

Nearly half an bour passed. The ankle was
duly bathed and bandaged, then old Jacques and
the ‘doctor went away, and she came over and
looked laughingly down at the invalid, a world
of coquettish daring in her dancing eyes. Ae

“Well, M. Reinecourt, when does M. le Medicin
say you are going todie?”’ ‘

“When you think of leaving me mademoi-
sele.”’

“Then summon your friends at once, for I not
ee think of it, but am about to do it.”

“Oh, not so soon.’ : fb

“Tt is half-past two, monsieur,’’ pulling out her
watch; “they will think I am lost athome. I
must go!” 2

‘Well, shake hands before you go.” :

“It seeme to me you are be, owe of shaking
hands, Mr. Reinecourt,” said se, giving him
hers willingly enough, though.

‘And you really must leave me ?”

“T really must.” : ;

“But you will come to-morrow ?” still holding
her hand. ’

“Perhaps so—if I have nothing better to do.”

“You cannot do anything better than visit the
sick, and—oh, yes! do me another favor. Fetch
me some books to read—to pass the dismal hours
of your absence.”

“Very well; now let me go.”

He released her plump little hand, and Rose
drew on her gloves.

“Adieu, Mr. Reinecourt,” moving to the door.

“Au revoir, Miss Danton, until to-morrow
morning.” ‘

Rose rode home in delight. In one instant the
world had changed. Saint Croix had become a
paradise, and the keen air sweet as ‘“Ceylon’s
spicy breezes.” As Alice Carey says, “What to
her was our world with its storms and rough
weather,” with that pallid face, those eyes of
darkest splendor, that magnetic voice, haunting
her ali the way. It was love at sight with Miss
Danton the second. What was the girlish fanc
she had felt for Jules Le Touche—for Dr. Fran
—for a dozen others, compared with this.”

Joe, the stable-boy, led away Regina, and Rose
entered the house. Crossing the hall, she met
Eeny going up stairs.

“Well!” said Eeny, “and where have you been
all day, pray ?”

“Out riding.”

 

“Where ?”

“Oh, everywhere! Don’t bother!”

“Do you know we have had luncheon ?”

“IT don’t care—I don’t want my luncheon.”

She ran past her sister, and shut herself up in
her room. Eeny stared. In all her experience of
her sister she had never known her to be indiffer-
ent to eating and drinking. For the first time in
Rose’s life, love had taken away her appetite.

All that afternoon she stayed shut up in her
chamber, dreaming as only eighteen, badly in
love does dream. When darkness fell, and the
lamps were lit, and the dinner-bell rang, she de-
seended to the dining-room indifferent for the
first time whether she was dressed well or ill.

_ “What does it matter?” she thought, looking
in the glass; “the is not here to see me.”

Doctor Frank and the Reverend Augustus Clare
crore in after dinner, but Rose hardly deigned
to look at them. She reclined gracefully on a
sofa, with half-shut eyes, listening to Kate play-
ing one of Beethoven’s “Songs without Words,”
and seeing—not the long, lamp-lit drawing-room
with all its elegant luxuries, or the friends around
her, but the bare best room of the old yellow
farm-house, and the man lying lonely and ill be-
fore the blazing fire, Doctor Danton sat down
beside her and talked to her; but Rose answered
at random, and was so absorbed, and silent, and
preoccupied, as to puzzie every one. Her father
asked her to sing. Rose begged to be excused—
she could not sing to-night. Kate looked at her
in wonder.

“What is the matter with you, Kose?’ she in-
quired; “are youill? What is it?”

“Nothing,” Rose answered, “only I don’t feel
like talking.”’

And not feeling like it, nobody could make her
talk. She retired early—to live over again in
dreams the events of that day, and to think of
the blissful morrow.

An hour after breakfast next morning, io
met her going out, dressed for her ride, and wit
a little velvet reticule stuffed full, slung over her
arm.

“What have you got in that bag ?’’ asked Eeny;
“your dinner? Are you going to a picnic ?”

Rose laughed at the idea of a January picnie,
and ran off without answering. An hour’s brisk
an brought her to the farm-house, and oid

acques came out, bowing and grinning, to take
charge of her horse.

‘Monsieur was inthe parlor—would mademoi-
selie walk right into the parlor? Dr. Pillule had
been there and seen to monsieur’s ankle. Mon-
sieur 0 doing very well, only not able to stand
up yet.”

found monsieur half asleep before the fire,

and looking as handsome as ever in his slumber.

— ave up at her entrance, holding out both
ands.

“Mon ange! I thought you were never coming.
I was falling into despair.” :

“Falling into despair means falling asleep, i
presume. Don’t let me disturb your dreams.’

“Tam in a more blissful dream now than any I
could dream asleep. Here is a seat. Oh, don’t
sit so far off. Are those the books? How can I
ever thank you!”

“You never can—so don’t try. Here is Tenny-
son—of course, you like Tennyson; here is Shel-
ley—here are two new and charming novels. Do
you read novels ?” :
. a _ pond every ing. oe. on ute ay

y, itis very fatiguing to read lying down; won’
you read to me ?” :

“T can’t read. I mean, I can’t read aloud.”
in ” me be the judge of that. Let me see—read

aud.

Rose began and did her best, and read until she
was tired. Mr. Reinecourt watched her all the
while as she sat beside him.

And presently they drifted off into delicious
talk of poetry and romance; and Rose, pulling
om = watch, was horrified to find it was two
o’clock.

“I must go!” she cried, springing up; “what
will they think has become of me.’

“But you will come again to-morrow,” pleaded
Mr. Reinecourt. .

“T don’t know—you don’t deserve it, keeping me
— og this hour. Perhaps I may though—
goo hd Woe

Rose, saying this, knew in her heart she could
not stay away if she tried. Next morning she
was there, and the next, and_the next, and the
next. Then came a week of wild, snowy weather,
when the roads were heaped high, going out was
an an poseeeey and she had to stay at home.
Rose chafed. desperately under the restraint, and
grew so irritable that :t was quite a risk to speak
toher. All her old high spirits were gone. Her
ceaseless flow of talk suddenly checked. She
wandered about the house aimlessly, purposeless-
Wy, listlessly, sighing wearily, and watching the

ying snow and hopeless sky. A week of this
weather, and January was at its close beforea
change for the better came. Rose was falling a
prey to green and yellow melancholy, and per-
plexing the whole household by the unaccount-
able alteration in her. With the first gleam of
fine weather she was off. Her long morning rides
were recommenced; smiles and roses returned to
her face, and was herself again.

It took that sprained ankle a very long time to
et well.. Three weeks had passed since that
anuary day when Regina had eoeeey on the ice,

and still Mr. Reinecourt was disabled; at least he
was when Rose was there. He had dropped the
Miss Danton and taken to calling her Rose, of
late; but when she was gone, it was really sur-
prising how well he could walk, and without the
aid of a stick. Old Jacques grinned knowingly.
The poetry reading, and the long, long talks
went on every day, and Rose’s heart was hope-
lessly and forever gone. She knew nothing more
of Mr. Reinecourt than that he was Mr. Reine-
court; still, she hardly cared to know; she was
in love, and an idiot; to-day sufficed for hex—to-
morrow might take care of itself.

“Rose, cherie,” Mr. Reinecourt said to her one
day, ‘you vindicate your sex; you are free from
the vice of curiosity. You ask no questions, and,
except my name, you know nothing of me.

‘I know not, I ask not,
If guilt’s in thy heart:
I but know that I love thee,
Whatever thou art.’
I wish I did know it, by the by.”

“Well, Mr. Reinecourt, whose fault is that?’

‘Do you want to know?”

Rose looked at him, then away.
late she had grown strangely shy.

“Tf you like to tell me.”

“My humble little Rose! Yes, I will tell you. I
must leave here soon; a sprained ankle won’t last
forever, do our best.”

She looked at him in sudden alarm, her bright
bloom a out. He had taken one of her little
or and her fingers closed involuntarily over

is.

“Going away!” she repeated. “Going away!”

He smiled slightly. is masculine yanity was
eratified by the irrepressible confession of her

ove for him.

“Not from you, my dear little Rose. To-mor-
row you will know all—whereI am going, and
who 1 am.” y

“Who youare! Are you not Mr. Reinecourt?”

“Certainly !” half laughing. “But that is rather
barren information, is it not? Can you wait until
to-morrow?”

His smile, the clasp in which he held her hand,
reassured her.

“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing a long breath, “T
can wait.”

That day—Rose remembered it afterward—
he stood holding her hands a long time at part-
ing.

“Vou will go! Whata hurry you are always
in,” he said.

“A hurry!’ echoed Rose. “I have been _here
three hours. I should have gone long ago. Don’t
detain me; good-by!’”

“Good-by, my Rose! My dear little nurse,
good-hy until we meet again.”

Somehow of

HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.

Rose Danton’s slumbers were unusually dis-
turbed that night. Mr. Reinecourt haunted her
awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What
was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he
tell her_he loved her? Would he ask her to be his
wife? Did he eare for her, or did he mean noth-
ing, after all? :

No thought of Jules Le Touche came to disturb
her as she drifted off into delicious memories of
the past and ecstatic dreams of the future. No
thought of the promiseshe had given, no remorse
at her own falsity, troubled her easy conscience.
What did she care for Jules Le Touche? What
was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She
thought of him—when she thought of him at all

 

—with angry impatience, and she drew his ring
off her finger and flung it across the room.

 

 

 

 

ks

 

 

 

¥

. Ae
meio he

j

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW ¥

 

 

io

 

 

 

 

 

—

arcs BSL AB ae or

 

 

“What a fool. I was,’ she thought, “ever to
dream of marrying that silly boy! Thank Heay-
en I never told any one but Grace’” iG

Rose was: feverish with impatience and antici-

ation when morning came. She sat down to
biaok text. tried to eat, and drink, and talk as
usual, and failed in all. As soon as the meal was
over, unable to wait, she dressed and ordered her
horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the ave-
nue, smoking a cigarin the cold February sun-
shine, as she rode off.

“Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted?
May I——” 3)

“No,” said Rose, brusquely, “you may not.
Good morning!’

Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped
out of sight.

“What is it?” he thought. . “What has altered
her of late? Sheis not the same girl she was two
weeks ago. Has she fallen in love, I wonder? Not
likely, I should think; and yet——”

He walked on, revolving the question, to the
house, while Rose was rapidly shortening the dis-
tanee between herself and her beloved. Old
Jacques was leaning over the gate as she rode up,
and took off his hat with Canadian courtesy to
the young lady.

“Is Mr. Reinecourt in, Mr. Jacques?’ asked
Rose, piaparing to dismount. . ; :

Jacques lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise.

*““Doesn’t mademoiselle know, then?’’

“Know what?’’

“That monsieur has gone?”

“Gone?”

“Yes, mademoiselle, half an hour ago. Gone
for good.” 4

“But he will come back?’’ said Rose, faintly,
her heart seeming suddenly to:stop beating.

Old Jacques shook his head. ;

“No, maim’selle. Monsieur has paid me like a
king, shook hands with Margot and me, and gone
forever.”

There wasadead pause. Rose clutched her
bridle-rein, and felt the earth spinning under her,
her face growing white and cold.

“Did he leave no message—no message for

9?

She could barely utter the words, the shock, the
consternation were so. great. Something like a
lJaugh shone in old Jacques’ eyes.

“N 0, mademoiselle, he never spoke of you. He
only paid us, and said good-by, and went away.’

Rose turned Regina slowly round in a stunned
sort of way, and with the.reins loose on her neck
let her take her road homeward. A dull sense o
despair was all’she was conscious of. She could
not think, she could not reason; her whole mind
was lost in blank consternation. He was gone!
She could not get beyond that—he was gone. ©.

The boy who came to lead away her horse,
stared at her changed face; the servant who
opened the door opened his eyes, also, at sight of
her: )She never heeded them; a feeling that she
wanted to:be alone was all she could realize, and
she walked ‘straight toa little alcove opening
from the lower end of the long entrance-hall. An
archway and a curtain of amber silk separated it
from the drawing-room, of which it was a sort of
recess... A sofa, piled high with downy pillows,
stood -invitin Ly under a window. Among these
oe poor Rose threw‘ herself, to do battle with

er despair. : div:

_ . While she lay therein tearless rage, she heard
the drawing-room door.open; and some one

‘come in. rt .beotd’mee lt" f+oxdie

“Who shall I say, sir?” insinuated the servant.

“Just say a friend wishes to see Miss Danton,”

was the answer. 00 | R | n@Liac

That yoice!, Rose bounded from the sofa, her
eyes wild, her lips apart. Her hand shook as she
drew aside the curtain and looked out. A gentle-
man was there, but:he sat with his back to her,
and his figure was only partially revealed. Rose’s
heart beat in great ee against her side, but
she restrained herself and waited. Ten minutes
and there was the rustle of a dress; Kate enter
the room. The gentleman arose, there was a ery
of ‘Reginald!’ and then Kate was clasped in the

 

stranger's arms. Rose could see his face now; } w

no se to look twice to recognize
court.

The curtain dropped from Rose’s hand, she
stood still, breath coming and going in gasps.
She saw it all as by an electric light—Mer. Reine-
court was Kate’s betrothed husband, ‘inald
Stanford. He had known her. from the first;
from the first he had coolly and systematically
deceived her. He knew that. she loved him—he
must. know it—and had goneon fooling her to
the top of his bent. Perhaps he and Kate would
laugh over it together before the day was done.
Rose clenched her hands, and her eyes flashed at
the thought. Back came the color to her cheeks,
back the light to her eyes; anger for the moment

uenched every spark of love. Some of ‘the old

anton pluck wasin her, after all. No despair
now, no lying on sofa cushions any more in help-
less woe. |

“How dared he do it—how. dared: he?’ shes

Mr. Reine-

thought, “knowing me to be Kate’s sister. I hate | 1

him! oh, I hate him!’’:

And here Rose broke down, and finding the hys-
teries would. come, fled away to her room, and
cried vindictively tor two hours.

She got up at last, sullen and composed.. Her
mind was made up. She would show Mr. Reine-
court (Mr. Reinecourt indeed)! how much she
cared for him.. He should see the freezing indif-
ference with which she could treat him; he should
see she was not to be fooled with impunity.

Rose bathed her flushed and tear-stained face
until every trace of the hysterics was gone, called
Agnes Darling to curl her hair and dress her in a

——— ——-— St ari

with such absorbed interest. Never had bright
eyes and rosy lips given him such glances’ and
smiles. She hung on his words; she had eyes
and ears for no one else, least of all for,the su-
premely handsome gentleman who was her sis-
ter’s betrothed, and who talked to her father;
while Sir Ronald glowered over a book.

The ringing of the luncheon-bell brought Grace
and Eeny, and all were soon seated around the
captain’s hospitable board.

Rasabanasit Reginald Stanford laid himself out
to be fascinating, and was fascinating. There
was a subtle charm in his handsome face, in his
brilliant smile and glance, in his pleasant voice,
in his wittily-told stories, and inexhaustible fund
of anecdote and mimicry. ._Now he was in Ive-
land, now in France, now in Scotland, now in
Yorkshire; and the bad English and the patois
and accent of all were imitated to the life. With
that face, that voice, that talent for imitation,
Lieutenant Stanford, in another walk ‘of: life,
might have made his fortune on the stage. His
power of fascination was irresistible. Grace felt
it, Eeny felt it, all felt it except Sir Ronald Keith.
He sat like the Marble Guest, not fascinated, not
charmed, black and unsmiling.

Rose, too—what wasthe matter with Rose ? She,
so acutely alive to well-told stories, to handsome
faces, so rigidly cold, and stately, and uninter-
ested now. She shrugged her dimpled shoulders
when the table was in a roar; she opened her
rather small hazel.eyes and stared, as if she won-
dered what they could see to laugh at. She did
not even deign toglance at him, the hero of the
feast; and in fact, so greatly overdid her part as
to excite the suspicions of that astute young man,
Doctor Danton... There is no effect without a cause.
What was the eause of Rose’s icy indifference ?
He looked at her, then at Stanford, then back at
her, and set: himself to watcn.

‘She has met him before,” thought the shrewd
doctor; “but where, if he has just come from
England? I’llask him, I think.”

It was some time before there was a pause in
the conversation. In the first, Doctor Frank
struck in.

“How did you come, Mr. Stanford ?” he asked.
ion the Hysperia, from Southampton to New

or 3)

“How long ago?’ inquired: Kate, indirectly
Soe him; ‘‘a week ?”

“No,” said’ Lieutenant Stanford, cooly carying
his cold ham; “nearly five.”

Sivony one stared. Kate looked blankly am-
azed.

“Tmpossible,’’ she exclaimed ‘‘five weeks since
you landed in New York. Surely not.’

‘Quite true Lassure you. .The way was this—”’

He paused and looked at Rose, who had spilled
a glass of wine, trying to lift it, in -a hand that
shook strangely. Her eyes were downcast, her
cheeks scarlet, her whole manner palpably and
inexplicably embarrassed. 2

“Four weeks ago, I reached Canada. I did not
write you, Kate, that I was coming. I wished to
give you asurprise. I sto at Belleplain—
you know the towny:of Belleplain, thirty miles

rom here—to see a brother officer I had known
at Windsor. Traveling from Belleplain in a con-
founded stage, I stopped half frozen at an old
farm-house six miles off. Next morning, pursu-
ing my journey on foot, I met with a little mis-

ap.” , “
e paused provokingly to. fill at his leisure a
thee of sherry; and Doctor Danton watching
se under his.eyelashes, saw the color coming
and going in her traitor face.

“I slipped. on a sheet of ice,” continued. Mr.
Stanford. “Iam not used to your horrible Cana-
diam roads, remember, and strained my ankle
badly. I had to be conveyed back to the farm-

I could) have: sent you word, no doubt, and put
you to no end of trouble bringing me here, but I
‘did not like that; I did’ not care to turn Danton
Hall into a hospital, and go limping through life;
Soe made the best of a’ bad bargain and staid

Twas.
here Was &
ea ern seen te; and R l
Sat ike a grim statue In > ose, stil
fluttering and tremulous, did not dare to litt
eves.

“You must have found it very lonély,” said
eh Danton. ~~~

se oO. M

  

®

tik

I regretted not getting here, of course;
but otherwise it was not unpleasant. They took
such ADE care of me, you see, and I had a se-
lect little library at my command; so, on the
whole, I have been in much more disagreeable
quarters in my lifetime.” ‘7

Doetor Frank said no more. He had gained his
‘point, and he wais Satisfied. :

“Tt..-is quite clear,’ he thought. “By some
hocus-pocus, Miss Rose has made his acquain-
tance during those three weeks, and helped the
slow time to pass. He did not tell her he was her
sister’s lover, hence the present frigidity. The
ong: eye rides are accounted ‘for now. . I
wonder’’—he looked at pretty Rose—“I wonder if
the matter will end here ?”

It seemed as if it would. Doctor Danton, com-
ing every day to the hall, and closely observant
always, saw, no. symptoms of thawing out on

Mr. Stanford. He treated her as he treated Eeny
and Grace, courteously, a ae but nothing
more. -He was all devotion to’ his beautifnl be-
trothed, and Kate—what words can paint the in-
finite happiness of her face! All that was want-
ing to make her beauty perfect was found. She
had grown so gentle, so'sweet, so patient with

 

new blue glace,in which shelooked lovely. Then,
witha glow like fever on her cheeks, a fire like
feyer in her eyes, she went down stairs.. In the
hall she met Eeny. ; ;

“Oh, Rose! I was just going up to your room.
Kate wants you.”

“Does she? What for?”

“Mr, Stanford has come. He is with her in the
drawing-room; and, Rose, he is the handsomest
man I ever saw.”

Rose shook back her curls disdainfully, and de-
scended to thedrawing-room. _A la princesse she
sailed in, and saw the late Mr. Reinecourt seated
by the window, Kate beside him, with, oh, sucha
happy face! She arose at her sister’s entrance, a
smile of infinite content on her face. j
j pene my sister Rose. Rose, Mr. Stan-

ord.”

Rose made the most graceful bow that ever was
seen, not the faintest sign of recognition in her
face. She hardly glanced at Mr. Stanford—she
was afraid to trust herself too far—she was afraid
to meet those magnetic dark eyes. If he looked
aback at her sang froid, she, did not see it. She
swept by as majestically as Kate herself, and took
a distant seat.

Kate’s face showed her surprise. Rose had been
a puzzle to her of late; she was more a puzzle
now than eyer. Rose was standing on her dignity
that was evident; and Rose did not often stan
on that pedestal. She would not talk, or only in
monosyllables. Her replies to Mr. Stanford were
pointedy cold and brief. She sat, looking very

retty in her blue glace and bright curls, her

ngers toying idly with her chatelaine and trink-
ets, and as unapproachable as a grand duchess.

Mr. Stanford made no attempt to approach her.
He sat and talked to his betrothed of the old
times, and the old friends and places, and seemed
to forget there was any one else in the world.
Rose fistaned. with a heart swelling with angry
bitterness—silent, except when discreetly ad-
dressed by Kate, and longing vindictively to
spring up and tell the handsome, treacherous
Hagiighsmdg what she thought of him there and
then.

As luncheon-hour drew near, her father, who
had been absent, returned with Sir Ronald Keith
and Doctor Danton. They were all going up
stairs; but Kate, with a happy flush. on her face,
looked out of the drawing-room door.

“Come in, papa,’”’ she said; “come in, Sir Ron-
ald; there is an old friend here.”

She smiled a bright invitation to the young doc-
tor, who went in also. Reginald Stantord_ stood
up. Captain Danton, with a delighted ‘“Hallo!”
grasped both his hands.

“Reginald, my dear boy, Lam delighted, more
than delighted, to see you. Welcome to Canada.
Sir Ronald, this is more than we bargained for.”

“T was surprised to find you here, Sir Ronald,”
said the young officer, shaking the baronet’s hand
cordially.; ‘‘very happy to meet you again.”’

Sir Ronald, with a dark flush on his face, bowed
stiffly, in silence, and moved away.

Doctor Frank was introduced, made his bow,
and retreated to Rose’s sofa.

Capricious womanhood! Rose, that morning,
had decidedly snubbed him; Rose, at noon, wel-
comed him with her most radiant smile. — Never,
Pere be in all his experience had any young lady

istened to him with such flattering attention,

 

all; she was so supremely blessed: herself, she
could afford to stoop tothe weaknesses of less
fortunate mortals: hat. indescribable change;

the radiance of her eyes, the buoyancy of her.

step, the lovely color that_deepened and died, the
smiles that came so readily now—all told: how
much she loved Reginald Stanford.

Was it returned, that absorbing devotion? He
was very devoted; he was beside her when she
sang; he sought her always when he entered the
room, he was her escort in all occasions; but—
was it returned? It seemed to Doctor Frank,
watching quietly, that there was something
wanting—something too vague to be described,
but lacking. Kate did -not miss it herself, and it
might be only a fancy. Perhaps it was that she
was above and beyond him, with thoughts and
feelings in that earnest heart of hers he could
never understand. He was very handsome, very
brilliant; but underlying the beauty and the bril-
liancy of the surface there was shallowness, and
selfishness, and falsity.

He was walking up and down the tamarac-
walk, thinking of this and smoking a cigar, one
evening, about a week after the arrival of Stan-
ford. The February twilight fell tenderly over
snowy ground, dark, stripped trees, and grim
old. mansion. A mild evening, windless and
spring-like, with the full moon rising round and
red, His walk commanded a view of the great
frozen. fish-pénd where a lively scene was going
on. Kate, Rose, and Eeny, strapped in skates,
were ee round and round, attended by the
Captain and Lieutenant Stanford.

Rose was the best skater on the pond, and look-
ed charming in her tucked-up dress, erimson pet-
ticoat, dainty boots, and ecoquettish hat and
plume. She flitted in a dizzying cirele ahead of
all the rest, disdaining’ to join them. Stanford
skated very well for an Englishman, and assist-
ed Kate, who was not very proficient in the art.
Captain Danton had Eeny by the hand, and the

ay laughter of the party made the still air ring.
Grace stood on the edge of the pond watching
them, and resisting the captain’s entreaties to
come on the ice and let him teach her to skate.
Her brother joined her, coming up suddenly, with
Tiger at his side.

“Not half ‘a*bad. tableau,” the doctor said, re-
moving his inevitable cigar; “lovely women,
brave men, moonlight, and balmy breezes. You
don’t go in for this sort of thing, ma soeur? No,
I suppose not. Our good-looking Englishman
skates well, by the way. What do you think of
him, Grace?’’

“I think with you, that heis a good-looking
young Englishman.”

“Nothing more?”’

“That the eldest Miss Danton is hopelessly and
helplessly in love with him, and that it is rather
a pity, Rose would suit him better.’

‘Ah! sagacious as usual, Grace. Who knows
but the Hon. Reginald thinks so too. Where is
our dark Secotehman to-night?”

“Sir Ronald? Gone to Montreal.’

“Ts he eoming back?”’

“T-don’t know. Very likely.

sure,”’” ,
“He is a little jealous then?”

Go! ust a little. There is thecaptain calling you.
s

*

 

 

house on a sled—medical attendance procured,
and for three weeks I have been a prisoner there. |

eneral. murmur of sympath
ph gee dy ll Sir Ronald.
her.
‘| her—he who was soon to be her sister’s husband.

They went over. (Captain; Danton whirled
round and came toa halt at sight of them.

‘Here, Frank,’ he said; “I’m getting tired of
this. Take my skates, and let us see what you
are capable of on ice.”

Doctor Frank put on the skates, and struck off.

Rose, flashing past, gaye hima bright back-
ward glance,

“Catch me, Doctor Danton!” she cried. ‘Catch
me if you ean!’

“A fair field and no favor!” exclaimed Stanford,
wheelinground, ‘Come on, Danton; lam going
to try, too.”

Eeny and Kate stood still to watch.

The group on. the bank were absorbed in the
chase. Doctor Danton was the better skater of
the two; but fleet-footed Rose — ed both.

“Ten.to one on the doctor!’ cried the captain,
excited. “Reginald is nowhere!”

“T don’t bet,” said Grace; “but neither will
catch Rose if Rose likes.”

Round and round the fish-pond the trio flew—
Rose still ahead, the doctor outstripping the lieu-
tenant. The chase was getting exciting. There
was no chance of gaining on Rose by followin
her. Danton tried strategy. As she wheele
airily around, he abruptly turned, headed her off,
and caught her with a rebound in his arms.

“By Jove!” cried the captain, delighted, “he
has her. Reginald, my boy, you are beaten.”

“T told you you stood no chanee, Stanford,” said
the doctor. “What am I to have for my pains,
Miss Rose?’,

“Stoop down, and you'll see.

He bent his head. A stinging box on the ear
rewarded him, and Rose was off, flying over the
glittering icgand out of reach.

“Beaten, Reginald,” said Kate, as he drew near.
“For shame, sir.”

“Beaten, but not defeated,” answered. her lover;

“a Stanford never yields: Rose shall be my prize
yet.” ,
” Rose had whirled round’ the pond, and was
passing. He looked at her.as he spoke; but her
answer was a flash of the eye and a curl of the
‘lip as she flewon. Kate saw it, and looked after
her, puzzled and thoughtful.

‘Reginald,’ she said, when, the skating over,
they were all saunteri is back to the house, ‘what
haye you ye Ase Rose?” ;

Reginald Stanford raised his dark eyebrows.

“Done to her! What do youimagine I have
done to her?”.

ow othing; but why, then, does she dislike you
so?” ai , :

“Am I so unfortunate as to have incurred your
pretty sister’sAlislike?” :

“Don’t. you see it? She avoids you. She will
not talk to you, or sing for you, or take your
arm, or join us when we go out, I never saw her
ee any gentleman with such pointed coldness

efore.”’ : ie ;

“Extraordinary,’’ said Mr. Stanford, with pro-
foundest gravity; “lam the most unlucky fellow
in the world. What shall I do'to overcome your
fair sister’s aversion ?” . -

“Perhaps you do not pay her attention enough.

ose knows she is very pretty, and is jealously
exacting in her demands for admiration and de-
yotion. Sir

»”

oland gave her mortal offense the

first evening he came, by his insensibility. She

has never forgiven him, and: never«will. Devote

yourself more to her and less to me, and perhaps

ae a ae to let you bask in the light of
er smile,””

He looked at her with an odd glance. She was
smiling, but in earnest too. She loved her sister
and her lover.so well, that she felt uncomfortable
until» they were friends; and her heart was too
great and faithful for the faintest spark of jeal-
Tt. He lifted the hand that wore his ring to

is lips. -

. “Your wishes arémylaw. Ishall do my best
to aes Rose from See :

hat evening, for the, first, time, Stanford took
a seat beside Rose, and did eis best to be agree-
able. Kate smiled approval from. her place at
the piano, and Doctor ton, on the other side
of Rose, heard and saw all, and did not quite un-
derstand. But Rose was still offended, and de-
‘elined to rr Tt was hard to resist that per-
suasive voice, but she did. She hardened herself
resolutely at the thought of how he had deceived

ose got up abruptly, excused herself, and left
the room. * ithe { ;

When the family sere dispersing to their chanj}-
bers that Tipht, megzinald lingered to speak to
Kate. . . f :

“T hive failed you see,’' he said.

“Rose isa mystery,” said Kate, vexed; “she
has quite a new way of een. But you know,”
smiling radianty ; “a Stanford never yields.”

“True. It is discouraging, but I shall try again.
Good-night, dearest and best, and pleasant dreams
—of me.” - ;

.. He ascended to his bedroom, lamp in hand. A
fire blazed in the grate; and sitting down before

 

Rose’s part, and no effort. to please on the side of |

’ Tf it were to mur- |
der Mr. Stanford he would come back with plea- |

 

 

it, his coat off, his slippers on, his hands in his
pockets, he gazed at it with knitted brow, and
whistling softly, For half an hour he sat, still as
a statue. Then he got up, found his writing-case,
and sat down to indite a letter. He was singing
the fag-end of something as he dipped his pen in
the ink. A
“ Bind the sea to slumber stilly— .

Bind its odor to the lily—_,

Bind the aspen ne’er to quiver—

Then bindJloye to last forever!”

Jaf “DANTON Hau, February 26, 183—.

“My Dear LAUDERDALE: [thinkI es ae
Lleft Windsor, to write to tell you how I got onin
this horribly Arctieregion. It is nearly two months
since I left Windsor, and my conscience (don’t
laugh—I have discovered that I have a conscience)
ce me sundry twings when Ithink of you. I

on’t feel like sleeping, to-night., Iam full of my
subject,so here goes. f

“In the ‘first place, Miss Danton is well, and as
much of an angel as ever. Inthe second place,
Danton Hall is delightful, and holds more angels
than one. Inthe third place, Sir Ronald Keith is
here, and half mad with jealousy. The keenest
north wind that has eyer blown since I came to
Canada is not half so freezing as he, Alas, poor
Yorick! Heisa fine fellow too, and fought like a
lion’in the Russian trenches; but there was Samp-
son, and David, and Solomon, and Mare Antony—
you know what love did to them one and all.

“Kate refused him a year ago, in England—I
found it out by accident, not from her, of course;
and yet here heis, Itisthe old story of the moth
and the candle, and some times I laugh, and some
times Lamsorry for him. He has eight thousand
a year, too; and the Keiths aregreat people in Scot-
land, I hear. Didnt I always try to impress it on
you thatit was better to be born handsome than
rich? Lam not worth fifteen hundred shillings a
year, and in dune (D. V.) beautiful Kate Danton is
to be my wife. t your heresy, and believe
for the future.

“Angel No. 2—I told you there were more than
one—has hazel eyes, pink cheeks, auburn curls,
and the dearest. little ways. She is not beautiful—
she is not stately—she does not play and sing the
soul out of your body, and yet—and yet——. au-
derdale, you always told me my peerless fiancee was
a thousand times too good for me. I never believed
you before. Ido believe you now. She soars be-
yond my reach sometimes. I don’t pretend to un-

derstand her, and—fell it not in Gath—I stand a lit-| p

tle in awe ofher. Tnever was on speaking terms
with her most gracious gj foe whom Heaven
long preserve; but if I were, I fancy I should feel as
Ido some times talking to Kate. Sheis perfection,
and I am—well, [am not, and ‘she is very fond of
me. Would she break her heart, do you think, if
she does not become Mrs. Reginald Stanford? June
is the time, but there is many aslip. I know what
your answer will be—‘She will break her heart if
she does!’ Itis abad business, old boy; but it is
fate, or we will say so—and hazel eyes and auburn
curls are very, very tempting. :

“You used to think a good deal. of Captain Dan-
ton, if I recollect right. By-the-way, how old isthe
captain? I ask, because there is a housekeeper
here, whoisa distant cousin, one of the family,
very quiet, sensible, ladylike, and six and twenty,
who may be Mrs. Captain Danton one day. Mind,

don’t say for certain, but Ehave my suspicions.
He couldn’t do better,” Grace—that’s her name—
has a brother here, a' doctor, very fine fellow, and
so cute, Ieatch him looking at me sometimes in
- yey peculiar manner, which [ think I under-
stand.

“You don’t expeet me before June, do you? Nev-
ertheless, don’t faint if I return to our ‘right little,
tight little’ island before that. Meantime, write and
let me know how the world wags with you; and
only I know it is out of your line, I should ask you
to offer a prayer for your unfortunate friend,

“REGINALD STANFORD.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

—> o—+—

T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, haye in press and
will soon issue Mrs, Oliphant's new noyel, “An Odd Ceuple,”
printed from adyancte sheets; also, “‘Married Beneath Him,” by
James.Payn; in uniform style with ‘Lost Sir  Massingberd”
and ‘‘The Clyfiards of Clyffe,;- by the same popular author, pub-
lished by them :

A neat, taSteful, and ingenious calendar has been sent to us by
John J. Caulon, printer, 47 Liberty street.

 

 

 

THE HUMBLER FLOWER BELOW.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

 

On yonder mountain flames ‘the fowcr
That once was dearest of the land
Unto my proud, ambitious soul,
That longed so to command;
But now no more I care for it,
Spite of its large, imperial glow;
My sad soul only muses o’er
An humbler flower below.

Yes, how I loved that mountain flower!
But that was when I hoped that she
Would with my triumph share its leaves

Of fame wreathed deathlessly ;
For it is symbol of high tame:

But now uncared for all the glow:
My sad soul only muses o’er

An humbler flower below.

Oh, sacred rose within the yale,
Why art thou, dearest in the land,
Still yearned o’er more than any flower
Plucked by Ambition’s hand?
Blest emblem, rose, it is that thou
Dost on her green grave tenderly grow;
Ah, this is why I worship now
The humbler flower below!

+ 94

DANIEL BOONE,

THE
THUNDERBOLT OF THE BORDER.

By BURKE BRENTFORD,

Author of “SQUIRREL CAP,” “THE STEEL
CASKET,” etc. {

{Daniel Boone” was commenced in No.17. Back numbers
can be obtained from all News Agents. }

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ORDEAL OF FIRE.

But the character of the American savage is not,
and never was, long impressed with admiration for
great and noble deeds, when performed by repre-
sentatives of the pale race which has replaced them.
in their homes and hunting grounds.

Boone’s popularity among his captors, which he
had hoped to make decided and enduring, proved
otherwise. True, there are some generous hearts
eyen among Indians, and these Boone managed to
make his friends, while he was sure: that he had
won at last the earnest gratitude of Metonomah.
But the party upon whom he had always failed to
make a favorable impression were as obdurate af-
ter his prodigious bear-fight as before. To them
he was ever the same—the praé hunter who had
slain many of their people—the American pale-face
who had robbed them of their birthright. And they
would, at nightfall, sit moodily about their camp-
fires, ee ae in their greasy blankets, like so
many dark statues of hate and malignity, sternly
eying him as their sure, future victim. ‘

As they neared the dreaded village on the Ohio,
our hero began. to almost, despair. His trouble of
mind was much increased by the condition of Me-
tonomah. The latter, though only outwardly lace-
rated by the claws of the monster with which he
ha@ grappied, had evidently received. severe inter-
nalinjuries, He moved about with evident pain,
and the daily marches were greatly shortened in
order to accommodate his feebleness. }

At length they entered the Shawnee town—a ram-
bling line of huts nearly a mile long on the banks
of the beautiful river, There were over a hundred
able-bodied warriors in the village, and these, to-
gether with the old men and squaws, poured out to
meet the returning braves. :

Metonomah in receiving the congratulations of
the chieftains directly beneath him in rank, Boone
could see, spoke Waray and earnestly of himself.
But soon afterward, when Metonomah had been
helped to his own wigwam, our hero was escorted
to a little, Crasipons See anes more like a hole
in the ground than anything else, and there placed
under a strong guard. He inferred ‘from this that
even Menotomah’s earnest expressions in his ay os
had gone but for little among the stern old chiefs
of the village.

But asquaw came soon afterward, bringing him
a hearty mealof venison and Indian eorn; and
while he.was eating rayenously She proceeded to

clean up the interior and to ‘placein one corner aj h

fresh heap of deer-skins to serye as his couch.

it. I’m not altogether forgotten, after all,” thoug
oone, j
He endeayored to draw out the squaw, who w

fear and distrust, and would make no answer to his
inquiries. However, as she appeared to be more
afraid of being overheard by the watchful guard
than of him, he drew comfort of making something
out of her in the future.

Three dé@ys came and went. He was equally well
fed allthe time. The only incidents in the monot-
ony of his weary imprisonment were the curious
faces which would now and then peer in through
the low door at him. They were mostly the faces of
squaws and little children, and in these he read
nothing but simple curiosity to see the great white
hunter, about whose capture and fate the town
was evidently agog. .

But now and then would appear the stern visage
of some elderly chief, in whose lowering eyes and
wrinkled lineaments he could peruse nothing but
remorseless hate and malicious cunning.

At length he had a talk with the young squaw
who brought him his food. She informed him, ir
answer te his anxious questions, that his life would
be saved as long as Metonomah lived. But, to his
aro alarm, she further informed him that the

eath of the great chieftain was daily, almost hour-
ly expected. The incantations and prescriptions of
their wisest medicine-men, she said, had proyed of
little avail. She left him in a very perturbed state
of mind.

He resolyed to make a bold effort at escape on the
ensuing night, as his 98 chance of life.

Night came... He looked through the ehinks of his
wigwam on eyery side. To his almost utter de-
spair, the guard had been doubled. Ten Indians,
ever on their feet, ever on the alert, surrounded the
wigwam. Armed as he was but with his knife—
which he had managed to conceal upon his person
—he would simply be courting death on the spot to
issue forth on either side.

His despair was. rendered about complete upon
his overhearing the low conversation of two of the

ard. From this he gathered that Metonomah’s
fonth was expected to take place before morning.
His only hope now, layin compelling them, by a
most desperate resistance, to take his life with
their guns and _ hatchets, before leading him to the
fiery death of the stake, 7 :

He flung himself upon his deerskin pallet, with
this desperate resolve, and with his keen knife
clutched close to his breast, there to await the com-
ing of events. But the days and nights of sleepless
anxiety proved too much for even his iron frame.

inafew moments he was plunged into the pro-
foundest slumber. He was awakened in broad
daylight by a great din and shouting of many voi-
ees just outside his wigwam. Hardly half-awake
he staggered to his feet, knife in hand..

The little wigwam swayed to and frounder the
pressure of the savages who surged around it. It
was literally torn from over his head,.and, yelllng
— shouting like demons, they closed in upon

nim.

Two of them fell. almost instantly beneath his
flashing knife, and several others reeled to earth
beneath the impetus of his desperate strength.
ut they swarmed upon him like wolves. He was
borne downward and bound ina moment. Then,
with his feet scarcely touching the ground, he was
borne along by the crowd of red demons to the open
space before the council-house.

‘Weapons of every kind were brandished around
him, thirsting for his blood. Little children and
half-clad squaws were following the horrible pro-
cession at its sides, clamoring for his blood in one
breath, and chanting the death-dirge of their great
chieftain in the other.

His only friend in a howling wilderness of blood-
thirsty foes,the great Metonomal, was no more,
and his was the ordeal of fire.

Boone’s nerye did not forsake him even here.
Seeing that everything was hopeless, he put on an
air of stern resignatiom and defiance, and permit-
ted himself to be borne along upon the crest of the
threatening waye.

If burning thoughts of home, wife, and daughter
surged through his. agonized bosom, no trace of
them was reyealed upon hls iron face. No red man
of them all would have gone to his doom of tor-
ment with more stoieal courage, more contemptu-
ous defiance than he. Rat
wane’ space before the eouncil-wigwam rose before

im,

There in the center was the stake, with its sur-
rounding heaps of faggots, tinder-dry. They had
been there for days, awaiting the death of Metono-
mah, and the torture of the captive whom his con-
tinued existence would haye saved.

Boone was hurried forward and tied to the stake,
a his moceasined feet resting upon the faggot-

heaps. ‘

His cheek did not blanch for an instant, nota
shadow crossed his clear, brown brow, browned in
many a desperate adventure in sun and storm.
Rate formed the preparatory death-dance around

im.

The aged chieftains of the tribe stood before him,
and mocked and taunted him.

“Big chief Boone feel warm soon.”

*Pale-face hunter hunt no more.”

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

 

 

 

 

These anda host of other ¢ruel epithets and
phrases saluted him. :

The Thunderbolt of the Border answered them
with a contemptuous smile.

‘See, you red devils!” said he;: “see how fear-
lene can. die one who has killed your people like
sheep, 7

They roared with rage, and threw clods of earth
at his face; they did not wish to wound his body,
preferring to leave it to the licking tongues of
flame; yet he smiled as brayely as before.

The slow, preparatory death-dance began, the
partionmuee screaming their infernal song, as,

and-in-hand they wave their.circular leapings
and hoppings around the stake and. around the
victim.

. ‘Hurry up with your fire!” called out Boone, with
agrim laugh; ‘‘theearly morning blows cool, and
T feel cold.”

His defiance maddened them, andthe death-dance
teoKe a) soon. i J

ey threw water upon the upper faggots, in or-
der that the fire might burn slowly, and the torture
of the sufferer be more intense and. exquisite.

Then the torch-bearers rushed forward and fired
the heaps, with demoniac yells,

he fire burned slowly, with uprising wreaths of
whitish, smothering smoke. Then the red and
Mai tongues of fire began to gléam and lick up-
ward.

Our hero felt their warmth upon his feet and legs,
and nervyed himself for direstsuffering. .

_ But at this instant the crowd gave way before him
in the wildest confusion, panic and dismay.

hrough the broad lane they formed, a tall and
ghostly form approached with reeling steps.

It was Menotomah, emaciated to the verge of
death, a wild and supernatural light in his staring
eyes, but still commanding in his air and mien.

The qlderly chiefs. had prematurely reported his
death, in order to hasten the death.of the captive at
the stake. But the masses of the tribe knew noth-
ing of this. They looked upon him as risen from
the dead. ins
_. Way! way! perfidious BhaRnees !? he exclaimed;
in a hollow voice, as he reeled forward.

He staggered to the stake, and, raising his war-
club with supernatural strength, he dashed and
protheras the blazing faggots afar with repeated

ows. .

He reached up and severed the bonds of Boone,
who sprang to the earth scarcely believing what he
saw to be real. "a cE

“Pale hunter, Metonomah deserts not,.even at the
brink of the graye, the noble man who three times
saved his life. Go tothe river-beach. ‘¥ou will find
one of Metonomah’s canoes. In itis rifle and am-
munition. Paddle for the other side.’ While you
see Metonomah gazing after you fromthe bank you
are safe from pursuit. Farewell, pale brother!
Linger not, my strength is tea : ;

Boone gave one pressure of the brown, wasted
hand that was extended to him, and then bounded
to the sietshenk. and oyer it. | ‘fe ‘4 id

e foun e canoe, sprang in, and pushed away.

As the‘ canoe shot out into the broad river, he
turned ‘and saw Metonomah standing like a loft
ghost. upon the bank, with his withered han
stretched toward him.

His people were around him, but in holy awe and
supereueigne dread, |

A new life aoe bed into the hunter’s breast as he
plied his broad-bladed paddle with a will.

He reached the» middle of the Ohio, and looked
back. The ghostly figure was still there, with hand
outstretched toward him, :

_ He pushed.on, shouting forth in his new lease of
liberty and life. ; |

He was three-quarters of the way across and
looked back again. }

He was justin time to see the tall form-totter and
fall.. Scarcely a.moment after a score of canoes

shot out in his pursuit. '

“If you get me again, you_red flends, may I be
burnt alive in downright earnest!’ muttered Daniel
Boone, as he drove his canoe into a sandy cove,
and seizing ‘his rifleandammunition he plunged
into the woods. {

CHAPTER IX. :
TOM CALLAWAY AND BETTIE BOONE.

_ We must leave Daniel Boone where he plunged
into the great forests of Ohio, with his red pur-
suers yelling like blood-hounds in his wake, in
order to follow for a while the fortunes of our fair
heroine, pretty Bettie Boone. d fois §
She, with her lover, Tom Callaway, it will be re-
membered from the statement of Sergeant Kat-
tridge, became separated from their two compan-
ionsin making their way through the wilderness
to Boonsborough. _When it became evident _that
Harry Boone and Mollie Callaway were, indeed,
hopelessly separated from them, Bettie was at first
inconsolable, and wept bitterly. But Tom cheered

er up. i ,
“Be of good heart, Bettie dear,’ said he, stoutly;

\“Harry and L know the woods equally well. The

e’sun serves us both for a compass, and we

; sam
VOUNE eint Good TOGkTRe: but! Sie Eee hint napgannol, fail to reach the fort at pretty much the

same time, even if we pursue different routes.

Bettie at length calmed her fears. She shoulder-
ed her rifle—the one she had snatched from the
fallen redskin, and which she was resolved to.
agen with deadly effect, if necessary—and march
along by her lover’s side.

They were genuine, simple-hearted lovers, rough
children of nature, and they found strength and
comfort in each other’s society.

The day was drawing to aclose,so Tom Jooked
about for a camping-place for the night. He at
length found a sheltered “per surrounded by three
large rocks, which, with the heavy timber, made
natural fortress. Here they built a little fire, d.
Tom being so fortunate as to shoota wild turkey,
they managed to make a capital repast before the
sun went down.

The fire was then carefully extinguished, and
Tom made for his sweetheart alittle bower some-
what apart, under the shelter of the largest rock
gave her the only blanket they had to wrap herself
in, and bade her good-night.

“Pleasant dreams, sweetheart!’ said he; ‘‘before
this hour to-morrow we shall be at home, and you
will be wrapped in your mother’s arms.”

“Oh, Tom,I hope so!” replied the girl’s sweet
yoice from under the blanket; “but I have a pre-
sentiment that something will happen.”

“Nonsense!” replied Tom. E

He went a little apart, and, making a pillow of
his gun, was soon plunged in profound sleep.

Day was just breaking over the tree-teps,
when he was aroused by a guttural exclamation,
and, opening his eyes, he saw a dusky object lean-
icg over the rock, just above where he lay upon his
back. His first impulse was to spring tohis feet,
but he restrained himself. Moying no part of his
body but his right hand, he softly drew the one pis-
tol he possessed, drew a , and fired.

A savage yell followed the report of the pistol,
aac fe next instant he was on his feet, rifle in

anda,

“Up, Bettie, up!” he eried ; ““we’re attacked. You
need all your courage now, and must help me to
fight. It’sfor you I eare, darling! only for you!” |

Bettie staggered out of her Httle bower, bewilder-
ed and alarmed, but. grasping her rifleinst inctively.

“Oh, Tom, what shall I do?’ she said, pitcously.

“Don’t be alarmed; everything depends upon
coolness: now.” said Tom. ‘Perhaps there’s only
one of them, and Pye done for him sure. But we
may besurrounded, Keep alookouton your side
of the rock, and load and fire fast, if necessary.
Bae my heart bleeds for you—for you, dear

ettie.’” b

Bettie’s voice was strangely changed when her
lover again heard it through the halt web of the
early morning. Itwas clear, sharp, and -ringing
with desperate resolve. : i; §

“My fears are past, Tom,” said she, through her
compressed and quivering lips. ‘‘We will die to-
gether, if it must be, darling.”

: They peered through the rocks and listened anx-
iously. :

_ If there were any Enero SRVORLS they were lurk-
ing in the timber, to await broader daylight, in or-
der to be sure of the numbers of the party they
were attacking, Tom having effectually put to sleep
= “ge who had climbled the rock to diseoyer that
opyect. .

he air grew steadily lighter. _.

At last, Tom thought he discerned in the thick un-
derbrush without a patr of burning eyes geting at
the rocky covert. Taking steady aim just between
them, he fired. A ringimg death-shriek was the re-
sponse.

A moment later Bettie fired, with equa success,

“Hurrah!” cried Tom. “Be of good heart, Bettie.
We'll yet beat them off.” :

But the hearts of both sank a few moments after-

ward.

Throug> the now more than half-light of the
morning they could see numerous dusky. 7
flitting like shadows:in and out of the trees. One—
two—threc—they could not count them. ‘There was
at least.a score of them. f

“Oh, Bettie! Bettie! my poor Bettie!” groaned
Tom, in the bitter anguish of his spirit.

“Tom,” gasped the girl, “they will not harm me.
They only seek my capture. But you will not live
an hourif you remain here. If. you love me, en-
deavor to make your escape.”

“Great Heaven! what do you take me for?” ex-
claimed the young hunter, with a bitter laugh. ~
peor that I am doomed, but it will be sweet to die

or you.” :

Bettie didnot answer. Shelaid down her gun,
erept over to his position, and wreathed her arms
about his neck. Their lips grewto each other in a
last long, despairing kiss, but neither spoke. ;

ea girl returned to her post and resumed her
watch.

It was now broad daylight. Four Indians _sud+
denly bounded from the thicket im different direc-
tions toward the rocks. }

Two of them fell dead_ before the bullets of the
Fanent pair. The others leaped.the barrier. Tom

ad reloaded his pistol, with which he shot one of
them at once, and the next instant was locked in a

 

 

 

 

a

 

 

 

—?

 

nein aneyageomaaggige Ss .
 

r i

 

 

 

i the queen. City of the west.

 

 

 

 

 

 

’ . .
-gra with the other. The Indian was too
age In a moment he was down with the
red man’s Renee upon his breast andthe red man’s
knife at-his thro

But Bettie saved her lover as she had saved his
sister. Snatching the Indian’s tomahawk from his
belt, she cut him a deep gash across the back of his
neck, which caused him to reel forward witha

oan. .
eat Tom had barely time to stagger to his feet
before a dozen Indians serambled over the rocks.
Resistance was out of the question. Blow after blow
was rained upon his defenseless person. He was
borne down, trampled upon, and knew no more.

One of the savages Bettie upon her knees.
Her long, dark hair was clutched in his lefthand,
and his sealping-knife in his right.

. A tall chieftain bounded forward, and dashed
him aside with the handle of his tomahawk.

“Dog! are you mad?” he shouted in the Shawnee
dialect. “Would you destroy that for which we
i made the attack?” ~

The other’s only answer was to point to the
bodies of his slaughtered brethren, and to mutter
something to the other Indians around him; but
» hedrew away with a scowl.

 

CHAPTER X.
BETTIE PROVES A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

Tom Callaway’s return to the fort has already
been described to the reader in Kattridge’s report
to Boone, before the capture of the latter. The In-
dians,in their haste to get away with their pre-
cious prisoner, had left him for dead, and, wonder-
ful to relate, even forgotiaaae sealp him.

. ming to his senses, he had managed to crawl
to a spring and bathe his wounds; and by long
stages he manages to reach the fort, where;he
fainted away, and was delirious and on the point of
death for many days.
| Bettie, at seeing what she supposed to be the
; death of her lover, had instantly fallen into a deep
swoon. She did not recover for hours. When she
«did so, she was lying upon the turfy bank of a little
spring, and an old squaw was bathing her temples
with the bubbling waters; the warriors forming a
P = circle around a fire a short distance off, engaged in
an earnest consultation. | .
As the memory of what had occurred flowed in

 

 

> upon her bewildered brain, low. broken moans of

anguish gushed from her lips. The picture of her
oor lover, prostrate, bruised, and bleeding at her
eet, seemed like a bloody dream. She could not
weep, tremors shook her

but pee agonizin
frame from head to foot. Every nerve seemed to
sympathize with the pangs of heart and mind.

|« There was not an atomof sympathy in the hard

stony face that bent over hers. It seemed. made o

yellow or copper-colored parchment, wrinkled and
stained by time. The Indian hag dashed the water
upon the sufferer merely as a matter of duty, and

at last harshly bade her to arise, or rather motioned
her to do so, also indicating by her gestures that
the march was about to be resumed. a

The girl staggered to her feet and strové'to walk ;
her prudence still in a measure remained, and she
wished to conciliate her captors. But her limbs re-
fused to sustain her, and she sank.

They laid her upon the rude litter of green
boughs, with which they had already borne her;
four of the Indians raised it upon their shoulders,
and the march was resumed. The Indians who
‘went before and behind frequently eyed her with
» malignant scowls, especially those who went be-
fore, inasmuch as they were often obliged ‘to pause
and clear away the underbrush with their toma-
hawks to make room for the passage of the litter.

, But they ali evidently consideréd themselves to
be cheated out of a portion of their just revenge
for the death of their comrades. The chief who
held them in check strode on before, and seldom
» spoke. Hewas a tall Indian, lean and feunt al-
most to emaciation, and the lightness of his skin
would seem to indicate him to be a half-breed. His
features were wrinkled and hatchet-like, and with
the small, neyer-resting dark eyes, and closely
compressed thin lips, appeared to express treach-
er, and cunning in every lineament.
| The o.d squaw hobbled alone: beside. the litter,
and from the constant_fearin which she appeared
to be of the lean chieftain, she was evidently his
wife, or mother, or some relative. ;

The savages reached a small watering place, and
| encamped for the night, Bettie being placed under

the charge of the old squaw.. _

On the following morning the captive was given
to understand that she would be carried no longer;
, thatif she would not walk she would be whipped

into doing so.

Despite her mental anguish her Reysical frame
had already recuperated greatly. She partook of
the food they offered her, and walked along with
* them meekly but with a firm step. This met the

approval of pean of them, especially of those who
had been compelled to carry her on ; the preceding

animated discussion as to how they should cross it.
proyerbially poor swimmers. They hate the exter-
nal application of cold water worse than a cat. They
decided on the following-morning to build a raft of
loge and cross in that way.
ow, Bettie could swim like a fish. So, early on
» the following day, when she witnessed the cr
attempts of her captors. to construct a raft wit
their imperfect hatchets and knives, it suddenly
dawned upon’ her that the opportunity might be
given her to escape. ;
».  Atany rate she determined to make the attempt,
and waited patiently, atthesame time putting on
an air of deeper dejection than her sorrowful fea-
tures had theretofore displayed.
At about noon the sarees had succeeded in pct
« ting their raft together. It was a lamentable affair,
made of old logs, clumsily fastened together with
vines. Itwas ut twenty feet long by two wide,
and when launched in the stream presented a very
* uneasy and lopsided appearance.
| But the Indians, about fifty in number, managed
to clamber upon it, piaeing their captive and the
old squaw in the middle. The great weight sank
« the top of the raft almost to the water’s edge; but
the si lar crew pushed off with long sapplings,
which they had cut in the forest,and drifted out
into the stream, with a confusion of shouts and
cries that put one in doubt as to which was the
« commander of the craft.
_ The Licking river at this point—half a mile from
its mouth, and directly opposite the present site of
Cincinnati—is narrow but deep, and exceedingly
swift when under the influence of a freshet, which
« happened to be the case at the time of our writing.
The Indians had crossed it repeatedly in their ca-
noes, but knew little of its currents and depths,
Now, as the waters rushed, turbid and swift, against
the sides of the raft, which these ingenious Shaw-
nees poked out into the stream, the vessel (if such
it could be called) careened and reeled like a wash-
tub in atempest. The Indians had sense enough
to guide their. craft diagonally down-stream, and
thus, in a measure, avoid the force of the freshet.
Despite their. disadvantages they got along pretty
well till they reached the middle of the stream.
where their longest poles could find no bottom.
Here they were quite at a loss, and began to use
their poles after the manner of paddles, which ten-
ded still further to imperil the security of the raft.
Bettie been waiting her opportunity; sho
seized it now. Springing suddenly to her feet she
jumped with all her foree upon the down-stream
side of the raft, clasped her hands» above her head,
« and plunged headforemost into the turbid waves.
The savage nearest to her clutched at her flying
hair. The jetty masses slipped through his fingers
like threads of grass; and she was free, afloat and
« free upon the, stream, over which her lithe and
pretty figure glided like a spirit of the waters.
Shaking her dripping hair from her face she
leaned her shoulder to the waye and looked back,

»

é The raft was overturned, and most of the Indians

were clinging to it. But they were not so numerous
as before—some were drowned. Even as she looked
and floated, a dark, indistinct object drifted by her,

4 and a dark hand was thrust above the surface to

clutch her with a drowning man’s grip. She evaded
it easily, and it disappeared,

Bettie continued swimming down the stream.
Crinoline and starched flouneces were unknown in
those days of primitive simplicity. The short,sim-

le skirts of our heroine interfered but little with
1er movements; the weather was. hot, and the wa-
ter consequently soothing and eool. Indeed, she

“ had but to keep afloat; the swift current bore her

lightly upon its bosom.

» _ She let it bear herso until she reached the mouth
_ of the Ohio, when she made a landing on the lower
~ or western bank of the Licking. .The direction.of
, her home was on the other side. Butshe shrewdly
“conjectured that that would be the bank upon which
* the pursuit would be taken up, and therefore chose
4 the side of the river’ directly in the enemy’s coun-

 

try.

Little Bettie sat upon apiece of drift upon the
river shore, drying herself in thesun, and the great
4, river rolling its swollen waters betweer her and

the green and wooded solitude where now stands
moaned bitterly as she th ae “ ioe thet ai
6 te she thou in of agic
I death of her lover, re ae
Gradually, however, the desolation of her own
position overcame every other feeling. She had no
weapon—not even a jack-knife. She was hungry
and exhausted. Although she did not fear any im-
. mediate pursuit from her former captors, she was
x cory a with pavaee who, should
she eir hands, s a 7
tender with her as they. ere
Her first thought, however, was to relieve her
« hunger, So, when her clothes were sufficiently
dried, she wandered into the woods. She soon ob-
tained a plentiful apply of wild grapes and haws,
which she found very delicious. Then, in a little
inlet, she found some small mussels, which proved
a oe end. ae

She gathered a number of them, and ret e

her log, to ponder and reflect, er

 

 

  

 

 

6

 

a mn

 

How. remorseless the swollen.and turbid tide ap-
peared that rolled between her and the opposite
shore. And how desolate that opposite shore! _

Suddenly, however, she caught sight of an object
floating in the water about a hundred yards from
the water. be j i

She gazed at it intently, shadowing her eyes with
her hand. Then she gave a shout of joy, and clap-
ped her- hands. ,

The dark object was nothing less than alog canoe,
floating bottom up.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]

“SAVE ME NOW, LORD.”

BY MRS. M A. KIDDER,

 

 

“The last man whom Christ saved before He expired on the
Cross was that poor thief. He had a nail through each of his
hands; he could not work for hissalvation. He had agreat nail
through both his feet; he could not run on any errands for the
Lord. When he had the use of his feet, they were swift to shed
blood; and when he had the use of his hands, they were doing
the deyil’s service. Hecould not have been baptized; there was
not a man in Judea who would have baptized him. As he hung
there by the Saviour’s side, he cried out: ‘Lord, remember me.
That prayer was right to the point. I hope there will be some
who Will make that prayer to-day. Don’t be looking round to
see how it suits your neighbors; take it home to yourself. To-day
let the prayer go up from your hearts: ‘Lord, remember me.’ No
one gets salvation till they comedown to this point. That prayer
fell on the ears of the Son of God, and immediately there came
the answer: ‘This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.’ Christ
snatched him from the jaws of death, from the grasp of the devil,
and took him into Paradise with Him. He was never baptized,
nor partook of the Lord’s Supper. Perhaps he could not even
see Christ; but he could hear Him when He prayed: ‘Father,
forgive them, for they know not what. they do.’ Perhaps he
thought to himself, ‘I want an interest in that prayer,’ and he
cried out, ‘Lord, remember me.’ He only asked to be remem-
bered, but Christ took him into Paradise with Him. He was not
ashamed to walk arm-in-arm with the poor thief through Para-
dise. If there is a poor, lost sinner here to-day, Christ is;able
and willing to save you; He will saye you now if you will let
Him. He wants to save you now.”—Mr. Moody’s Lo

 

 

lessed Lord, Thy invitation
Finds me helpless by the way;
I would know Thy great salvation—
Save me, Jesus, while I pray.
Weak and needy, poor and sinful,
Humbly at Thy feet I bow;
Merit Ihave none to offer—
Save me, Jesus, save me now.
REFRAIN: Merit I have none to offer—
Save me, Jesus, save me now.

i have read ‘‘the old, old story,”

And it touched my hardened heart,
How oh, blessed Son of glory,

Thou didst take the sinner’s part.
On the earth Thou, pure and sinless,

Walked in raiment white as snow; °
Make my poor rags like unto it—

Save me, Jesus, save me now.

Merit I have none to offer—
Save me, Jesus, save me now.

Like a sheep lost from the mountains,
Like a wanderer from the fold,
I have drank at sin’s deep fountains,
With no shelter from the cold.
Standing near the pit of darkness,
While the tempests round me blow,
Lord, I see my soul’s great danger—
Save me, Jesus, save me now.
i Merit I have none to offer—
Save me, Jesus, save me now.

SILVER-SWORD ;

 

 

OR,
THE BEAST-TAMER OF SEGNA.
By Prof. Wm. H. Peck,

Author of “WILD REDBURN,” “FIFTEEN
== THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD,” ete.

 

 

day.
« On the evening of the.seco _they reached |
tne Danks of the Licking river, a ad a long and

There was no canoe to be found, and Indians are,

[“Silver-Sword” was commenced in No. 14. Back numbers
can be obtained of any News Agent.) .

CHAPTER X.—ConTINUED,

The headsman, having hurled his ax, had drawn
from his belt that broad and curved knife of which
mention was made when description was made of
his appearance as he cast off his

[ , . BOWD of black
serge, and was bounding on with the desire to throw

 

  

     

   

 
 

inflict a disabling wound upon Thyra, and:
power to escape while he and Omicida should be in
combat, the soldier sprang toward her with his
spear leveled to stab her in the foot.

Ys petpigen She pall prostrate maiden enache

  

th |-
s intent, an at she shou e deprived of the
this i d that she should bed ed orth

Arbe, neither of them more than three or four miles
in width, Five entrance into the shallow waters of
the Bay of Segna; and through one of the three it
was necessary that the boat of Red Cap should pass
to sail upon the open Adriatic. :

The three great war-galleys of Saraceno were
now in plain sight, though their hulls were still be-
low the horizon from where Omicida. d; and he
knew that if the fiver and white boat attempted to
reach the Gulf of Quarnero, and thencethe Adriatic
Sea by way of the Straits of Cherso, it must risk.
capture from the boats, and Fdestruction from the
cannon of the galleys; and the galleys were now
separated, each. pursuing a different channel, but
all bearing down under full sail toward Segna.

“T know not,” muttered Omicida, as he stared
after the strange boat, “what aught of this mystery
means. I knew notthat he in yonswift craft—the
like of which I never till now saw in these waters—
was a friend to the peerless Thyra. By St. George
and the Dragon, knew not that she had a friend
in all the world save myself—and of that friendship
I scarce dared to whisper eyen to her; but it seems
she has a friend indeed, and that his name is Leon.
Leon?. [know of-no one by that name, except old
Leon Dotas, the lame fisherman, and yon stranger
hath no semblance to old Dotas; and now I see
oe old Dotas is scrambling into his coracle to be
afloat.” 4

The surface of the harbor near the beach was now
alive with the scores of boats, skiffs,and small,
open craft of all kinds pushed from shore by such
of those who had fled from the plateau and been
fortunate enough to secure such means of flight by
water from the lions and other beasts of Ercole, all
which, with a million more created by their terrified
imaginations, these fugitives believed. were raging
and tearing aboutthe plateau, the tents, and even
within the walls of Segna. ec

Others, failing to secure anything in the shape of
a boat, had cast spars and loose timber into the
water, and ‘paddled out, clinging with One arm to
such supports; and some had swam and were
swimming toward the great poles and buoys which
served to point out safe channels for large boats;
for none. would remain stationary in shallow wa-
ter, fearing the dreaded beasts could wade as well
as themselves. :

Afew who were excellent swimmers were on
their way toward the anchored galleys, which lay
more than half a mile from the shore.

The man Dotas, of w “Qmicida spoke, old
and lame, bent and white-bearded, bare-headed
and bald, had just arrived at the beach with a light
kind of craft called a “coracle” by the headsman,
it being very much like a boat used and called by
that name in  Wales—a frame of wicker work
covered with painted canvas, and imperyious to

water. os {

As it was very light, old Dotas was accustomed to
carry it upon his back by means of astout leather
strap which crossed his breast; and asthe shape of
his “barca,” as he called it, was muchrlike that of a
tortoise-shell, he had, from his custom of carrying
it about with him while hesold his fish in the
town, gained the nickname of “Old Tortoise.”

‘The old fellow was on the plateau at the moment
of Ercole’s arnegt by the secretary, and. instantly
scenting danger in the air—even beforet

   
   
   
   
   
 

anee of the lions—he had hurried top mself
afieat upon his fayorite element. is speed down
the slope had been wonderfully accelerated by the
subsequent rush of hundreds in the sam ection ;
but being lame, he had just arrived atthe beac
with his “shell,” as the rabble termed his light
craft, as the headsman’s. glance fell upon him, he
being at the time several hundred yards distant
from Omicida toward the northward.” ne
Omicida’s glance, howeyer, rested s¢arcely an in-

stant upon old Dotas, but returned to the green
and white boat. ; Ea

“Since he cannot hope to get out of the Bay of
Segna by way of the Cherso straits,” he muttered,
“because of the approachi galleys, and as he
cannot run on the course he is steer very long
without making shore, perhaps he ins to come
about presently and < for the Straits of Veglia;
since if he tries for the Straits of Arbe, he must go
near one of the galleys because of the shoals; and
if he enters the Straits of Veglia he and the maiden
will fall into the hands of the Uscoschi at Zeugh, of

Ay, he comes about, and, doubtless, he, will steer
for the Straits of Veglia.. Now, I know not who he
is, save that the beautiful Thyra called him Leon,
and recognized him as her friend, but may I die, if
I do not strive to aid her escape!” , .

CHAPTER XI.
THE AUSTRIAN TRADER.

ve

  

preceding chapter, the headsman ste
along the beach toward

boat lay;

which was

it h

A je tae -
sapon, that. he was forced to
place one of his feet upon the body while he
wrenched with both hands on the long helve to free
the deeply-buried blade from the steel and bone it
had piereed.

  

 

He could as easily have inflicted a mortal wound

 

upon her, but he remembered the command of the
secretary that no such hurt was to be made.

But his intention even to wound her was vain; for
even as he had made sure of his aim and was about.
to thrust his spear-head into one of the maiden’s
feet—for he had grasped one of her ankles, and
shortened his spear to strike the blow—he sudden-
ly let fall all that he grasped, threw up_ his hands,
and began to spin around upon his heels, while the
sharp report of amusket rangin the air, anda
puff of white smoke swept swiftly shoreward from
the stern of the green and white boat.

Cap had watched keenly the scene on the
beach, and the instant he belieyed a bullet could
avail to aid the maiden, he had discharged ashort
musket, which he had taken from the boat’s chest.

The ball struck the cap of the Austrian, and,
though it did not penetrate or shatter the metal, its
stin ane concussion cause him to act as just de-
seribed. ; ;

Before the half-stunned soldier could collect his
thoughts the headsman leaped upon him, grasped
him bythe beard, forced his chin OP Ward, and
plunging that broad and curved knife deep into the

 

fin ers had bentand broken the

 

This being done, he again started toward his boat,
but he had not taken fiye steps when his eye fell
upon that golden brooch of antique shape which
had fallen from Thyra’s disheveled hair. ‘
-He snatched it up, and in pam tine to pin it to
peed ences is close-fitting: doublet of coarse
serge, handled it so rudely that the brooch seemed
to crumble to pieces in his fingers, f
His fingers. gory with the blood of the miserable
‘man whose head he had “knifed off,” smeared the
brooch, and muttering, ‘‘Bloody and broken, it isin
no fit shape to restore to the maiden,” he rushed to
the water’s edge, and plunged his hand and that
which it held into the water, to ¢leanse them.
This was accomplished in an instant, and as he
lanced. atthe brooch he saw thatthough his clumsy
€ 1 in the brooch it-
self was uninjured, though it had been forced into
two parts which were joined bya delicate hinge,
and he saw that one of these parts contained a small
painting on ivory. f ete :
The painting, scarcely an inchin diameter, was
oval in shape, and was the portrait of a young man
of remarkable beauty; so lordly and majestic, in-

    
  

 

 

  
 
   
  
     
  

 
  

    
 
  
 

 

throat of the miserable man, swept the keen blade
around from left to right, and then jerking him
forward upon his knees, bore down npn the blade
driving it through the neck bones with the skill of
a surgeon, and thus completely beheaded the
wretch in an instant. ; ;

The wrath of the headsman had been flamed, or,
more truly exploded into the perpetration of this
ferocious deed by the dastardly attempt of the Aus-
trian tothrust the spear into the foot of Thyra;
and to Omicida this pure and beautiful maiden was
the angel incarnate of his dreams by night and by

 

 

day.
The headless corpse ot the third Austrian sank

deed, in its style or type of manly beauty, that the
headsman: muttered as he paused where he was
for a moment to look at it. fil. F

“By St. George, a right noble face! And ifthis be
the fac-simile of him: in the green and white boat, I
marvel not if the maiden hath faith in his love. Yet
TL, caught not) ‘a fair’ look at theface of the man.
“What is thisitraced:on the rim?) Ha—Leon!’—why
so she called him in the boat! Then he is her lover?
But how and. when .became these two known ‘to
each other?—since the jealous beast-tamer hath not
been more ‘¢aréful to guard: the ope of his eye
from harm than he hath been vigilant to seclude
the beautiful Thyra from lovers’ speech and eye!
So! they are lovers, no doubt, and n+whoever

  
 

  

 
     
 

 

to the earth,a great stream of blood spurting its
red torrent into the thirsty sand of the beach, while
Omicida, muttering some fierce malediction, tossed.
the dissevered head far from him, so that it rolled
nearly to the water’s edge.

The right hand of the headsman was deluged in
gore eyen to the elbow, and much of the same red
stain was dark eee his garb of. searlet serge.

Now thou wilt believe ‘that I am thy friend,
beautiful Thyra!” he exclaimed, as he tossed away
the gory head and faced the maiden, who at this
instant regained her feet,

She did not as much as glance toward him, though
he stood almost directly in a line with her and the
green and white boat upon which her gaze was
fixed ; but bounded past him exclaiming wildly:

Help me, Leon! Help me! Save me, Leon!
Lieon)?

As she flitted past the headsman a golden brooch
Be Sp Haue make fell from her disheveled hair at his

eet.

He noticed it at the moment, but did. not pick ‘it
up, 80 amazed was_ he by her words and actions as
his glance followed her.

 

Not until this instant had he suspected that.there
was any connection between her tows of flight and
the green and white boat.

True he had heard the report of the musket
whose bullet had made the third Austrain his help-
less victim; but at the time his gaze was fixed upon
the Austrian, he saw not the smoke of the gun, nor
knew then why the Austrian threw up_ his hands
and spun about like a beast halfstunned by a buteh-
er’s sledge.

Thyra, after darting past him, reached the wa-
ter’s edge, rushed into the shallow waves with
headlong speed until beyond her depth, and then
struck out with all the skill of an expert swimmer
toward the strange boat.

She had not swum more than a fathom ortwo
when the bow of the boat changed its course atthe
instant it appeared about to run upon her, and a
strong hand reached from the starboard quarter
and lifted her swiftly from the water into the boat.

Scarcely two minutes elapsed between the mo-
ment when Thyra rushed into the water and that
which saw her in the lifting grasp of Red Cap.

Omicida, amazed and utterly confounded, walked
slowly to the water’s edge, gazing with dilated eyes
at the strange boat. }

The latter was now running north-westerly from
the beach, that being the course taken by Red Cap
instantly after he had lifted Thyra into the boat,
and the breeze blowing stiffly from the seaward.

The harbor beach was crescent in shape, the curve
northward from where the headsman stood sweep-
ing around gradually to the westward on his right
hand, and thence fading away into the Istrian shore
toward the Strait of Cherso. On_ his left the great
curvature of the beach sweptsoutherly, and then to
the westward toward the Straits of Veglia Island.
This island, Veglia, lies between Cherso Island and
the Illyrian coast south-east of Segna, and there is
therefore a third strait, that of Arbe, and this strait
eee the two islands, Cherso and Vegtia.

he may be—has ventured hitherall alone to attempt
her rescue from Ereole andthe Uscoecchi! Brave
fellow! May Idie on the death-block by the edge
of my own ax,if I aid not these lovers! Itis a pity
the lovely Thyra mademe not her confidant, or
that Signor Leon did notask my adviceand aid.
Well, he and she must now know that the heads-
man of Segna:is ‘willing to befriend them.”

Thrusting the locket-brooch into an inner pocket
of his doublet or jacket, Omicida bounded along
the beach, and soon arriving near his boat, rushed
into the shallow water, shouting to his dumb but
not. deaf dwarf, Malon, to make allready for instant
departure; and ina very short time the boat of the
headsman, which was furnished with one mast and
a sprit-sail, was darting out from the beach.

“Take the helm, Malon,” said the headsman to
his dwarf, ‘‘and hold. a course to cross the bows of
yonder green and white craft—which is somewhat
like a tartan in rig—thou seest?”

Malon, now at the helm, nodded. a tng

Omicida then went tothe bow of the boat, and
from time to time called out such orders as he
deemed best to his dwarfish steersman.

Let us now place ourselyes in the boat of him till
now ¢alled Red Cap, but to whom I will now give
that name by which Thyra addressed him as she
plunged into the water to meet the aid he was has-
tening to give.

No sooner had: Thyra ‘been lifted into his boat
than she shrank dripping and cowering to the floor
of the boat; nearly swooning from’ exhaustion and
shame, and drawing about her as her only conver-
ing a cast-net that lay near her.

“Thou art not Leon!” she said, and staring at the
heavily black-bearded face. “Oh, Heaven! [thought
that. thou wert——”

“Thy Leon,” said the stranger, who had devoted
all his attention to changing the course of his boat,
the instant after lifting the maiden from the water;
and having now determined upon a4 cértain route,
he said, and interrupting the remark of Thyra:

“Thy Leon. Andlam thy Leon, dearest Thyra;
and I must be well disguised indeed not to be re-
cognized by thee.”

“It is indeed the voice of him who promised to
rescue me a year ago—art thou in truth my Leon?
Alas! I know him whom I love by no name save
that of Leon!” exclaimed Thyra, still gazing doubt-
fully at the stranger, who seemed cold and stern as
he stood’ erect at his tiller, his gaze sweeping anx-
iously over every quarter of the bay of Segna.

“Dear maiden—sweetest lady,” he said, suddenly
turning a loving glance upon her for a moment,
“be assured that I am he who gave thee his portrait
in miniature in the antique brooch.”

Thyra raised her hand quickly to her head, and
missing the brooch her fair fingers swept nervously
amid the beautiful and disheveled locks in search

of it.

“Ah! I have lost the brooch,” she said.

“Tt does not matter since I am with thee!”

“But proye tome that thou art Leon—my Leon—
the Leon of the brooch—or by Heaven I will leap
into the waves!”

   
  
 
 
 

 

 

 

hese three straits, therefore, Cherso, Veglia, and

“And live to wed the beast-tamer ?”

whom, doubtless, this Pye is not informed.

self rather than wed the ferocious Ercole, or trust
myself to the hands of one whom I know net.”

~ Why, thou hast never seen undisgzuised him who
gave thee the brooch saying, as he gaye it to thee,
‘This portrait is my true semblance. If thou art
heart-free and will give thy love. to this painted
face, the original whose name is Leon, will rescue
thee from the Uscocchi. Or, whether ‘hou wilt love
him or not, he will with thy consent b >ar thee away
from Segna,’ did he not?”

“And thou art he who gaye me‘that b-ooch ?” :

“Tam, but still in disguise, though rot in that
Psenitg in which I was when I gave thec the brooeh,

yra,”

To make clear to the reader the incident to which
the above dialogue referred, I will state ‘hat about
a year prior to this appearance of Leon, he was in
Segna in search of that lost diamond, “I. Tesoro,”
hitherto mentioned. ;

At that time 170 aD DOREED in the guise cf an old
Austrian trader,white-hairedand white-mvtstached,
while the only beard he wore was upon his chin in
the shape of a long tuft, white in hue and -eaked;
his complexion very ruddy.

The purpose of this white-haired and suzposed
old Austrian trader was not suspected at Segna,
where he remained so weeks vainly and secretly
PORE CUMS, his search for the thief who had stolen

esoro.” .

While thus disguised, Leon—whose real name
and station Ido not yet make known to the reader
—had seen and spoken with Thyra.

First he saw her as she performed _as ‘The Prin-
cess of Lions,” in ashow exhibited by Ercole.

The extraordinary beauty of the maiden had at
once smitten the heart of the pretended Austrian
trader with all the power of a feryent though sud-
den passion. 7

The least idea in his mind when he first thought
of visiting the famous and infamous stronghold of
the Uscocchi, had no connection with Thora, nor
with any other object save thatof making secret
search in Segna for the adroit thief ho had stolen
the most precious jewel of the Venetian State.

The name of this thief was Assalmo. I shall haye

gone? to speak of this’ thief further on in this
story.
_ But Leon’s whole soul was suddenly and foreyer
inflamed with love for the beautiful white slave of
the beast-tamer, as his deyouring and entranced
gaze followed the graceful and superb motions of
her splendid and faultless form amid the perilous
sports and spectacles of Ercole’s arena.

On the day after this show—his first sight of the
maiden—his inquiries regarding her, made with
exceeding caution, revealed to him the spotless pu-
rity of her character and reputation, and the fact
that she was jealously guarded by Ercole as his in-
tended bride. ; “ts

, Shrewd and daring, the pretended Austrian tra-
der gained admittance into the private menagerie
of tho beast-tamer under representations that he
possessed a seeret by means of which the most fe-
rocious beasts could be tamed; and, truly, to the
amazement of Ercole, this apparently old and white-
haired stranger did reduce to subjection the black
lion, Satana, whose fierceness had proved hitherto
unconquerable even to Ercole:

And after imparting some secrets to the beast-
tamer, valuable to the latter in his fayorite profes-
sion, the pretended trader persuaded Ercole to per-
mit him to instruct Orsola and Thyra in the art of
taming wild beasts; and this Gohnoes he gained
without in the least exciting the suspicions of Er-
cole and Orsola. _ :

His appearance in the disguise he had assumed
was not at all to the taste, so to speak, of Thyra, who
regarded him coldly, and with apathetic scorn,
until he made known to her that he would aid her
to escape from the Uscocchi, if she had such desire:
Then, indeed, she began to regard him with great
interest, but not with sentiments of love. Aware,
however, of his remarkable comeliness of visage,
which was eeteaat hidden beneath his disguise,
the beauty of his eyes searcely excepted, as he kept
their lids continually red and inflamed by means
of an ointment—he ventured to show her, four days
after he first saw her, the portrait of his head and
face, which was in the brooch. pe
~The deep and eager admiration with which the
maiden gazed upon the‘ picture, emboldened him
tosay to her those words which I have quoted
above, and by which he declared that he was the

 
  
  
 
 
    
   
   

original of the picture. 2
Thyra, glowing with. admiration of this painted
face, whose lineaments were replete with both

manly and intellectual beauty, and much like such
noble faces as she had often seen in her dreams,
but never in the flesh, replied that she could loye
with all her soul one so fascinating, but that she

 

    
 
   
  
 
 
  
  
   
 
   
     
  
 
  
   
 

Having ejaculated the last words quoted in the.

      
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 

.cepted as true that which it asserted.

feared no rtal so handsome, and at the same

nded trader smiled when Thyra thus

his smile becoming instantly a light

Os eRe t paar, Rerueto Ze i of

essly regular, ee wi heir

ue d aahantdann, for the time,

by some pigment which made*them greenish and
black, and replied: wo

“Were my hair and beard not dyed, and worn
loose and untrimmed as I wear them now, my teeth
and complexion unstained, my eyelids not inflamed
from the effeets of an ointment which I use to dis-
guise the natural appearance of my eyes—in brief,
were my person rid of the many contrivances with
which I carefully disguised it ere I ventured to visit
this nest of human scorpions, that portrait would
not be less' faithful in its resemblance to my features
than is the image in thy truest mirror a faithful re-
flection of. thine own lovely face.” eerie:

Thyra, gazing alternately at the disguised face
and at the portrait, could trace little resemblance
between them, except in the color of the iris of the
eye, so cunningly had the original of the portrait
disguised his true and natural features.

But the voice in whieh Leon declared that he was
the original of the portrait was rich, deep, and me-
lodious ; far different, indeed totally different from
that in which he had spoken hitherto—for in his
character of Austrian trader he had used a thin,
stammering, and harsh voice, as unlike that in
which he declared himself the original of the por-
trait, asthe rasping of a file is unlike the richest
harmony of a deep-toned flute.

Tis safe,” he had remarked as he saw the start-
led Peer teak Thyra’s face as he thus spoke in
his natural yoice’ and in the purest Tuscan, “for
me to undisguise my voice here for a moment, as
none save thee can hear me,”—they were at the time
near the “Den of Lions” in Ereole’s walled mena-
gerie, remote from .the hearing. of any human ear,
though in the sight of the. beast-tamer. But. the
latter was at the time busy instructing some of his
servants in beast-taming, or beast-feeding, and
supposed the pretended trader was at the same
time instructing Thyra as regards the treatment of
the lions, before the grated doors of whose ‘‘den”
the pair were ‘standing, and Thyra pretending to
write in her tablets such instruction—“and I thus
speak in my true voice, beautiful Thyra,” contin-
ued the pretended trader, “‘thatthou mayst imagine
how perfectly I have disguised my natural features
since thou canst not now fail to perceive how per-
fectly I have disguised my natural voice.”

And the voice in which he thus spoke was in ad-
mirable unison with that superb manly beauty and
dignity displayed in the portrait, so that Thyra’s
heart leaped to love, as it were, this voice, and ac-

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
PP

A SENSATIONAL STORY.

BY MAX ADELER,

 

 

 

— It may be worth. while to mention that I have
been engaged for sometime upon aserial story;
and to say thatitis to be written for the solitary
purpose of satisfying the public. I am not going
to fetter myself with any of the restrictions which
novelists ordinarily. impose pon themselves.
When L publish the first chapter, if the people don’t
like it, I will publish the last chapter next and run
the story backwards, winding up with the table of
contents, or maybe I will begin in the middle and
run it both ways. It makes no difference to me if
the public are. accommodated. And if, when I get
the narrative fairly under way, anybody is dissat-
isfied with the characters, Iwill very willingly col-
lect them over a powder magazine and blow them
into eternity, and startin fresh with a new lot, if
that will suit better. It-will not haye any particu-
lar plot. My idea is just to run italong, putting
into it anything that happens to turn up, marrying
somebody every now and then, and killing off any
villain wht has been fooling about in the narrative
too long, or who seems in a convenient place to be
murdered. But at the same time lI reserve the right
to resurrect any such assassinated person and run
him in again on the old basis whenever I want to.
It is my story, and if I choose to have alot of dead
people frolicking around Iam going to do it.

The hero will be a man who is remarkable for his
fondness for bayrum and adjectives, and who
quarrels with his wife because she uses so many
personal pronouns and prepositions, and wastes
upon marketing the money. which he has conse-
crated to the purpose of making his hair smell
nicely. Gradually, as the story proceeds, he will
become bald-headed and fonder of haying his un-
dershirts silver-plated, while she will develop a
passion for playing the bass-drum while he is
asleep.

I am not certain yet how I shall arrange for the
villain to annoy her. A very good way might be
for him to drop her over a precipice ten thousand
feet high, and have her catch on a tree by her back
hair half-way down; butif anybody would rather
that the villain should mesmerize her and make
hér believe that she wasaton of coal, and cause
her to seat herself on the kitchen range and burn |
to death, I will try to arrange itin that manner. It
is immaterial: to me. I am perfectly willing to

 

“Nay—I will leap. into. the waves and drown my-

‘
steeple until she cools off and slides down. by a fires
escape, if anybody prefers that. method. The pos-
sibilities of fiction are simply-inexhautible.

The story will be publisheddn parts.’ It will prob-
ably run through the paper about thirty-five years
and will contain about fifteen thousand characters,
My object is to give variety. . Enough will be given
each week to occupy the reader constantly for seven
days until the next installment comes, so that those
who begin it and become interested will hardly
have time enough to eat for about: & third
of century. It is as well to mention this *so that
Ryispns may complete their arrangements before-

and. The language usually will be clear, but oc-
casionally when I become intensely excited it may
be necessary to parse the text in order to dis-
cover precisely what I mean, for it is likely that I
shall not know, myself. Examination of the lan-
guage with a microscope may perhaps reveal what
is desired, and if it doesn’t, some light may be shed
upon the subject in the latter part of the story which
will appear in the year 2009. The title of the story
will be “The Red Right Hand of D. Benjamin Me
Ginnis; a story of love, misery, soda water, and syl-
logisms.” Orders should be sent in early.

——__>0+_____—_
Items of Interest.

&> A donation party was recently chloroform-
ed at Summerhill, N. ¥. A Moravia (Cayuga county) paper in
its aecount of the outrage says that the fonaten: was being
given at the house of Emery Doran, for the benefit of Rev.
Charles Lewis, of the Methodist Church. Among’ several “tough
customers” present, in which the town seems to abound, were a
couple of young rascals named Peter Roda and Thomas Wilkin-
son, who undertook to stupefy the whole party with chloroform,
by scattering it upon their clothing and about the room. Twelve
persons, men, women, and young girls, were more or less.affect-
ed by the drug, some of them very seriously, being unconscious
for seyeral hours, and one lady’s life was for a time in jeopardy.
The affair caused intense excitement among the people, and
next morning Roda and Wilkinson were arrested. The case will
probably go before the next Grand Jury,

&- Two Massachusetts ladies celebrated the
one hundredth anniversary of: their birth last month—Mrs.
White, of Weymouth, and Mrs. Tuttle, of East Boston. Mrs.
White is the third of nine children of Capt. Thomas Hollis, of
Braintree. Her father and three of her uncles were soldiers in
the war of the Revolution. She is a descendant of the first set-
tlers in the town of Weymouth. Three of her children are living
—two daughters in Worcester and asonin San Francisco. She
is possessed of a good memory, and is still able to do patchwork
and sewing. She has not been ill for over fifty years. A large
number of friends and relatives, including her lineal descend-
ants, were present at Mrs. Tuttle’s party.

k@ A case of poisoning occurred at Grundy
Centre, Iowa, last month, resulting in the death of Mrs. William
Smith. She had been under the care of a physician for.some
days. On the fatal day he left two kinds of powders, with in-
structions to the nurse to keep them separate. For thé purpose
of doing so she placed one kind on the clock-case, which unfor-
tunately contained some pellets of aeychuine prepared. last
spring for the purpose of killing rats. One of these pellets was
given to the lady for a powder. She went into convulsions im-
mediately, and died in twenty minutes.

ae Many cigars, which have the reputation of
being “pure Havana,” are made, it is represented, out of coarse
brown paper, which, when saturated in the juice of tobacco
stems, makes a “filling” almost equal, if not superior, to the
genuine leaf. To such a refinement ofart has this business been
carried, it is stated, that by the use of machines rolled over the
sheet of paper an almost. perfect impress’ of the tobacco leafis
obtained, the pecular “spots” being printed as on calico. |...

aa Three weddings in one family in the village
of New Holstein, Wisconsin, were recently celebrated, namely, a
golden wedding, a silver wedding, and a linen wedding. The old
folks ¢elebrated their golden wedding, their oldest son and wife
celebrated their silver wedding, and their son and wife cele-
brated their linen wedding, and on the same occasion the first
child of the latter couple was baptized. :

sae John Allio, of Clarion county, Pa., whose
one hundredth birthday, as well as that of his wife, occurred
last summer, died recently. Mr. Allio was born in France, and

 

who recrossed the Alps after the burning of Moscow.
survives her husband.

aa-'The steamer Mary Bell lately burned at
Vicksburg, Miss., was believed to be the largest steamer ever
constructed for navigating the Mississippi, the extreme length
of her hull being 325 feet, and her breadth 56 feet. In construct-
ing the boat over a million feet of water-seasoned oak was used:

aa A girl not out of her teens in Cambria
county, Pa,, weighs 400 pounds, and time is steadily adding to
her weight,

Mrs. Allio

 

Our Knowledge Box.

me
FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING.

 

xa We take pleasure in responding to every question address-
ed to us in this column, for the answers generally afford infor-
mation not only to the parties especially seeking it, but also to
the mass of our readers; but with the increase of our circulation
has grown the number of questions soliciting answers by mait.
These questions are almost uniformly important ones, costing,
to satisfactorily answer them, much time and labor. For this
reason ajl persons in future wishing their queries replied to by
mail, will please inclose 50 cents to defray the expenses
necessarily incurred. ; ‘

UESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.

. 2. £=We cannot inform-yous.... RR. D. and H. L.—Meer-
schaums are cleaned with magnesia. Ifyou wish to polish them,
also, use the dust of meerschaum,,.....George.—1. Try castor oil
and brandy. We know of nothing better for the hair. 2. To:
GIVE A GOLDEN COLOR TO BRASS. A mixture of muriatic acid '
and alum dissolved in water imparts a golden color to brass arti-
cles that are steeped in it for afew seconds. 3. Decidedly no.

*. B.—Lunar caustic will destroy warts.....J.—You are right... .
X. ¥ Z.—DECALCOMANIA.—The process of transferring pictures
to china, glass, wood, or ariy smooth surface, is called Decalca-
mania. The varnish used in trasferring, known as Decaleoma-
nia Cement Varnish, can be obtained where the pictures are for
sale. The pictures for wood.are prepared differently from those
for paper. The process for transferring to wood is the same, ex-
cept that you have to use another varnish to go over the painf
ing when dry. This varnish can be procured where the paint-
ings are sold, or at a carriage-maker’s. To transfer the picture,
in the first place varnish the painting all over, applying the ce-
ment varnish with a camel’s-hair pencil; do not get any on the
white paper if youcan ayoidit. Then with a brush and clean
cold water wash the card-board around the picture and over if
lightly. Lay the picture on the articleto which you wish fo
transfer it; be very careful and not move it. after being once laid
down. Then press it down with a moist cloth, evenly and firmly
all over; then lift it up carefully, beginning at one edge. Before
you remove it entirely, see ifany of the painting adheres <n the
original picture; if it does, it will show that the piace was not
properly covered with yarnish. Lay the picture down again care-
fully, and press again. Ifyou are careful and get the varnish
over every part of the painting, it will transfer in the most per-
fect manner. An hour or two after transferring wash the paint-
ing over with cold water to prevent its eracking.... .R. Powel®.
—ToO MAKE BOLOGNA SAUSAGES.—Take a pound of beef suet, &
pean of pork, @ pound of bacon, fat and lean, and a pound of
beef and veal. Cut them very small. Take a handful of sace
leaves, chopped fine, with a few sweet herbs. Season pretty his
with pepper and salt. Take a large, well-cleaned gut and fill i&
Set on a saucepan of water, and when it boils, put in the sausa
first picking it to prevent its bursting. Boil it an hour...... G
S.—There is nothing that will ‘‘destroy” superfluous hair.» It
may be remoyed, but it will grow again..... Edward.—Trang-
parent soap is made by dissolving hard, white soapin ak
cohol and evaporating. By the use ofa still most of the aleoho!
may be recovered. Itis made round by molding with a drink-
ing-glass, and then is knownas a wash-ball. Unless you have the
necessary vessels to make it in you will find it cheaper to buy if. -
X. Y. Z.—BANTING’S DIETARY.—The dietary which Banting ob-
served to reduce his opus from 202 pounds to 150 wasthis For
breakfast, four ounces of beef, mutton, or any kind of broiled fish
or cold meat, planed pork, salmon, eels and herring; a arge
cup of tea, without milk or sugar, a little biscuit, or an ounce of
dry toast. For dinner, five or six ounces of any fish or meat
(except those prohibited), any vegetable (except Pontos pars-
nips and beets), one ounce of dry toast, ripe and cooked truits,
any kind of poultry and game. For tea, two or three ounces of
fruit, dry toast, and a cup of tea without milk or sugar. And for
supper, three or four ounces of meat or fish, with a glass or -wo
of claret or Madeira. Food which contains sugar and starch in
large proportions rapidly creates fat, and must be avoided by
those who have a horror ofcorpulency........ Norah T. Crumb —
1. The hair will grow again, despite any depilatory you may use.
2. Lemon juice and glycerine will remove tan...... Jake.—RFEME-
DY FOR TETTER, INGWORM, AND SCALD-HEAD.—Take one
pound of simple cerate; sulphuric acid, a quarter of a pound;
mix together, and it will be ready for use..... S. Susie.—We can-
not aid you...... F. J. K.—We cannot tell you..... J. M.M.—We
would advise you to get a copy of ‘‘Holden’s Book on Birds.” It
devotes considerable space to canary birds, and the cost is only
25 cents. Ifyou wish it, write direct to the New YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency........ F. E. W.—1. We cannot say. 2 and 3.
Let all cosmetics alone. 4. Glycerine 1s good for chapped hands.
BD, NOs ab sacs G. W. D.—See answer to ‘Jake,’ in thiscolumn... .
Bellerophon.—TBA BiscuiT.—In the morning boil one quart of
milk; when boiled, put in one cup of lard and half a cup of but-
ter. Let it cool a little,and when tepid, add flour to make a
sponge, and two large tablespoonfuls of yeast, with a little salt;
leave it in a pretty warm place until light; then add, quickly,
enough flour, and let it rise again; roll, cut into biscuits, and

leave them to rise for a short time; bake in a quick oven.

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT.

Observer.—COLD FEET.—‘‘Obseryer” writes as follows: ‘I have
been a reader of the NEw YORK WEEKLY a number.of;years. }¥
wait anxiously for every issue of it. I consider it the best paper
of its class. I have never troubled you for any information be-
fore. Will you please answer the following as soon as convenient:
For several yearsI have been subject to cold feet. I used to
work in a damp basement, and had to stand all day. “Although
my feet are well protected I cannot keep them warm, not even
when in bed. The lower part of my heels feel as.if they were
dead. The skin is very hard and thick, and seems hollow inside
like a rubber ball, which makes it feel very unpleasant. [ have
tried the battery, paint, plasters, cayenne pepper, ete., without
success. What shallI do? Icannot afford to consult a physi-
cian. I am forty-five years of age.??> We recommend our corres-
pondent to draw off his stockings just before undressing for bed,
and rub his ankles and feet well with his hand, as hard as he can
bear the pressure, for about ten minutes; or, if this remedy
should fail, to dip his feet in cold water, and then rub them tho-
roughly dry with a linen cloth or flannel, and continue to rub
them until he gets the skin into a glow. If any of our readers
can suggest something better than we have advised, we shall be
pleased to hear from them on the subject.

B. I, J—Hor CoueH Srrvup.—For a cough, hop sirup will be
éound very efficacious. To one ounce of hops, and one pint of
water, add one tablespoonful of flaxseed. Put all in a saucepan,
and boil it till reduced one half. Strain it off, add half a pint of
molasses, or a quarter of a pound of brown sugar, and boil it until
it becomes a thick sirup. When cold take a teaspoonful at a
time. A correspondent in Portland, Conn., bears testimony to
the excellence of this recipe in the following words which we ex-
tract from his letter:—‘I wish to state that the recipes in your
Medical Department are without price. All the past winter I
have been troubled with a severe cold and cough—coughing
nearly all night—and had tried everything without experiencin
relief until I saw your Hop CovuGH Srrvp, which I tried. It
worked like a charm, and I now enjoy good sleep. I would not
be without your paper.”

All Serene, South Cove Boy, Hudson E. R. W. S.—See No. 12 of
volume 31.

John M. M.—If. no better when you read this, apply to a physi-
cian who can give you his personal attention without delay.

Anzious.—Take a dose of magresin occasionally.

0. L. G.—WorRMS.—In regard to threadworms, clysters of lime-
water will frequently bring the whole nest away, and give in-
stant relief. Ifthe clysters fail, try the following recipe:  Soco-
trine aloes, one ounce; licorice, two ounces; coriander seed,
halfan ounce; gin, one pint. Digest in a bottle for a week,
shaking the bottle frequently, then strain. The dose for a child
is a teaspoonful every morning; for an adult, two teaspoonfuls,

 

marry that woman to four hundred different men,
and to make her jump into a yolcano and be shot
out covered with

root. ; i 7 ;
cinders to light upon a church | Hupe.—Take a dose of magnesia occasionally.

with half the quantity of a strong decoction of the Carolina pink-

 

a

 

 

 

served as a soldier under Napoleon I. He was one ofthe few ~

 

 

 

 

 

sania manta italien

 
 

&

OF

 

 

x:

 

 

84 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &

 

 

 

 

 

one knew that

 

 

te oe ese

LONGINGS FOR SPRING.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

 

As lone, crushed exiles in Siberian wastes

Still to the southland in their yearnings cling,
The ice-bound spirit from its winter hastes

In fancy to anticipate the spring.
All signa, all sounds, that hint of her recall

Are counted as the miser counts his store—
The tarrying of sunshine on the wall,

The geutler wash of waves upon the shore,
The voice of birds, the thaw-drip from the eaves,
And turfy strips the fading snow-drift leaves.

Spurning their c:anking manacles, the brooks
Revel again in ioud, untamed glee ;

Small, bead-eyed squirrels from their secret nooks
Flourish their flags and skip from tree to tree;

And overhead, in long and ragged lines,
The clanging water-fowl their passage steer;

While hurrying breezes from the stiff-strung pines
Harp out wild peans for the eager ear;

And day by day, slow lengthened one by one,

The north is tilted fuller toward the sun.

A little while of grieving and distress,
Of mad March moanings and some April tears,
And Motber Earth once more, in gala dress
Of gold and green, with dewdrops at her ears,
Stars on her brow, and glow-worms in her hair,
Will, jocund, greet her children from the bills,
With face so comely and so debonaire,
And such glad medley of awakened trills,
That, half-forgot late wintry woes and fears,
We only know her as she then appears.

Soft echoes tinkle through the solitudes
Of hills, and dells, and many a glen serene;

A dreamy stir isin the naked woods
That hints of rustling when the leaves are green;

The cock’s shrill clarion, erewhile wheezy-blown,
With lustier utterance ushersin the morn;

The cloud-shapes sweeping o’er the fallows brown
Are but foreshadowings of waving corn;

And, like an answer to long-hopeless prayer,

The village church-vane sparkles in mid-air.

Haste, haste, unto the eager arms outspread,
Unto the hearts that leap to thee, oh, Spring!
Haste to our woodlands with thy mxnad tread,
And on the turf thy gipsy mantle fling!
As captives yearn for the unshackled limb,
As bomesick wanderers for their native land,
As miners delving in the caverns dim
For air, and light, and scope of sight and hand,
We long for thee, oh, wild of foot and wing!
Green-garmented, sun-petted, and joy-nurtured Spring!

 

NOTHING BUT A ROSE.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

 

“Tt was nothing but a rose I gave her,
Nothing but a rose

Any wind might rob of half its savor,
Any wind that blows.”

pres was to him, and not to her, thatI gave the
rose. Perhaps I was alittle bit romantic. Atany rate,
I had read a great many stories about the influence
of girls and women in Helping people to rise, and
I was full of a longing to do something for some-
body. So, one morning, when my father’s errand-
boy came up with a message from the book-keeper,
and had to waitin the hall while papa wrote a let-
ter, I wondered if there was not the somebody to
whom I could speak a word in season, as it said in
the story-books, Perhaps if the boy himself had
been less interesting I should have been less in-
clined to try my little experiment. But he was the
manliest, handsomest boy of fourteen that you ean
imagine—large of his age, and with bright, fearless
black eyes, and thick, dark hair, cut short, and
curling a little about his honest young face. His
clothes were poor enough, but they were whole.
Indeed, as I look back, he seems to me a boy pretty
sure to have made his own way in the world with-
out any special incentive from any one.

ho, and_what was I, at that time, do you ask?
Oh, I was Hester Grey—named Hester, not for the
maiden in Charles Lamb’s poem, but for my worthy
grandmother. My mother was dead, and my grand-
mother brought me up, which was the reason, per-
haps, that I had more liberty and more indulgences
than most other girls of my age. I think I must
have been rather a pretty girl of twelve, for E have
been told since that [ looked like an angel to the
astonished eyes of Phil Payson, my father’s errand-
boy aforesaid, when I came into the hall where he
stood waiting and warming his feet at a register.

'Iremember I worea bright blue gown. andt sup-

pose it must have been becoming to a complexion
Such as mine was then, all lilies and roses. My hair
was of the true Saxon gold, and my eyes were blue
ES eC ina

busied mysell a little among astand of plants
which filled one end of the hall, while I unait
Philip Payson from under my lashes, and wondered
if this might not be my opportunity to give, like
the girlsin the story-books, to a human life a new
impetus, to encourage one of my fellow-creature to
be nobler than he would have been without me.
The longer I reflected, watching meanwhile the
handsome, fearless face of the boy in his common
clothes, the more sure I felt that my time had come.
I broke from a rose-bush beside which I was stand-
ing the perfect, exquisite, just opening bud ofa
souvenir rose, and with it between my fingers, I
went toward Philip Payson. How many thousand
times since I have laughed and blushed to remem-
ber that moment’s audacity, and high mightiness
of my manner, as I said:

‘“Will you have this rose?”

His fingers closed on it eagerly, but it was not to
be a rose with no thorn of amoral attached. Isaid,
just as IT fancied some sweet. Angelica in a three.
volume novel would have said it:

Ladies give roses to gentlemen; you must bea
oP iney T idicul dh
<now Iwas ridiculous, an e ought to have
laughed at me, but he took the whole thing as se-
iously as I did, and asked, briefly:
“What do you mean by a gentleman? Money?”
TY was alittle puzzled, he took me'so by surprise.
said; :
_ “Yes, suppose so. No, not that so much, but
knowing a good deal, and—I don’t quite know how
totell you; but my. father is a gentleman, and I

oone? he would be if he did not have any money
at all.

He seemed to be considering the matter very se-
riousty for a few minutes, and then he said some-
thing quite far away,as I thought, from the topic
we ae CekaABiAg: : He asked :

“Will you please to remember, Miss Gre one
this is the twelfth of January?” Pana

“Certainly I will,” I said, graciously, smiling
apon him with my “angel-of-goodness” air, bor-
rowed from the story-books—‘‘certainly.”

Just then a seryant. came and handed him the
letter my father had written. He buttoned the rose
carefully inside his coat, and with a bow he went

away.

._,Hor a while I thought of him often. I wondered
if he had kept my rose—if it would be an inspira-
tion to him to dohis best in the world, as indeed it
ought to be,if there were anything in romance.
But by summer I[ had ceased to think about him at
all, I was at the sea-side, and bathing, rowing, and
driving filled up my days. My grandmother even
jet me watch the dancers at the hotel hops inthe
evening,and sometimes some kind-hearted soul
gave me aturn or two of waltzing myself. I had
not much time to wonder whether Phil Payson was
trying to become a gentleman.

Then came autumn, and my school, and I don’t
think I had so much as remembered the existence
of the boy for months, until, on New Year’s Day,
my father recalled him to my mind by something
he said in my presence to my grandmother, to
whomhe was explaining certain changes in his
business. |

Ihave given that errand boy of mine, Phil Pay-
gon, a clerkship,” he remarked. “He’s the best boy
Lever had about the store—honest as the sun, and
entirely faithful. He always works as if he had
some strong motive; yet he is not particularly
needy. His fatheris a mechanic, making comfort-
able wages, and there is no special occasion for
Phil to help anybody but himself. He couldn’t push
ahead more resolutely, though, if he had a whole
family depending on him.”

i felt myself blushing; but no one noticed me. No

J had ever so much as seen the boy
‘they were talking about. I wondered, secretly, if,
indeed. my rose had inspired him to try and make
the most of himself. I was thirteen now, and Phil

-moust be fifteen—a young clerk, but not too young

ifhe was making himself as useful as my father

said.

The twelfth of January there came formea great,
glorious bunch of souvenir roses. No donor’s
name accompanied them—only a card, with my ad-
dress, andin a corner just the words, “J anuary
Twelfth.”

. Poor, dear grandma exhausted herself in con-
joctures as to who could have sent the lovely offer-
ing. but I kept my own secret.

nother New Year, and I heard of another im-
provement in Philip Payson’s fortunes. My father
had raised him astep higher, and was more elo-
quent than ever in his praise.

Another twelfth of January, and a bunch of sou-
yenir roses came to me, with precisely the same
inscription on the accompanying card as before. IT
was fourteen then, and this seeret romance had a
reali charm for me,

But years passed on, and I never saw Philip Pay-
Son, and the memory of the little episode that

ay

linked us together grew very faint. Indeed, noth-
ing kept it alive save the roses that never failed to
find me on the twelfth of January; and even the
became an old story, and I forgot to please myself,
as I had done at first, with the thought of a youth
struggling to conquer fate because I had bidden
him do so. No doubt he was a worthy,fellow,
whose soul was all in my father’s business, where I
knew that he was rising rapidly. For myself I had
other interests. “ ;

At seventeen I began togointosociety. Of course,
I was altogether too young, but I coaxed my grand-
mother, and she let me give a great party, at which
my dress was pronounced faultless. What I heard
about my beauty I need not tell you, but I think in
those days my foolish head was half-turned by
compliments. I was in a fair way to become a vain,
selfish girl, substituting a poor ambition for social
success, in place of the unselfish longing to be the
inspiration of other lives which had been the desire
of my girlhool. But every twelfth of January came
still the bunch of souvenir roses,and sometimes
they seemed to me asif they had been gathered in
some dear old garden of memory, where I hardly
dared to walk any more. :

When I was nineteen I had not yet been in love,
though I had had suitors enough, as was. natural
when you remember that I was the only daughter
and heiress of a rich man, and with a not inconsid-
erable reputation for beauty. :

About that time I began to take a little more than
accustomed interest in one of the men I met in so-
ciety. He, too, was young. and belonged to a rich
family. He was handsome, he waltzed ‘like a heay-
enly angel,” the gins said who danced with him,
but I question whether, indeed, the harps of heaven
are attuned to the music of “The Beautiful Blue
Danube.” This Harold Livingston possessed all
the charms of ajl the heroes of my fayorite novels.
No doubt he was too much in love with himself ever
to be much in love with any one else, too indolent
to strive, too helpless to attain, but he was what
society has agreed to consider a model gentleman;
and he was as handsome as an Apollo, which was a
fair enough excuse for his own worship of himself.

I really thought I_cared_for himagood deal.
Sometimes I wrote “Hester Livingston” very shyly
on some little bit of paper to see how it would look,
and then tore it up with flaming cheeks. He took
his own time about. proposing, but finally it came
in a conservatory after a gay waltz together. The
occasion was well chosen—the distant music stole
softly on our ears, the lights burned low, the flow-
ers breathed out their sweetness till the midnight
air was heavy with it. My admirer looked divinely
handsome. I don’t remember in what words he
asked me to be his wife, but I presume they were
well chosen, also. Ishould have been certain, be-
fore he spoke, that [should have accepted him in-
stantly—but after he had spoken I sat strangely si-
lent. A voice, quite outside myself, seemed to ask
me:

“Do you love this man—this man, himself, and not
anything that ‘surrounds him? Would you love
him if he stood alone, with nothing but his own
manhood?” > 5 fia bits ‘

“How do I know ?” I answered to this question-
ing voice. “I have not seen him tried. I don’t
know what his quality of manhood is.”

“Wait, then,” said the voice; “wait and be sure.”

And like a child I obeyed. I said, very firmly:

“You must give metime, if you think I am worth
waiting for. I scarcely know more of you than
that you are a good dance-partner. Marriage is for
always; and if weshould make a mistake it would
be as bad for you as for me.” Z

My manner seemed to impress him singularly.
He did not entreat me any further. He only said:

“I will wait three months, and then I will ask you

ain.”

was too full of unrest to care to remain longer
at the dance. I went home and saw a bright light
burning in my father’s private sitting-room. Some-
thing unusual must be keeping him up so late. I
opened his door, and stood there. I was told after-
ward, “like a radiant vision.” Iwas all in white—
a shimmering, lustrous silk, with draperies of cob-
web lace,and with pearls in my ears and atmy
throat, and wrists. In an instant I saw that my fa-
ther was not alone; andI was about to close the
door and retire when he called me. Some very
strong emotion possessed him, evidently. His face
wore & look such as Thad never seen on it before.
Iwas almost frightened. He waved his hand to-
ward his companion. :
“Hester, this is Philip Payson, My child, but for
him Ishould be aruined man this night. Do you
know what that would mean for you—the loss of all
the graces and elegances of your life; the downfall
of all your hopes; an utter change in everything
that surrounds you ? For me it would mean some-
thing yet worse—not only to ses you and your
randmother suffer privations and humiliations
rom which I could not save you, but to bear that
men should question my own commercial integ-
rity, should look on me with suspicion, to see the
strong mercantile house I founded go down.
Child, I think I could not bear it and live. From
all this Philip Payson has saved us. He has de-
tected the system of fraud which was undermin-
ing my credit. He has forestalled my partner’s
intention to escape with nearly all the available
funds which remained to us. This young man,
Hester, barely twenty-one now, has saved you and
me. Thank him.”
I did not speak—the thanks I sought to utter
choked me. I only put out my hand and Philip
Payson took it, and for one moment held it close.
This, then, was manhood. Here was the quality
about which there could be no question. How
small and poor they all seemed—those fellows I
had left there, in the spacious house where the
dancing was going on—those fellows wtth their
dainty gloves, and their well-cut coats, and the
fiowers at their button-holes. Even then [ realiz-
ed how handsome was my father’s clerk—stalwart
of build, with the same dark, bright, honest eyes
I remembered in the boy, the same thickly clus-
tering black hair. ;

I was destined to see Sgo0d deal of him during
the next two months. ere was much business
which had to be broughthome in the summer evyen-
ings,and for which my father required his aid.
Often he came to dinner; and often, after an hour
or two’s hard work in the study, my father would
bring him to the drawing-room for another hour;
so that I grew well acquainted with him, and found
that he had read and thought to a degree that put
my petty, school-girl acquisitions to shame. In
every direction he compelled me to honor him.

The first of January my father said, as he left the

ouse:
“Young Payson will come home to dine with me
to-night, I_haye given him a partnership in my
business. He will have a. position, henceforth,
which entitles him to bea guestin any house, or
to seek the hand of any man’s daughter.”

I pondered much on these words. Were they
meant asa hint forme? Could it be that Payson
had worn my memory all these years like a rose?—
that he had striven for me, and that he had told my
father so? But no, this were a romance too roman-
tic for any sensible girl to dream over. And yet I
wondered and wondered. Oddly enough, I had al-
most forgotten that young vingston’s three
months, which he was to wait for my answer, were
passing rapidly. I met him frequently in society,
but the truth was the impression he produced on
my mind had so little vitality in it that I scarcely
thought of him when he was out of sight.

With the morning of the twelfth of January came
my accustomed bunch of souvenir roses. That
night my father’s new partner was coming again to
dinner. I puton a blue silk of the same shade as
the blue gown which I happened to remember I
had worn on that other twelfth of January, seven
years before. Surely he must remember it all as
well as I did. Yet he had never spoken of it to me.
Only my annual bunch of roses had never once
failed me, I took some of the sweet blossoms I had
received that morning and fastened them in my
hair and on my bosom. I looked inthe glass with
some oe but I saw no cause of quarrel with
the face that looked at me out of my mirror.

Dinner came, and I went through it mechanical-
ly. I was asking myself one question all the
time—would Philip Payson allude to that old time
when I had seen him first, or would he not ?

When dinner was over, he walked with me into
the hall, and on toward the end window, where the
flowers still stood _as of old.

“Do you remember ?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes. And you ?”

“Have you forgotten? All that lam you made me.
Ihave served for you as faithfully as Jacob did for
Rachel. Dear, will you give me one rose from your
bosom? But, remember, if you give it, I shall take
it ss the earnest that you will also give me your-
self.”

I did not hesitate now. No voice from outside
questioned me. Heart, mind, and soul, all answer-
ed him at once, I took out a rose, and held it an
instant to my lips; then I laid it softly in his hand.

The gift he brought me next day was a locket set
with diamonds. Touching aspring, it revealed a
faded souvenir rose.

“I give you this,” he said, “because it is a talis-
man. Up to last night it was the most precious
thing I had in the world.”

What became of Harold Livingstone? Oh, my
engagement to my father’s partner was announced
before his three months were over, and he never
came for his answer.

 

OUT OF THE WINDOW.

BY CLIO STANLEY.

 

 

_ It was a very little window, in a yery high house,
in a very narrow street, and it was in the dingiest,
dreariest part of the whole city; but when you
looked up there, you felt your heart grow warm
within you, and the dismal surroundings all faded
away, and you feltsure you had stumbled upon
some forgotten city of the past, and had entered
the street of Good Hope.

It was a wonderful little window in summer time,

 

when those fragrant blossomy vines ran over it,

vs

and under it, and across it, tossing hither and
thither choice sprays of greenness in the blithe
breezes, making home now and then for a wander-
ing bee in his velvet jacket, or a bird in its down-
ward flight. ; $

There were little pots of flowers—old-fashioned
flowers, famous for their sweetness—on the broad
window-sill, and both within and without hung
tiny cages, with yellow and brown-feathered birds
in, whose life was all learning to sing.

Little Gretchen, herself, with flossy, yellow locks,
used to lean out of the window. between times, and
whistle, and trill, and’sing until the narrow street
was gay with song; until the tired faces of the little
children pisying on the dusty pavement grew
bright and child-like; until the women, ill-clad
bodily and spiritually, put off the look of sin and
misery and began to wonder if there wouldn’t after
all be some use in trying to forget the evil ways in
which they had walked so long; until sullen, dark-
browed men eyen felt little thrills of half-forgotten
youth stirring under the crust of selfishness and
sin that had been hardening over their hearts for
80 many years! : : ‘ :

All this Gretchen did with her wonderful voice.
All this sweet miracle, song wrought! :

Franconi, the bird-merchant, who had the bird
palace op tone, where the trained warblers trilled
away behind silver, wires—where ladies came in
their silken gowns, and trailed them across the
marble floors, and praised Franconi for his won-
derfultalent,and paid him marvelous prices for
the feathered morsels—Franconi made piles of
money, and hoarded it all, while Gretchen, who
taught the little creatures to warble airs sweeter
than their own rare notes—Gretchen lived on a fow
pennies a day, found food for her old, blind grand-
mother, and made a hundred hearts the better and
happier for her gay song. ;

It was in the wintér time, where the vines had
forgotten to blossom that Gretchen fell sick. The
old, blind grandmother had gone home, and Gret-
chen had lived alone with her birds for nearly a
month, when the Master, pitying her loneliness,
sentfor her, too. The neighbors who came in
to watch said that when it was sunrise Gretchen
begged them to open the window, and let her sit
there once more; and then, with the chill air blow-
ing across her and the snowflakes kissing her
white face, she whispered: :

“I’m watching for the summer time,” and was

one,
= Out the little window never another song shall
float as sweet as those that fell from Gretchen’s

lips! .

The little cages will hang empty now, and the
flowers will fade and die. But for Gretchen, the
immortelles are blooming on the other side, and
the streets of the Shining City echo with the tread
of her little feet!

 

@-<

DETECTIVE KITTY.

BY ELLA WHEELER,

 

 

Kitty and I were ironing at the long table in the
kitchen, when. we saw John Windsor striding
across the snow-covered meadow that divided our
two homes. Kitty was my sister; and as sweet and
pretty as her ae ee Clover. t

There comes John,” she said, glancing through
the window ather side. “Wonder what he’s coming
for!” with an arch look at me.

John was my lover, and we had been engaged for
ayear. It wasnot generally known,though. Young
people in the country keep their love affairs ‘“‘pri-
vate,” ee know, or imagine they do. But John
and I “keptcompany,” and our neighbors consider-
ed it a settled thing, _

“Coming to seé me,” I suppose,” I answered,
quietly, and Kitty pouted. :

“Oh, Sylvia.” she said, “there is no use trying to
plage you. Ede love to tease people, but you and

ohn are as prosy as an old married couple. I
don’t believe I should be were I in your place.”

I laughed at her remark then, and forgot it; but I
remembered it afterward.
John swept the snow off his boots with the door

 

 

 

for that cruel look came at the corners of her
mouth, and that sharp gleam in her eyes. But
she only said, ‘Thank you. You have told me all
I care to know.’ But I tell you to be watchful,
Sylvia, for she means to marry John Windsor.”

“Why, Kitty,” I said in surprise, “how jealous
and suspicious you have grown suddenly. She is
welcome to John, however, if she can get him.”

[ laughed at Kitty’s suspicions, but in my heart
I echoed them, John rode by our house almost
daily, sometimes stopping for a few moments, but
oftener without pausing. I knew he went down to
Mrs. Rivers’, and soon the whole neighborhood
was ringing with the tale of his infatuation. Miss
Palmer became the one theme of conversation, and
was the belle of every gathering, More than one
young rustic worshiped at her shrine, but John
was the favored one. I had a fow weeks of sharp,
bitter strife with my heart, and then I cast him out
forever. :

_ What are you writing?” asked Kitty, one even-
ing, as she came upon me seated at my desk.

_ I passed her a note I had just completed, free-
ing John from his engagement. _ :

“Oh, Sylvia,” she cried, “don’t send it! John
will get over his passion for that girl, and come
back to you by-and-by.” aaa

“And do you suppose I would accept him if he
did?” I asked hotly. ‘I have ceased to love or re-
spect him, and do you suppose I can ever feel
either again for him?”

“I don’t know: I could,” she answered, softly,
and for the first time I suspected that my sister
loved John Windsor. amt

I sent the note and received a grateful look
from John’s eyes at our next meeting. 3

The winter wore away, school closed, and still
Miss Palmer lingered. The warm spring came,
and she applied and was accepted as teacher of
the summer school, in our neighborhood, which
brought her within a stone’s throw of John’s home,
She boarded at Deacon White’s, just across the
way, and ey day found them together, and gos-
sip declared them betrothed. ’ :

did not pale nor pine through all this. I think
my affection forJohn was never very deep, for I
really grieved very little alter those first few weeks,
and I found the society of other young men quite
as agreeable. But sweet sister Kitty grew moody
and nervous, and she flushed and paled at the least
excitement, and her eyes were like restless stars.

“Oh, Sylvia,” she would say to me over and over,
“I know that Aurelia Palmer is not what she seems
tobe. Iknow she is not atrue, pure woman, and
John Windsor will curse the day they ever met if
he marries her, If I could only find out something
pt ag past life. I do not believe the story she

8,”

Kitty alone fostered these suspicions, for Miss
Palmer was quoted, aid copied, and admired, and
imitated by old and young throughout the neigh-
borhood. John was calied a “lucky dog” and a

fortunate fellow’ by all. his friends. Never had
any stranger .made such a stir in our little town as
this yellow-haired girl. . “

Girl, say, yet sometimes Ithought she was far
past the years of her girlhood. «In the strong light
her face showed marks and lines that_either sor-
row, Sin, or years might have plowed. Yet shesaid
her age was nineteen, and at times she looked even
younger.

“Kitty,” called mother from the pantry one sum-
mer evening, “won't yourun over to Mrs. White’s,
ee roe a drawing of tea for me? Iam just
out.

Kitty ran down the street toward Mrs. White's,
and I went on with the seanr I was sewing.

She came back after.somie moments had elapsed,
and I saw by her face that something had happened.

Did yousee Miss Palmer?’ I asked by way of
beginning. :

“Yes,” she said, hurriedly, “I saw her, and”—
coming nearer—"I have obtained a clew. She drew
her handkerchief from her pocket just as she
passed me in the path, and this scrap of paper fell
at my feet. I picked it up and read it without hesi-
tation. It seems to bea portion of a letter. See.”
She handed mea piece of paper, which seemed to
be the corner of a letter. On one side was a date—

 

broom, and came in without the ceremony of knock-
ing. ® was a great tall. brown-faced, handsome
fel oN with laughing blue eyes and a womanish
mouth.

t
“Morning, girls,” he said, throwing off his fur
cap, and pushing back his brown curls. “Hurry
and get that ironing done, for you have got to pre-
pare for a party to-night.”

“A party!” we echoed in a breath. “Where?”
Down to Mrs. Rivers. Didn’t get the invitation
till last night. Fas told to invite all the young
folks, and shall call for you, girls, at seven this

evening, if you wt! go. The school-teacher boards
at Mrs. Rivers’, and i suppose this party is more to

get her acquainted with the young folks than

anything else.”
“Who is the school -taacher?” Kitty asked.
sifosid. “Some giri front the

    
 

“i don’t know
oe, I believe.” | eas
itty and I finished our ironing, and told mother

of the*party. | :

“You are going, of course,” she said. “And what
are you to wear is the next question?” _ :

And then we were buried deep in a discussion of
apparel for the next half hour.
At seven that evening we were on our way to Mrs.

Rivers’. Halfa dozensleighs had taken lead al-
ready, and more werebehind us. We werea merry

 

set that trooped into Mrs. Rivers’ ample kitchen
half an hour later. A score of young people had
clustered about the huge stove, and from an adjoin-
ing room came sounds of merriment and laughter,
After dismantling, and smoothing curls, and
braids, and settling skirts, we joined the group at
the stove. Ten minutes later the whole party had
assembled, and Mrs. Rivers moved toward the
chamber door, saying: :
“Tf you are all here I will call down Miss Palmer.
Ithought it would be rto present. her to you
all together, and _ then there would be none forgot-
in or missed. Lizzie, run up and bring down Miss
almer.”
Lizzie disappeared, and a little hush fell upon the
group, while we waited for her reappearance. She
came, after a moment’s absence, and with her—this.
A small girl, below the medium height; a figure
of matchless symmetry, robed in all the extrava-
eee of the prevailing fashion. Longgolden hair,
eep blue eyes, and a round full face, with that pe-
culiartawny complexion just a with redin
cheeks and lips. The mouth not large, yet with a
peculiar draw at the corners, which gave_the face
an almost cruel expression at times. The chin
round, and the nose slightly turned up.

This was what [saw as Mrs. Rivers led her around
the circle and presented her to each one in turn.

“Sylvia, [hate her already,” Kitty whispered to
me, after she had gone the rounds, and our circle
had begun to scatier. pat :

“Why, Kitty!” Leried in surprise, “what ails you?
That did not sound like my sweet little sister.” _

“T don’t care,” she answered, her cheeks flushing
hotly. “Inever felt so toward anybody in my life
before. When she looked at me with her eruel,
wicked blue eyes, I felt like striking her. Sheis
not a good girl, [know, and I can never like her.”

Had it been anyother girl in the world but Kitty,

I should have supposed her burning with envy to-
ward this fashionably-attired, attractive stranger.
But I knew there was not an atom of envy in Kit-
ty’s sweet nature,and this was an entirely new
phase of her character.
Later in the eyening, when Miss Palmer had
drawn an admiring group about her, and was en-
tertaining and amusing all by her wit and bright
satire, I sought Mrs. Rivers.

“Where is Miss Palmer from ?” I asked idly, after
we had exchanged a few commonplaces. 5

“From the city,” replied Mrs. Rivers, with a
beaming countenance, for she was extremely proud
of her young boarder’s beauty and polish. “From
the city, my dear. Her father was a wealthy mer-
chant, but through a partner’s dishonesty became
bankrupt. Poor dear | she has been accustomed to
wealth and luxury, and this is a great downfall to
her. But she says she would not consent to bea
weight upon her father’s hands, and much —-
his desires she applied herself to teaching. I hope
you young folks will make her stay as pleasant as
possible, poor dear!” } :

e had games and forfeits that evening, and mu-
sic and dancing. ;

Miss Palmer was foremost in it all, and had no
lack of partners and admirers. She was very gra-
cious to the young men, but a little supercilious to-
ward the girls, we thought. John was very atten-
tive to her, andI thought she favored him more
than any other. : ;

“Pretty girl, that Miss Palmer, is she not?” he
said, as we rode home. :

“Yes, quite,” I answered, calmly, but Kitty inter-
rupted:

“No, she is not pretty. Thereis deceit and hypo-
crisy written in every feature. I feel my flesh crawl
when her hand touches mine, and the sound of her
voice is as full of treachery as her face.”

“Dear me!” laughed John. “I did not know you
could be such a little spitfire, Kit! Now if you
were a young man, you would think Miss Palmer
very delightful.” ‘

Kitty did not answer, and little more was said
until we reached home.

“Oh, Sylvia,” cried she, as soon as the door
closed, and we were seated by the stove. “I must
te‘t you what she said to me to-night. We hap-
pe.\ed to be sitting quite apart from the rest, and
she began to talk to me. ‘Quite an interesting
cire'e of young people in this neighborhood,’ she
ope red with. ‘Quite, I responded; -I could not
bear to talk with her. ‘What a fine looking young
man Mr. Windsor is; she said next. ‘Is he a res-
ident of this neighborhood?’ ‘He is,’ I answered.
‘Ah! is he a farmer?’ she asked next, looking me
through with her eruel blue eyes: Her glance
nettled me, and I looked her boldly in the face and
said: “He is a farmer, and one of the richest men
in the county, if that is what vou want to know.

“Dunlap Station, Aug, 10, 18—;” on the other these
words, ‘For Heaven’s sake don’t deceive any——”

 

ariohey and then I received a long, closely-written

‘knew it, and when Dora went out I compared them.

‘think she will not live long.’

There the paper was torn, and below was another
incomplete sentence, “Come back to me and Lilla,
and——” This was all. The writing was unmis-
takably done by a masculine hand. But this was a
great clew in the eyes of Kitty.

“Do you know what I mean to do?” she said. “I
am going to Dunlap Station. [have passed through
there several times going to Aunt Sarah’s, and it is
only a day’s journey by rail. And Dora Smith lives
there, too;.and you know we used to room together
atthe academy.” F

And here Kitty danced in her delight at this new

 

feasting in honor of the occasion. Here Kitty’s let-
ter was brought to me, and I read it, ‘init from
the other side of the room came the merry bu

of laughter that Miss Palmer’s bright sallies pro-
voked. Do you wonder my heart turned faint and
sick, and I had no part in the merriment?

A few days later ty | and Robert Dunlap came,
We all tried to hush the matter up and keep it as
quiet as possible,

Miss Palmer fainted at Deacon White’s table when
her brother came in, and that set people to wonder-
ing and gossiping. Her school came to an abrupt
close, of course, and she left the neighborhood
with ber brother soon after. We tried to keep the
truth from John, but he insisted upon being told
why their marriage, which was to take place in
Baprmber, was tobe broken off. 80 Robert had to

IM ail.

The gossips set all sorts of tales afloat, but the
worst was neyer fully known beyond our family,
though a portion of, the truth got abroad.

© woman went back to her old home, but se-
cluded herself from the world, and she died a few
months after the grave closed over ber little daugzh-
ter’s form. The husband and father came after she
had passed away, to take his child to a home across
the sea, but found both mother and child no more.

_Robert Dunlap came down to the country occa-
sionally, and at last induced me to go back and stay
with him, as he lost a great deal of time in journey-

ing.

John has recovered from his sorrow and grief,
and Kitty reigns over his household, happy in the
belief that he never loved anybody else quite as
well_as he does her. Well, he ought to love hor,
But I would not change places with her.

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

“Mrs. Ella McMaster,” of Shelbyville, Mo., sends us the photo-
feet of Edith, aged 14 months, as fine a child aa Ge would
wish to see, but we cannot praise babies in this department, be-
cause if we commenced doing so, and should happen, by acci-
dent, to neglect one little darling, a parent’s heart might feel a
throb of pain, and that we do not wish. Our only object is to
See the NEW YORK WEEKLY babies, and to show them to the
mothers and other babies we visit each week. Mrs. McMaster
writes: “Inclosed please find a photo ofone of the NEW YORK
WEEKLY babies. I think our pet may becalled so, for although
her mamma is not a subscriber, grandmamma, who lives next
door, is, and many are the useful hints concerning baby’s diet,
dress, &c., that mamma has received through the dear old New
YORK WERELY. As you will see, the picture is defective in some
respects, but it is the very best we could get. Baby is of a ve
restless temperament—not cross, but active—and the little fect
and hands just wouldn’t be still, in spite of all qur efforts.
Thope it wil answer your purpose, but please consult your own
judgment about it.” The face is perfect, so we don't mind the
extra fingers and blurred feet; in truth we rather like them, for
reef indicate activity and life, and we know a busy child is ever
dull. Now about the dress: Make it after any of the Gabrighie
patterns, and trim with ruffles and plaitings ofthe material,
and if you want any combination the prettiest is to have a little
slip, Of Overdress of very thin organdie, or any soft sheen ma-
terial, and tet her-wear it over the pink dress, The effect is very
pretty. . Kor very fair children blue may be used instead of pink.

. “Bride.” —¥Yes, the new fabrics *are already o} ned,-and we
will make the pur@kase for you with pleasure. The hat will cost
from $10 to $15, and can be ordered to match the spit. In travel-
ing-dress ‘goods ~there* are browns of every shade : in ‘silk and
wool, summer poplins, pongees, soft light diagonals, striped —
natte stuffs of all-wool. Thé fashionable stripe is shaded as
finely as if done by the artist’s brush, from a quarter of an inch
to the finest possible hair line. There are some checks in basket-
woven wool fabrics of quite large size, and again others as small
a8 apin-head. They are brown and cream, brown and darker
brawn, blue or granite pray and gray, navy-blue, and black and
white. Some the plaids and stripes are outlined with a slen-
der bar of bright blue or red. Make your traveling suit after the
following patterns: Cut your sktrt by No. 3,904, price 30 cts. It is
composed of a front gore, a wide gore at each side, and two back
breadths, the latter being gathered at the top and shirred lower
down to draw the fullness tothe back. Itisin short demi-train
style at the back, while the sides and front are sloped oe
clear the ground when walking. On accountof the depth of the ;
overdress no decoration is necessary, though a row or two of
side-plaiting would trim it prettily. The polonaise is No. 4,328,
price 40 cts. This has a deep-pointed front, closing its whole
length with button-holes and buttons, and overlapping ina
eres style. Two long darts at each sideof the closing ad-
Just the front neatly, while the back is fitted by side-backs, and
a seam at the center extending from the neck to the waist-line,
where an extra fullness is left on and laid underin plaits. The
side-back seam 3s continued for only a short distance below the
waist, or until it reaches asash-like extra width, cut on at the
back of the side-back. This sash portion near the skirt of
the side-back is laid in two u etary plaits at each side,
and then tied over the skirt of the back, which is formed into a
shallow puff by, pate laid just above the sash bordered witha
tiny plaiting ofthe same. A pocket formed of plaiting, with a
plain lap edge to correspond with the cuff, ornaments each side
of the front just below the dart, form a jaunty as weil as use-
ful addition. A -col elow a standing plaiting

 

iar of the same
completes the neck, while all the edges of the skirt portion
are underlaid with fringe below a ore of silk.
A rich toilet which may be adopted by our young lady corres-
pondents, for a ball or guy full-dress occasion, is of blue silk, with
& princesse overdress of the new satin-wrought blonde lace. The
blue silk skirt forms a plain court train behind, and has an apron
or tablier trimmings composed of folds of the silk, alternating
with pou galloon and gold fringe. The lace princease overdress
has the waist and train in one, and is made in the most stylish
manner. The lace corsage is low and square, with a plastron or

 

thought that had just occurred to her.

._ Lather,” said Kitty, at the supper table that night.

‘I want to take a little journey. May I? I want to

oe down to Dunlap Station, and visit Dora Smith.
ou know she visi me last fall, when she lived in

York. CanIgo?”?

“Kitty does need a little rest,” spoke mother. “She

has worked hard all summer, and is not as well as

I could wish her. It would do her good totakea

little journey.”

So it was settled that she should go, andsshe took

the morning train in the adjoining village two days

1 . Little did our honest parents suspect the

real object ofherjourney. | ea

“Tf I. do not discover anything,” she said, “no one

need ever know thatlexpectedto. ButifIdo,I

shall write to you immediately.” :

One week after her departure we received a letter

speaking of her safe arrival, and her warm recep-

tion at Smith mansion. Another week passed, one

r.

“Dear sister,” it ran, “I have found it all out, and
itis worse than I expected. Let me tell you how it
all happened. As soon as I could, after my arrival,
I begah questioning Dora about the people in Dun-
lap. Lasked the name and history of every person
we met on the street, and poor Dora thought I had
grown wonderfully inquisitive; but not aclew to
our mystery could I get tillafew days ago. On
Tuesday,asmall bill was sentin to Dora froma
mercantile establishment. Isat near her when it
came,and my heart leaped in my throat when I
saw the writing. It was written by thesame hand
that wrote the scrap Thad in my possession. I

They were exact. Dora came back soon. ;

t am Foins down to Dunlap’s to pay that bill
and do alittle more shopping,’ she said. ‘Would
you like to go?’

“Of course, Iwent. On the way Lasked her who
made out her bill, and she answered:

“Mr. Dunlap, the young merchant. Why? .
“Oh, use the writing looked familiar,’ I said.
“T looked at Mr. Dunlap with interest, I assure
you. Ifound him to beayery handsorse young
man, of about thirty, I should say, but with the most
sorrowful dark eyes you eversaw. Dora made her
purchases, and then [ heard her say:

** ‘How is Lilla to-day?’ :
“You may imagine my sensations. :
“Not as well,’ he answered, in a low tone. ‘I

“After we passed out I asked Dora who Mr. Dun-
lap was, and if Lilla was his child.

‘No,’ she said; ‘there was a sad story connected
with the two,’ and then she toldit. Mr. Dunlap’s
father was a well-to-do mechanic, witha fine wife
and three children—Robert, the young merchant,
and Amanda, and Delia,two beautiful daughters.
Delia was the eldest of the three, and married early
and well. Robert went into the mercantile busi-
ness as an errand boy, and at last came to be alead-
ing business man in Dunlap. :

“Both the parents andthis son worshiped Aman-
da, and she was given every advantage for educa-
tion and culture. But atthe age of seventeen she
eloped with her drawing-master, a man of low
birth, and who had a wife and family still living,
which she knew atthetime. This was a death-
blow to the poor mother, who died before a greater
sorrow came. — ; i
“After traveling some months with this man, as
was afterward ascertained, Amanda parted from
him, and took board in a distant village, and
taught music, under the name of Luella Lester.
Here she made the acquaintance of a wealthy young
merchant, and was legally married to him, and bore
one child, a fragile girl, named Lilla. Through the
reverses of fortune the merchant became bankrupt,
and his wife fled the morning after the fall, where
or with whom none could tell. She had left a note,
telling him where her parents lived, and to carry
the child to them. This he did, and learned the
whole shameful story from the lips of the brother.
Robert and his father both resided with the mar-
ried daughter then, as the wife and mother had
died, and they took the child of their lost one in
their midst, while the deserted and deceived hus-
band became a wanderer. |

“This is the story, dear sister, that I heard, and
little did I sleep that night. The next morning,
while Dora was busied with her household duties,
Itold her I was going out for a walk, and to pur-
chase some gloves. I went to Mr. as store,

I

 

and asked him for a private interview. looked
surprised, andI do not know _just how I told my
story. But I did it at last. He sat with his face
buried in his hands, and when he looked up his
eyes were fullofterrible pain.

“*‘T thank you,’ hesaid, ‘for this that you have
told me, painful as itisto me. I had heard from
my sister once in the last year. She wrote’ to me
that she was teaching, and asked for news of. her
ehild.. I wrote in answer that her child was failing
daily, and requested her to come back, and we
would never speak of the past. But she never re-
plied to my letter, and I had feared something of
this kind. When do you return home?’ he asked,
after a moment. Itold him next week, and he is
going with me. So prepare father and mother for
our coming. Yours, Kirry.” ; 1

This was Kitty’s letter, that I received in the

 

 

I do not know the exact worth of his real and per-
sonal estates, but will ask him, if you desire me

 

to.’ Iwas almost frightened, after I had said this,

midst of a merry throng. It was Miss Palmer’s

vest of silk and gatioon in front, while the tiny sleeves are tied
with a blue bow. A sash of biue silk confines the lace in a puff
behind. The beautifully arran: floral garniture is a nastar-
tium vine that is passed around the hips and trails down on one
side. A band of bime velvet edges the square neck of the cor-
sage. A dress worn in Washington by the Baroness a’Overbeck,
the daughter of Mrs. Admiral Dahlgren is of salmon pink silk,
with side insertings and cascades of blonde lace upon the train:
the apron front is of white bugle net-work; the train has three
small — interlaced with sashes, and a half wreath of roses ex-
tends from the sides to the under part of the puffs; the waist is a
high corselet, trimmed with the blonde, and at the heart-shaped
neck is a a standing ruff of point lace; the sleeves are of dot-
ted illusion, from shoulder to waist, puffed between insertings of
potas and the ornaments are pearls and diamonds, with a dia-
mond aigrette in the dark hair. Mrs. Fish wore a rich blue siik,
with immense train, entirely covered with point lace, the ex-
tremely deep flounce being met by an overdress, and all comptet-
ed by alaceshawlL On her gray curles she wore a head-dress of
plumes, diamonds, and point lace.

“Belle G.”—You will find the ready-made underskirts of gauze
merino cheaper and quite as nice asif you bought the material
and made them yourself. You can get them with low necks and
short sleeves to cost from $1 to $2each. If you prefer making
buy gauze flannel and work the neck and sleeves with the linen
floss, for the silk turns yellow with washing. Did you ever clean
your silver with a brush? Castor oil and brandy are said to be
good for the hair, but we think there is nothing like bathing the
head in cold water, and then brushing the scalp thoroughly. Yes,
the fronts will cost five dollars here, so you will do well to take
the hair at the price offered you there.

“Euraula B. Dennis.”—The material costs from $1 to $5 a yard.
The fringe and braid range trom 50 cents to $3 per yard. © Yea,
we can find the Foulard silk in solid colors, although it usually
comes with figures or dots init. Wecan get youa very pretty
silk in stripes, and of good quality, for $1 per yard that will make
a very stylish visiting dress. If you desire you can use the silk
in combination with any of the soft, all-wool spring fabrics. You
can wear the vail, but it is not ne . The will cost
$2. T pen, penstaff and inkstand, such as you desire, from
$10 to $15. We do not know how to prepare the dish. The only
—— you can trim the black tarlatan dress is to use flounces or
rufiies of the material, or to trim with side-plaitings.

“Mrs. Herbet Spencer.”’—The latest fashion for sleeve studs is
tohave the two initials of the wearer made very heavily and
solidly in gold, one letter to each wrist. These letters are mounted
on a foot, and without a background. In fancy trinkets lovel
little parures of violets are now made of purple mother-of- J
with a tiny crystal in each center; a small violet forms each ear-
ring, and a large one is mounted asa pendant. S.milar sets of
ope Jewelry in silver are pansies with a pearl in each center, and
there are clusters of forget-me-nots, daisi: and other smali
flowers painted on wood. The variety of n ornamentation is
rer large. Among the fashionable perfumes, “Tea Rose”
highest; the ‘“‘Gilsey House Bouquet” comes next, and then fol-
low “Jockey Club,” “Centennial Bouquet,” “New Mown Hay,”
and “Violet.” Charming cologne extracts are also extracted

m the flower.

“Mrs. Martha Lindell."’—A very stylish affair is No. 4,324, price
40 cents, a wrapper with tablier front. Any material commonly
used for wrappers makes up handsomely in this style, and the

, decorations may be varied to become more or less-elaborate. If

beauty or delicacy in appearance is the point to be accom plished
a very attractive result is obtained by employing pearl or dove-
colored cashmere or merino in the construction of the garment
and making the trimming of pale blue silk, or of the material in
a contrasting tint, while cashmere or alpaca with black trimming
is appropriate for ladies in mourning, and for ordinary service
plaid or plain flannel is one of the most available fabrics in-vogue:
The front of this garment is an apron, while the back is in Mar-
guerite s , With graceful drapery. Crochet buttons are ar-
ranged on the lapping edges of the back, and the train portion is
ornamented with a wide ruffle gathered to form its own heading.
Bias folds trim the gores diagonally, and a tiny ruffle is a:

on the lower and lapping edges of the front, and the closing is
effected with hooks and eyes beneath loops and ends of ribbon.
Beneath the lap on each side is tacked a long end of ribbon ;
these are tied together at the back and sustain the drapery ina
handsome puff. The sleeve is dressy enough to harmonize with
the remainder of the garment, and is rendered quite full at the
wrist by means of a plaited fan-shaped piece which is jomed at
the outside. A cuff, widened to meet above this piece, is extend-
ed across the inside seam and its edges are bordered with a nar-
row ruffle. A line of buttons is seen on the oa side of the
cuff, and over the plaited piece is tacked a bow with ends of me-
dium length A wide collar formed of one piece cut in deep
scollops and edged with a narrow ruffle makes an appropriate
decoration for the neck. This garment if made of white and
trimmed with pink or blue, will be very pretty for a bride.
“Lillian de’Y.”.—Slippers of the design mentioned by you, and
composed of black velvet with silk embroidery, will cost fourteen
and eighteen dollars per pair. Yes, we can have them made for
you in any style or size you require. In sending orders state
whether g are to be sent by mail oI express.

“A. B. G.”’—Black silks suitable for ordinary wear, can be
bought for $1,50 and $2,25 per yard. Tortoise shell combs, real
from $2,00 to $9,00, imitation 50 cents to $1,00.

 

The Matrimonial Poem.

When first the marriage knot was tied
Between my wif: and me,
My age did hers as far exceed
three times three doth three;
But when ten years and half ten years
We man and wife had been,
Her age came as near to mine
As eight is to sixteen. ;
Now, gentle reader, will you plainly say.
What were our ages on our Wedding. ony ?
um. W——..

 

 

The Beggars.

A man desired to give five cents to each of anum-
ber of beggars, but found that he had not enough
by twenty cents; he therefore gave three cents to
each, and had twelve cents left. How many beg-
gars were there ? H. DL

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN NO. 18.

DECAPITATION Puzzi~E.—Howe, the sewing ma-
chine inventor.

THE GROCER’S Eoas.—There were 301 eggs.

AN immense number of answers have been re-
ceived to our puzzles, but as we have not the space
to spare for the insertion of the names of the solv-
ers, we here thank them, and are pleased that they

 

 

 

birthday, she said,and a merry company had gati.-
ered at Bescon White's, where we had games and

are nearly alt correct.

 

A.

 

ne

P<)