a reg apa elie” cettneiet nt Saamamenll lata clin Skeet atria LAY OPO REELS LR LEE LONE PL LIL CE RLLL LI ALAIN, EA PRT DR IE xmas Ce ee arte bactieccee: t Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1876, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Proprietors. } VoL. XXXI. STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, $1 Rose St., P.O. Box 4896, New York, NEW YORK, MARCH 13. 1876. _ AQ iw \ Wa ngress. Washington, | Three Dollars Per Year. f FRANCIS S, STREET. Two Copies Five Dollars. FRANCIS 8. SMITH. No. 17. LIFES AIM. BY CLIFTON CLIVE. Ever keep your aim in view, Do not falter, weep, or sigh; From a little germ it grew, That great oak now soaring high; Small and fragile first it sprung From the bosom of the earth, Where the ivy round it clung— Beauty leaning safe on worth. Though some murmur, frown, and chide, And a heavy cross you bear, Struggle upward—God will guide Every step with tender care. Trials will thy soul expand, And when all life’s work is done, Like the oak tree, strong and grand, Will record the glory won. Rise unaided and alone, Faint not in the battle’s strife; When you fear that strength has flown, Then it rises with new life, And the victory you can win If you idle fancies spurn ; Labor hard, and thus begin Every day to something learn. Ot MOLLY MAGUIRE, THE TERROR OF THE COAL FIELDS. By DANIEL DOYLE. A Mine Boss.* CHAPTER I. GREETING A GREENHORN—A GRIM MYSTERY. ‘Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, And leave no traces where it stood; No longer let its idol drink His daily cup of human blood!”’ “Tl give Neal a place in the morning.” These words were spoken by Ned Malone, one of a party of miners who were escorting a friend of theirs—Neal Nolan, afresh arrival from Ireland— from the railway station to the house of his uncle, Miles Murphy, about half a mile distant. It was about nine’ o’clock at night. The train whistled merrily as it passed by, reflecting its light upon the group that had just extended their greetings to the “ereenhorn,”’ and were determining how to dispose of him to the best advantage. Some were urging him not to gointo the mines to work, but to try if he eould find something else to do, as the mine was a dangerous place, they said, for those unacquaint- ed with it. Neal, with the characteristic bravery of one who knows nothing about it, laughed their fears to scorn, and declared that he was not afraid of ahard day’s work, and would be glad _to find employment where so many of his countrymen were engaged. Ned Malone was_a miner, and his $$ statement that he would “give Neal a place in the | morning” meant that he would employ Neal as his laborer in the mine to load ears and do such other duties as generally fall to the lot of that hard-work- ing and ill-paid class. **A thousand thanks to you, Ned,” said Neal. “I see you have not forgot ould times when ‘you and [i used to play pranks on Bryan Sheehan, the schoolmaster.” “Ah. thin, that’s thrue, Neal, an’ how is poor owld Ryan ?” was the query asked by some three or four of the party, in whose mind at mention of the old pedagogues name reminiscences of blistered hands and sore heads arose. “Och!” said Neal, with a sigh of sincerity, “the poor fellowisdead and gone these three years back. Heaven be good to hissowl. He walluped me many a time, but for all thathe was a good mas- ther, and could puzzle the priest himself in Latin and Greek roots.” “Oh, he was’ purty smart,” was the group. “But where is my uncle, Miles Murphy, did ye say ?” asked Neal. “I thought he’d be the furst to meet me when I’d place my foot on the free soil of America.” “He is workin’ on the night-shift, Neal,’ said Ma- lone, “‘an’ won’t be home before twelve o’clock. We are on our way to his house, an’ will soon be there.” “The night-shift did ye say?” repeated Neal. “‘Arrah, what’s that? Is my uncle turned a same- sthross or a tailor, or are ye makin’ game out 0’ me’ A roar of laughter followed this ludicrous query at the expense of the greenhorn, who bore it good- naturedly enough. “Oh, sarra day ever but Neal was witty, and kind for him; the Nolans was always fond of a joke,” said Ned Malone, coming to his friend’s relief. “But, at the same time,” he added, “a man can’t larn everything to wunst, as the boy sed to the preacher; an’ when Neal is as long in the counthry as the rest of us, VU warrant you he’ll know more than that. Now, Neal,” he added, “the night-shift is the day’s work that is done at night in the mines. Yesee there is two gangs 0’ min. One goes to work in the day, that’s called the day-shift; the other goes to work at night, an’ that’s called the night-shift.” “Oh I see now,” said Neal, with a laugh. “It makes me laugh soit does.tothink ye’ll be makin’ a Yankee out of meso soon. That’sso much learn- ed anyhow, an’ it’s the first good laugh I had since left the Owld Counthry, as they eall it here; for the divil a much you could laugh at say, wid your heart full o’ grief an’ your stomach full o’ misery wanst you lave the Cove o’ Cork until you land in New York—at Castle Garden. There’s relief ina good hearty laugh after all, an’ they say no man ever died laughin’,so it must beahealthy exer - i 3ut how is my Uncle Miles, Ned? It’s re- ported at home he is very rich.” “You know the owld sayin’ Neal, ‘the hills are green a distance off’ So be the riches the people in Ireland with their friends in this country. But Miles Murphy is not so bad off after all—that is, he is like the rest of us avick, strugglin’ to make a livin’ and support his wife and little ones, and sometimes it’s hard to dothat same; for wid low wages, short time, graspin’ corporations and mane mine bosses—bad luck to them—a poor man has enough to do to keep himself:from the poor-house. Sometimes things is better. and sometimes they are worse. Whena man gets a hould ofa chamber of his own in the mine he ean make out good; but it is not often an Irishman gets any privileges from eise. see * DANIEL’ DOYLE, the author of this story, is now, and has been for the past six months, a ‘“‘mine boss” in the coal region, although there known under another name. He understands his subject thoroughly, and has painted his scenes and charac ters from observation. al sh a A human form, grimy and bloody, was taken from a wagon and borne into the cottage between four men. the mine bosses here, for they hate them like the divil hates holy water.” In this strain Ned Malone continued to enlighten his companion as they walked side by side ahead | ofthe other parties who came atashort distance | conyersing in undertones, until they finally halted in front of a miserable one-story frame shanty standing on a solitary lot. “Here we are at last,’ said Ned Malone, This is your.uncle’s house.” “My unele’s house ment. 19 4c repeated Neal in astonish- “What, this place! | jokin’, this is no better than the pig-sty my uncle | | had in the Owld Country. An’ you say this is where he lives ?” “Yes Neal-this-is his home and it’s no worse than hundreds of others in this place. Did we passed coming:from the station, well they are all of them miners* homes, and this place is called Shanty Hill.” Neal was silent. earnest. Ned Malone knocked at the door. It was opened He saw that his friend was in the response of | by asmall woman of middle age, in whose appear- ; ance, a great effort at respectability was painfully apparent. “Mrs. Murphy, this is Neal Nolan, your husband’s nephew: a purty good-lookin’ greenhorn,’ sai Ned Malone. The little woman with a wan smile, stretehed out her hand. Neal took it. warmly in his brawny fist, and gave it a hearty Irish shake. “Oead milla failtha’—a hundred thousand wel- ecomes—she said. “Musha thank you, and indeed I’m glad to see you Mrs. Murphy—or aunt I should say,” said the stranger who contemplated the poor character of the hovel that constituted his unele’s. home, with mingling sensations of sorrow and disappoint- ment. His aunt too bore the traces of sadness and unhappiness in her worn face and wasted frame, while her miserable garments published her poy- ety at a glance. “These are our children, Neal,” she said, point- ing. to two ragged, though not by any mean had- looking children, a boy and girl who were sitting beside the stove, and a smaller toddler who was making desperate efforts to pull the kerosene lamp from the rickety table on which it stood. The little ones clustered who kissed and caressed them gently. The company was seated—some on a bench by the wall, while Neal Nolan was honored with an old chair without a back. Then began a volley of questions about the Old Country, about those who had been married, and those who died, until though he were a candidate for a cadetship. Of course the sociability could not be complete according totheeustom of Shanty Hill without a bottle of whisky, and Ned Malone, anxious to be! the first to “thrate the greenhorn,” sent Mrs. Mur- phy to a neighboring saloon for “‘a quart o’ the best.” This was speedily procured, for saloons were plentiful in Shanty Hill, and whisky was sold there in every fifth house at least. Then the con- viviality was fairly afloat. Healths were drunk, stories told and jokes passed freely around until in a short time the whisky had vanished. “That’s the hottest raw whisky I ever tasted,” said Neal, as one of the company sent out for an- other quart. ‘“‘What the divil must it be in punch if its so hot ecowld ?” “Well, the whisky here is not what it was in the Owld Counthry, Neal. Itisn’t fit for punch at all,” said a low-browed, dark-visaged veteran, whose face bore several blue marks, the result. of slight accidents sustained at different times in the mines. “Now,” he continued, “in the Owld Counthry I re- member wellthat I could dhrink aquart 0’ potheen meself, an’ if there was any throuble an’ me mind before it would mollify me and makeone as peace- able as alamb. Allthe harm I’d want to do is to Why man you must be} you see those | around the stranger, | Neal j was nearly as sore perplexed with questions as | | dance a jig or have a bit of a friendly ruction with } | the boys for diversion. But man alive if I dhrink | half as much in this counthry it puts the mischief | toes, savin’ yer presence.” “It’s yer timper, Misther Regan, an’ not the whis- ky,” said a wag, intending to be funny. “Ye darn’t say thatif I was dhrunk,”’ said. Rory: ““‘but here comes the beverage itself. Ah! bad luck |to misfortune! Who’d be poor as long as he’s hap- py! Boys, let ye help yersels.” “Let us have a song,” said Mick Moran; a young man who had indulged so deeply in the first quart that it was with much difficulty he could keep his eyes open. “I was to a raffle last night, and me eyes is heavy; but I can listen to a good song that’ll keep us awake till Miles Murphy comes home.” The company exchanged signifiant glances in reference to the cause of Mick’s drowsiness. “Sing us a stave yersel, Mick: there is not a man in the crowd has a betther woi¢e,” said Rory. “But furst wet yer whistle,’ he added, handing him a cup half-filled with the fiery fluid. Mick Moran quaffed its contents, shut his eyes, leaned his head against the wall, and with a pre- paratory ““Nho thin,” which, by the way, formed the first two words of every song he sung, commenced a doggerel ditty, which was applauded by the com- any; Neal Nolan declaring, to the astonishment of Bis companions, that he had never heard it before. The first verse was as follows: } “Me name is Miss Maguire, a faymale of great fame; I love the sons of Erin, and I am not to blame, And for their sake I’m ready toremedy their woes, And to spill at any moment the heart’s blood ay their foes. Chorus.—Then let all tyrants thremble Who are not to my desire, And dale honestly with Irishmen, The sons of Miss Maguire.” Neal Nolan, in the simplicity of his heart, fancied that the song had reference to the liberation of Ire- land from English rule, and was, therefore, quite enthusiastic in applauding it The man who sung it, as well as he who wrote it, eared but little for Ireland’s liberation, and was prompted by no nobler aspiration than that of shak- | ing off the tyranny, real or fancied, of some “mine | boss” who might happen to make himself obnox- ious to the “Sons of Miss Magtire,” as he euphoni- ously termed them, or to the “‘“Molly Maguires,” as | they were known throughout the country. But of | them anon. ‘ ; | Neal Nolan was teeming with patriotic song and {sentiment, all illustrative of the “down-trodden” | Treland he had left behind, and being of a pleasant, intelligent, and sociable disposition, with a frank mind, as yet unmarred by contact with evil associa- ‘ tions, he soon became a universal favorite. i Hecould sing a splendid song, and there were few indeed who could surpass him at aC Come-all- ye,” in which the sorrows of Erin, or the mishaps of some unfortunate lovers, were set forth in that felicitous fashion peculiar to the rural regions of Treland, where the tribulations of “Willie Reilly and his own dear Colleen Bawn” have been popular dur- ingthe memory of man, and will be handed down to posterity side by side with “Eileen Aroon,” the “Shan Van Vocht,’ and kindred ditties, as longas the Celtic soul finds room to breathe forth its bal- lads on Irish ground. Emigration: destroys these racy customs, which, we regret to say, are often- times exchanged for more dangerous amusements in other lands. Neal Malone, being fresh from Ireland, was full of the song and gossip of the “dear old Jand.” And no wonder he was soon the hero of the party. Warming up to his work,and spurred on by the surrounding influences, he was soon telling all the the stories and singing all the songs. He was interrupted in the middle ofa pathetic ballad by a knoek at the door. There was a stamp- ing of horses’ feet, then asmothered groan, as if of some one in great pain, and two or three of the PLS OPP LPL LPP PLL I | ! unt! { ; : | bloody, was taken from a wagon into me entirely, and Id fight wid the nails o’ me} men, with frightened faces, ran to open the door. Ahuman form, black with coal-dust, grimy and and. borne. into the cottage between four men. The company rose from their seats, terror-stricken, and staggered aside. Neal Nolan, accustomed to the sight of blood, was shocked. “Murdher! murdher!” heexclaimed; “whatinthe world is this? Oh,the Lord save us this blessed night! Who is it at all?” Mrs. Murphy, with a wife’s wounded man’s features, exclaimed, with an ag- onizing ery: “My husband! my Miles!” the floor. The wounded man’s lips, as though stirred to an- imation once again by that ery, moved and mur- mured: “Mary! Mary!,” and then were silent again, ex- gopp ior the hollow breathing that surely denoted death. It was Miles Murphy, the miner, Neal Nolan’s un- cle. His head was fearfully gashed, and the blood streaming down a face blackened by coal-dust, pro- duced a shocking picture. Neal bent over him in anguish, and shuddered at the sight. “‘And this,” he said, “is my uncle, that I came three thousand miles to see. Oh, wirra! wirra!” and then fainted on PAPA em. : true instinct, felt her | heart stand still,and catching a glimpse of the —DPADAE Ores’ Maguires made him exceedingly unpopular with a eertain class of his countrymen, who hated, yet feared him, cursed him in his absence, and obse- quiously bent the kneein his presence. He gazed foramoment atthe company, then at the table laden with the remnants of the recent conviviality, which, in their dismay, the revelers forgot to re- move, and then his darkening brows presaged a coming storm. “What means all this?” he asked, casting a with- ering look in the direction of Rory Regan, who was evidently the oldest in the company. “T don’t know, sir,’ was the unmeaning reply, while a vacant, almost idiotic look laid hold of Rory’s features. “Where is the sick man?” said the priest. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Father John, see my hus- band; he is dying in the next room, and they won’t let me go near him!” said Mrs. Murphy, piteously. “Was he wounded in this drunken brawl?” was the hot and hasty query of the priest. “Answer me quick!” he said, approaching Rory Regan, with an angry frown; “answer me quick, you black son of Cerberus!” “Oh, the Lord save us, Father John,from your hard names this blessed night!” said the frightened tory, whose knees fairly knocked together. “Shure there was no fightin’ at all, an’ poor Miles Murphy was kilt in the mines. FAC-SIMILE OF A MOLLY MAGUIRKE’S LETTER. man stirred not, spoke not, but stili breathed heavily. The men who earried him in were silent. They nodded familiarly to the com- pany, and shook their heads mysteriously as they returned from the narrow bedroom where they laid Miles Murphy in bed, while a messenger was dispatched in all haste for the priest and doctor. The wounded CHAPTER II. THE MURDERED MINER. Mrs. Murphy recovered from her swoon, and has- tening intothe bedroom where her husband lay, commenced weeping violently, clapping her hands in great grief, and exclaiming: “Oh, Miles! Miles! speak to me! acorra machree! speak to me!” Two ofthe men. went and removed her gently from the room. The children ran around excited- ly, erying wildly thattheir father was dead, and amid aseene of confusion the door was opened, and the priest—Father John O’Neill—entered. He was about the middle age, severe of speech, yet tender on occasion, and his foreible denunciation of a society known in the coal regions as the Molly The confession made by one of the ‘‘Molly Maguires’” now in the jail of Carbon County, Pa., charged with the murder of mine boss Jon pt pred bane) —_ and the own neck by putting the rope around the necks of his fellow assassins. Liepublican, Feb.. 7. ¢) 7) ts ne seg/ GRY er at Ou Pat ¢ a number of those who have had a hand in these cowardly assassinations in the coal regions to justice. Seven per names of others charged with murder are in the possession of officers. “It is agood thing for you there was not. Then Tllattendto him. Whereis he? Let me have alight.” So saying, he took the lamp in his hand, and Rory opening the bedroom door, Father O’Neill entered alone, then closed the door, and proceeded to administer the last econsolations of the church to the dying man. The priest called him gently by name. There was no reply. He held the lamp over the wounded man’s features, and,as he did, shuddered at the sight. The face was disfigured. The chin had fallen. The eyes were staring vacantly in the wild, unsee- ing gaze of death. The days of poor Murphy’s toil were over. Father O’Neill, notwithstanding that he w: eustomed to shocking sights, occasioned almost daily by accidents in the mines, was thrilled to the quick by the ghastly picture, and he turned sadly away. Just as he was entering the kitchen with the lamp in his hand, and. his face made _ pale by the shock he had experienced, he met the doctor. “Ah, doctor,” he said, “this poor man is beyond our aid. The physician of the soul and the physi- ag gs, will doubtless have the effect of sons have already been arrested in Schuylkill County, The criminal who has made the confession implicating his confederates, doubtless hopes to save his He has, at all events, done a good work for the community whether he sa ‘y ves his own life or not.—Scranton ug)? P|] cs os Pre- fr MOLLY MAGUIRE = DiPie w iS. : as. 8 = 5 ti! = is doomed, and yowll die like adog if you stay here any longer as mine boss. Take wurning. else leave this place. v SS ee ee Harry Morgan shuddered as he contemplated the grim missive. Under ordinary circumstances its uncouth charactercould provoke nothing else than laughter, but its ning was too deep, its mission too damnable and deadly to provoke a smile, and he knew as certain ate that it was the positive pre- cursor of murder. — No man had ever iy Hill that did. eceived such a notice in Shan- t die aterrible death. The au- ors generally sent three in succession to any man they had marked for murder, and shortly af- ter the receipt of the third his fate was sealed. This was the second Harry Morgan had had. The first he received the week previous, and it was no won- der that he was peony, stirred by this second impe- rious missive, which threatened his life so boldly. He looked at the writing three or four times, to see if he could detect any resembl ce in ivto anythin he had ever seen before. But no}; it resemble nothing save the other notice of the same character that had been sent tohim. It was not dictated in the sameterms. It was moretelling intone. But the same horrid emblems—the rude insignia of death were there—the skull and cross-bones, the coffin, and that inevitable weapon, t volve : ver. The mine boss was.sorely perplexed and pained to think who could dictate such a missive, a. af- ter various vain conjectures, he gave it up. s Can it be,” he said to himself, “that Ihave made enemies for myself in the discharge of my duty— that I must go around this. community a marked man, with the skulking shadow of the assassin dog- ging my footsteps, or is this some mischieyous prank of some wag Aovirings fo annoy me? Nb, it cannot be. The jokéis too hideous to come from any but the heart of a coward and a murderer, I ms 1 oul} do my duty, and if [die Ill sell my life early. drawers, and drew out a shining dagger which had laid in its sheath for many a day, being one that his father carried during an Australian trip in his young days. : “With this,” he said, ‘“‘at least I will not die with- out a struggle—or with this,” taking from the same pia E revolver which he loaded and placed in his pocket. {n doing so the threatening letter fell from his hand unnoticed—fell to the floor where he left it— and returning to the kitchen, with an assumed air of nonchalance said: “Mother, Ithink I won’t work in_the garden just now. Tl walk over to the mine and see that things are in working order for to-morrow.” He had no sooner spoken than there was a knock pete door and two constables presented them- selves. _ Harry Morgan recognized them, and after wish- ing them a good morning, pleasantly invited them into the house. The men acted somewhat shy and awkward, and looked at’ each other in complete confusion for afewsecends. Finally one of them summoning up sufficient courage said: “Mr. Morgan we are very sorry. We came here on a disagreeable journe oy itis not our fault. You are wanted at Squire Brown’s office and we haye a warrant for your arrest.” __ ; Harry Morgan was thunderstruck; his mother alarmed beyond expression. ~ “His ‘ arrest—my boy’s arrest!” she exclaimed, her heart’ beating wildly and her frame quivering with excitement. Keep calm mother—don’t worry, and we_ will find out what this is all about,” said Harry Mor- gan. “Now gentlemen,” he added, “what is the charge against me ?” Here is the paper,” said one producing the war- rant, “and the.direction is that we arrest you for the murder of Miles Murphy.” ‘For murder! My boy arrested fornmurder! Im- possible. Oh, great Héaven! is this real, or is it merely a dream!” cried the Widow Morgan clasp- ing her burning forehead between her hands. “Harry, Harry you. shall not go with these men!” Harry Morgan seemed paralyzed and could not speak fora few moments. At length-recovering himself he said: Sg ) “This is really horrible, gentlemen; too horrible to understand. There is some terrible acnery at the bottom of it that I cannot fathom, eaven only knows I am innocént-of poor Miles» Murphy’s blood. But*I know you have a duty to, perform, and I don’t want to detain: you. » Mother,” he con- tinued, ‘be patient. This-will come Out all right yet, and I'll get even. with my enemies. I.can prove wherelI was when the deed was done, Now come on. Lam ready to go to the squire’s office. I'll be back for dinner, mother.” His mother threw her arms around his neck and with her cheek pressed closely to his wept bitterly, the hot tears mingling with. those of the youn man who for the first time in his life stood accused of crime. At length releasing himself gently from her embrace, Harry Morgan set out for the squire’s office, a constable walking on each side of him as he went down the road leading from home. {TO BE CONTINUED. ] —_____> 9 ~+_______ An Expensive Blunder. Not many months ago, in India, a gentleman and wife, having taken passage for pend. went on board with their baggage. Presently the husband discovered that there was time for him to go ashore and see a man. He went, hé saw, he was conquered; and when it occurred to him that.it was time to go aboard again, he hailed a boatman, and ere lon found himself on board a large passenger ship. It was night. A sleepy steward inquired the number of his cabin, which he chanced to remember, as also that it was the upper berth; so he contrived to clamber into it without disturbing his wife, as he supposed, who slept beneath. But when dawn broke, and the ship was well on her way, a feminine voice was heard shrieking in a tone of terror: Steward! steward! there’s a man in my Gabin!” The wretched man was aroused, and the situation explained to him. He had mistaken the ship. They were under weigh for Australia, and his unhappy wife was steaming away for England, under the firm conviction that he been robbed and mur- dered by ruffians who frequent the quays. When he at length arrived in Australia, he could not even there relieve his mind, as the cable connecting that country with Europe was not completed—it having, in fact, only now n working little more than a year—so that about four months passed be- fore she heard anything of him. Dantet Doris, the author of “Moray MaGcurre,” was once aslate-picker in the eoal mines of Penn- } sylvania. LQ He walked to a bureau, opened one of the “DECEIVED,” BY Ji7, B. I can see her now, my best loved friend, The one [ had thought so true, With her fair round cheek like the damask rose, | And her eyes like Heayen’s own blue; a I can féel again the pain that I felt In the knowledge that came with that day, ™ When she clung to the heart I had thought all my own, } That fair, bright morning in May. ¥ T can see her now as, arrayed in white, Again she stood by his side; : The costly vail hid her blushing face, / The face of his happy bride. T can feel again the anguish that thrill’d \ Through my soul as I looked that day— A sorrow still deeper than what [had known } L thas long ago morning in May, Once more I can see her, my fair, false friend, Bending low o’er the form I so love; , That form, once so manly, so noble, I knew # Would be soon with the angels above. z And again a wild agony fills my poor heart, § : ‘ Oh, God, still its throbbings I pray, And cast from my mem’ry all record, all thought Of the sorrow that came with that day! Lady Evelyn's Folly. BY THE AUTHOR OF A WOMAN’S TEMPTATION, [‘SLady Eyelyn’s Folly” was commenced in No. 53. Back Nos. can be obtained from any News»Agent. } CHAPTER LVUL Again the dowager countess of Chesterleigh look- ed at her son, “Ts it true, Talbot?” she asked, “Tt is utterly Yalse ,” he replied. “IT prefer my son’s word — yours, Lady Evelyn. You may have been misled by what is evidently a jealous fancy, but my son would not sgeck falsely.” “The honor of the Chesterleighs forbids it, I sup- pose,” said Lady Evelyn, bitterly. “You can please yourself, madame, whose wor take; I do not ask you to take mine—I am perfectly indifferent on the matter. I could not possibly be more so; but }of one thing rest assured, your son gave those jew- els to Madame Dubois, and what the world says about them is perfectly true; rest assured of this— that I would rather twenty times over die any death than apologize to that. woman, or have anything more to do with her. My answer is final, you ean take it as such.” - : 4 “Listen to me, now,” saidthe dowager, ‘unless you do it, you shall suffer most terribly; mind, I do not say what that hey dors "he be, but I never ex- aggerate; and I say thatif you refuse, you shall suffer—be warnedin time.” f , “I do not care for the suffering,” she cried, care- lessly ; “‘no one could make me suffer beyond a cer- tain point; and, as I said before, I will not apolo- gize, but I can die.” “Let all that follows be upon your own head,” said the dowager. Then a carriage stopped at the door and a loud peal rang through the hall. “There is y Macdonel,” said the earl. ‘So thip famous conference has ended in nothing, mo- ther.” “The end is not yet,” said ray Chesterleigh, and her words were prophetic indeed. No more could be said then, for Lady Macdonel came into the room, and the common forms of so- ciety must be observed. But when they had both gone out, | Evelyn looked especially charming and defiant. The dowager went to her son. : “If you are still determined,” she said, “there is nothing for it but Glencairn.” f “Glencairn letit be, with all my heart,” said the earl. His mother laid her hands on his shoulder and looked into his face. ¥ “Talbot,” she said, gravely, “before I go any fur- ther, assure me again that there is no truth in this story.” He took her hand and kissed it. ; “There is not_one word of truth from beginning to end,” he replied. A falsehood, more or less, was a matter of such little importance to him that he cared absolutely nothing for it—less than nothing; so the plot pro- ceeded. There was no one to interfere on her behalf; no one to stretch out a helping hand to her; no one to save her from her fate. Her father’s refusal to take her home, had deeply wounded her. She was proud and reserved with Wim; no matter how great her trouble she would n@yerragain apply to him, and by instinct, he seem o know it. A shadow, black and tangible, had fallen between father and daugh- er. Lady Grange had called once or twice, but Lady Evelyn had proudly refused to say one word to her, so that she was, as it were, cut off from her friends. “Such friends as they are,” she sighed. “Heaven help me! Such friends!” There was but one true among them—only one— and that was Rex; her heart turned tohim asa child turns to its mother; he was so true, so kind, so tender. Oh, if she had but married him, if she had but risked the poverty, and have married him. But she never saw Rex now. Once, whenshe was drivinginthe park,she saw him in the dis- tanee, and she Senne the carriage, thinking he was coming to speak toher; but Rex passed on with a grave bow. He did not, as others did, loiter by her cafriage and linger by her side. Had she been happy. he might have doneso; there would have been far less danger for him in her presence then; as it was, since the scene of that morning, he had with difficulty controlled himself. To see the woman he loved beaten, struck down, bruised, was more than he could bear; he cried aloud in his im- potent anger and wrath. He was obliged to crush with an iron hand the tender impulse which led him to her—the impulse which urged him to take her from this misery and make’her happy in his slike But Rex was a gentleman, Rex was a man of n0no0r. a On the morning she drove out with, Lady Mac- donel, she met him again, and itso happened that Lady Evelyn looked even paler than usual, and he could not help stopping tospeaktoher. Lady Mac- donel was speaking to some one, so that they had just the chance of a word with each other. “You are looking very ill, Lady Evelyn,” he said. “Do you feel ill?” _ “Yes,” she said, in heart and soul, body and mind, Rex, sick unto death. The dowager is here; haye you heard about it?” “No,” he replied. ‘Lord Knoban has been busily occupied during the last few days. We have heard nothing about it.” . “She is here in full force. Oh, Rex, I wish I were abird,and couldfiy away. I wish I were a flower, and could die whenthesummerends. You remem- ber the promise that you made me, Rex, always to be my friend? Since Ihave seen the dowager’s stern face again have hada presentiment on me that I should need a friend. The very air I breathe seems full of danger. If they do anything to hurt me, you will avenge me, Rex?” All his heart was in his eyes when he looked at her, “I should come to you if you needed me,” he re- plied, “even, I believe, if I lay dead when you ealled me.” . Then he left her pene s he could not trust him- self to utter another word. i ‘ “What a handsome man that is,” said Lady Macdonel, with a smile. “It is one of the hand- somest, but one of the saddest faces I have ever seen.” “It was not always sad,” replied Lady Evelyn. ne has not been happy, and that has changed im.” There was something so strange, so pathetic in her voice, that Lady Macdonel looked earnestly at her; but. of what she thought or fancied her lady- ship said no word. Three days afterward.Lord Knoban called to say adieu. He was returning to Hardress Abbey, and in reply to some suggestion of Lord Chesterleigh’s he said that he should be delighted to see them at the abbey as soonas they could come. He did not nytice the earl’s strange glance at the dowager, and the peculiar expression of hef face. “We shall come,” said the dowager, with a grim attempt at gayety; “have no fear—we shall come.” Father and daughter parted with the coldest words. Lord Knoban touched the pale, sweet face with his lips; she did not raise it. “Good-by, papa,” she said, and neither of them dreamed what would happen before they met again. After that, the constant theme of conversation between mother and son was the visit to Hardress Abbey, The dowager became almost amicable over it. “like that Lady Grange of yours,” she said, one day, to the young countess; ‘“‘she is a shrewd, clever woman.” “I wonder you like her; you are always finding fault with my training—she trained me.” “Ab! it is just possible that she had a difficult task, and that you do not do justice to the training,” was the rejoinder. 4 ‘ he day came when, with much politeness of manner, the earl.informed his wife that he had re- ceived an invitation irom her father, and that if she were willing, they would start for Hardress on the morrow. a : ; “Whether I am willing or not will make but little difference -in the matter, I suppose. . not care to go—all piaces are alike to me; butif it pleases you, I will go.” ‘WEEKLY. fe And without,one thought of the treachery, of the deceit, of the cruel plot laid against her, she pre- ared for what she believed to be her journey ome. * CHAPTER LVIX. There was no suspicion, however faint, of. the truth in Lady Evelyn’s mind, as she stepped into the carriage that afternoon, and took her seat be- side the driver. Only one thing had struck her as seeming strange, and that was the great quantity of luggage that had: been prepared for her to take with fier: she saw so many boxes, and she had said wonderingly to Lisburn: ; “If we are only going for a fortnight, why should we take so much luggage with us ?” And Lisburn replied that it did not belong to her; a greet quanta of it was the dowager’s. ady Evelyn forgot it.a few minutes afterward: As she took her seatin the carriage, she felt some- thing like an emotion of gladness, that on this fair day she should see Rex—Rex—who alone, out of all the world, had the power to cheer and console her. They reached the railway station, and still she had no idea that they intended to dupe her. Lady Chesterleigh engrossed her attention. while the tickets were purchased. It was not until they were about to enter the carriage that she found out her mistake, and then she cried out. ll that follows, our readers know—how she was taken to the Western Tower. This third and last part our story shows whether she left there alive or not. The sun shone broadly on the waters on the day |. following when she looked from the narrow win- dow of her little room, but not -all the sun that could ever shine would warm that wide vast waste of waters, or even brighten it. Even where’ the glint of the sun shone warmest the waters still looked cold and leaden. Wasthere any hope of es- cape? Ah! no—a thousand times no! The sea was so far below her that she only distinguished a dull roar of water.. When the storm was at its height, that increased to wildest fury; just now it was of.a dull, leaden calm. She looked down with a shud- der; the sea-gulls circled and whirled beneath the windows, and rested on. therocks. Shecould not see the narrow strip of land that, when the tide was out, lay between the-rocks and the sea. Oh, merci- ful Heayen! those wild restless waters, that terrible lonely, heaving sea! Shestretched out her hands with a wild ery. Oh, Heaven! would rescue and help never come? Was all the rest of her life to be spent there? Why, the sound of that sullen roar would drive her mad; the sight of that wild, watery waste would send-her distraught. | : “Oh, Heaven! send me help,” cried the unhappy girl; and the cry seemed to die away over the seas. All her faéx. praised beauty, her hopes of happi- ness, her longings for love, her keen, quick, pas- sionate enjoyment of life, all had come to this. She was a prisoner in this lonely castle by the sea, a prisoner in this small, square room, where never should sun shine or flowers bloom. What an end- ing to her fair, sweet life. ; She laid her head on the rough wood of the win- dow-sill, and cried aloud. She was quite in despair; there did not come to her any gleam of hope. Give in she would not, not if she died for it; notif they starved her to death; she would never apologize to the daring, wicked woman, to whom she owed her misery. e wind played with her goiden hair and fanned her face. She checked her sobs when the door opened, and her maid, Lisburn, entered the room. She loved her mistress dearly, this young girl. She ran up e her and knelt dewn at her feet; she wept bitter ears. “Oh, my lady! my lady!” she eried, “why have they brought us here?” To kill us quietly, Lisburn, I think,” she replied. ‘Never, mind; there is one consolation to me—if they killed me by inchesI would not utter one Chy.” =. “Oh, my, lady! such a place—such a desolate’ dreary, weird-like place. It is all made of cold stone, built on this horrible rock, and to get to any ground at allone has to descend a deep, winding ath. In front there is nothing but this terrible sea. h, my lady, what will become of us?” “I tell you, Lisburn,” said Lady Evelyn, “‘the only thing we can do is to escape; we must get away from here. [should go mad if I listened to the ceaseless beating of this awful sea.” There was no need for secrecy between these two. Hitherto Lady Evelyn had proudly kept her sor- rows all to herself; if Lisburn guessed them, she said nome ot them. Now they were all plain, there could be no reserve, every barrier was bro- ken down. : Lady Evelyn laid her head on the girl’s shoulder and wept again. When she looked into the honest face, Lisburn was startled by the strange light in the beautifuleyes. . “Lisburn,” she whispered, “‘tell me, do you think chy have shut me up here to drive me mad?” cannot tell, I donot know what to think, my 1a. Haye you done anything to displease my ord?” “Yes; that is, Isupposeso. At least, it’s this—he wants me to do something, and I will not do it.” ‘Oh, my lady, do it—do anything to get away from this terrible place.” “No,” she replied. ‘“‘Yousee this open window Lisburn? Suppose that he held me ‘there, and threatened to fling me into the sea. Rather than do what he wishes, I would be dashed to pieces on the rocks.” Oh, my lady,” wailed the girl, “is it so hard.” It is not merely hard, it is quite impossible; we will waste no time in talking aboutit. But, Lis- burn, we must think of some plan of escape.” The maid shook her head. We might as well try to escape from the grave,” she said; “it is utterly out of the question. There is but one door leading from here, and that is at the back; itis alarge iron door,and old Andrew keeps the key; he never parts with it: he lets every one in, and he opens it every, time that any one goes out. This room, too, is locked, and Lady Chesterleigh keeps the key; no effort of ours could ever open it. My lady, there is no hope.” They want to driye me mad,” she said. ‘‘Lis- burn, you must watch me; my mother went mad, but she, sweet soul, was all distraught with love. Watch me, and if you see any change in me, tell me. You would be the first to see if anything was going wrong with me. She could not understand why the girl’s head degra lower and lower. y lady,” she said, in a low, hushed voice, “I dare hardly tell. you—but I shall not be with you. Lady Chesterleigh sent for me this morning. [ dare not tell you, yet I must.” “You must indeed,” said Lady Evelyn. She caught the girl’s two hands in hers, and bent for- ward with eagerness that was painful to see; “you must indeed tell me, Lisburn. They are plotting against my liberty, or my life. Tell me, that I may know how to circumyent their.plots and regain my liberty. Tell me, Lisburn; perhaps even my life depends on what they have said—my life! and Iam so young.” will tell you, my lady; I belong to you, not to them; you are my mistress, and all my duty is yours—I am nothing’ to them. The dowager- countess sent for me. this morning—ah! my lady, she is not lodged in a wretched_room like this; she has a _ suite of rooms, and they are beautifully furnished; so has my lord—she seat for me this morning; and, first of all,she gave me this ten- gp note; then she praised, me and said that’she ad noticed that I was very good and attentive to my duties ; then, my lady, she began to speak of you. Lady Evelyn raised her pale sweet face and lis- tened with breathless interest. To speak of me,” she said. “Ah! yes, and Lis- burn, tell me all about it, tell me honestly.” _I will, my lady, but do not look so white and so wild. I will tell you; first she began by praising you.” “Praising me!” interrupted Lady Evelyn. “Yes.. Oh! they are shrewd and clever, these people—shrewd and clever. She praised you; she said you were so beautiful, so kind, but the aa pity was that you were— Oh! I dare not ell you.’ ns ell me!” cried Lady Evelyn; “tell me every word. “The dreadful pity was that lately both she and the earl, my master. had been_terribly anxious over you. our father, Lord Knoban, was the same, for they had all noticed that you were going just as your mother did; that you were falling into strange, dreamy ways; that even, as she'did before you, you were in the habit of taking strange fan- eies; that you had Bnet fancy now, and it was causing them a deal of unhappiness.” " A little ery of dismay came from Lady Evelyn’s ips. OMty lady,” continued the maid earnestly, “I seemed to see things as in a flash of lightning. They want to make you out mad, and they want me to help them. I saw it all, and just as quickly there flashed through methe thought that if _I wanted to help you I must at least pretend to fall in with their views,” “Heaven help me!” sighed the unhappy lady; “what shall I do?” ., Lsaw that at once, so I pretended to agree; but it was all for your sweet sake, my lady—all for you. The dowager asked me if I had seen anything like insanity in you during thetime I had been with you. I toldsher ‘No,’ and she seemed disappointed. Think again,’ she said, and again I told her ‘No.’ Then she said I must watch you very keenly, and report to her every day how you were. You are not, perhaps, accustomed to the in- sane,’ she said to me. I told her ‘No; and she said if that were the case she was afraid she must get some one in my place; and then, my lady, I told her that I would watch you, and would do my best to help her. ev CHAPTER LX. For some few minutes the unhappy young eountess sat bewildered, then she whispered softly : \ > ‘ ‘ |. You are very good t \ pntess, PACs Dalmane lie ¥ “What do you think they mean to do to me, Lis- urn?” “TI think, my lady, that they intend to make out that you are mad.” : “And I believe,” she whispered hoarsely, ‘‘that by continually thinking of it, I shall beeome mad. That is what they intend.” _ : The girl looked longingly into the white face of her unfortunate mistress. ie “Ah, no!” she said, eagerly; “that is just what you must not do... Lowill help-you, my lady. The : heat : wailing of the wind, and’ moaning of the sea will not be so dreadfulif we both bear it together; then we will not be wrete 3 we will work, and read, and talk, They s drive you mad, my . if I can prevent it.” 4 OO et said the young " she say any more, sburn 4 a4 “Yes, my lady; she said that before leaving Lon- don, both she od had consulted the high- est medical authorities, an, ey all agreed in giy-~ ing the same adv a) And that advice ?” interrupted Lady Evelyn. “Was that you were to have Ghange of scene, and the greatest quiet; that you were to be taken. away from all possible chance of excitement. My Lady Chesterleigh said that she elf suggested the castle here, and it was decided that of all places. it would be most suitable, and she made me promise her, over and over again, that I would watch you and report to her all I observed. Oh, my lady, if E am to help you, I must act a part.” “Yes,” said y Evelyn, wearily, “there can be no mistake about that; you must act a part.” “Before them,” continued the maid, “my honored dear mistress will. pardon me if I seem brusque and inattentive; it will only be to throw them off their guard; and oh! my lady, if love and faithful service can save you, you shall be saved.” “Lisburn,” said Lady Evelyn, “there is one per- son who would save me if he knew—who would beat downthis grim old castle single-handed—who would rend the very rock.asunder formy sake; but he will perhaps never know where Iam until they have succeeded, and ITannpmad,” “We will try,.my lady,” said the girl; “‘only keep u sch spirits and all will be well.” ; tn en Lisburn darted away from her mistress, and pretended to .be deeply engrossed with the reparations for breakfast. Her quick ears had orectad the sound of footsteps on the narrow stairs; another minute and the dowager Countess of Chesterleigh stood in the little room with a tri- umphant smile on her face. 4 “We have caged our bird, you see, Lady Evelyn,’ she said vindictively. Not to have been -released that moment would Lady Evelyn haye eyen looked unhappy. Do as they would they should never hear one sigh of sor- row orfdismay. She looked round with a little mocking laugh. : 4 “A cage, Lady Chesterleigh! Tt may be your idea of one; it is more ofa prison than a cage.” “A prison—yes, such refractory people need a prison. Lisburn, what are you doing here?” The maid turned round with a quick clever as- sumption of impatience. , : “My lady is so tiresome, she will neither take her breakfast nor leave it alone.” Lady Evelyn looked up in wonder at the first saucy word she had eyer heard from her attendant; then remembering that it was but a part she was acting, looked as suddenly down again, but not be- fore she had seen the expression of satisfaction that came oyer the dowager’s. face. ; “Ah!” she said, pympathitingly. “Lady Evelyn will perhaps ‘Care more for her breakfast when I have finished talking to her. You can go, Lisburn. I wish to be left alone with your lady.” : And Lisburn withdrew with a very perceptible movement of, impatience and a hasty bang ofthe door. The dowager smiled again as she heard it. Then the two confronted each other. Lady Chesterleigh looked at her victim, and Lady Evelyn looked as steadily and clearly at her perhaps. “Ihave but few words to Le to you, Lady Eye- lyn,’ she began. “I like brevity; remember there will be no appeal from what I say.” “You may be quite sure that I will make none,” said Lady Evelyn, scornfully. “You have refused, to write an apology that your husband has both prayed and demanded from you. His position, his rank, the respect to be paid to him in society, all demand that you should write it, Your refusal to do it makes him contemptible in all eyes.”’ : “And my compliance,” she interrupted, “would make him more. contemptible still.” Lady Chesterleigh did not appear to haye heard, but she went on: “It is absolutely necessary that you should write the apology demanded from you. The ultimatum is this: You shall remain here ten, twenty, forty years if you will, but you shall remain until you have written it,” , hen I shall die here,” said Lady Evelyn, with a light, mocking laugh, “‘for I shall never write it.” ‘I took excellent adyice about you before I left London,” said the dowager. “Itold Sir Arthur An- struther and Doctor Peyvall about your strange symptoms—your queer fancies; and they both agreed that it looked like insanity. If you wish to return to the world and enjoy your life, to proclaim ourself sane and sensible, to regain all you have ost, then write the apology. If you wish to linger here, dragging out your life as you best can—the whole world believing you mad—then refuse to write it; the choice lies with yourself,” “I know it,” said Lady Evelyn, calmly, “and Iam content to remain here until I die.” An expression of baffled rage came over the dowager’s face; Lady Evelyn was delighted when she saw it. “that in marrying the daughter of Lord Knoban, our son married one quite obscure and un- nown?” “It would haye been much better for him if he had,” retorted the dowager. “I grant that; it would also have been better for me,” said Lady Evelyn; “but that is not the question. Do you think that I shall not be missed?” ao) “Myson and myself-will take care that your ab- sence is satisfactorily accounted for,” said Lady Chesterleigh. . “You may think so; you, may tell your absurd ip about madness, but do you think any one will believe them?” ‘I venture to think so,” said the dowager. Then I, although younger than yourself, assure ot that you are wrong; it may do for ashort time. My father is an honorable gentleman; after a little time he will begin to wonder, and he will insist upon seeing me, My sister has married an influ- ential man, and she will not let me die out of all memory without making some inquiries; and E have, [thank Heaven, another friend. Ah, me! E never knew what the word friend meant until now. I have a friend who will not let me perish, who will find me out, who will avenge meas surely as Heay— en shines above me. I am not dismayed at the little square prison on the grim castle, fit home for itsowners. Do not flatter yourself that Iam in the least degree dismayed.” _ : ee y Chesterleigh smiled, but the young count- ess saw her lips tremble, and she knew she had dis- turbed the lady’s. serenity, atleast; she rose ab- rupy and went to the window. . “It must be granted,” Lady Evelyn said, “that the Rroenect here is not so tempting as Hyde Park. E o not know, though, itis at least a change, and E am determined quite to like it, Lady Chesterleigh. There is something very romantic in being shutup in a lovely castle on arock. Itis not every lady in the nineteenth century who can boast of such a ra— mance. I shall be quite a heroine when I return to London. 4 «au, When you return you will,” said the dowager. Dismiss that pleasing picture from your minds you will never return!” she bent down and hissed, rather than whispered. “Solitude will have driven you mad before you have a chance to return.” In spite of her courage, in spite of her deter- mination of bravery, her heart sank, and the blood seemed to run cold in her veins as she listened, but aot to herenemy would she show the least sign of ear. “It is a comedy,” she said. “Whatagreat pity Lady Chesterleigh, that you cannot send me m by wishing meso. ShallI have the pleasure of see- ing my husband during my stay in his lively Scot- tish home?” Lady Chesterleigh’s face grew dark as night. a will make you feel,” she said; “I will make you suffer.” “You cannot,” laughed the younger lady, defiant- ly; “itis notin your power. Do not think for one moment that I regret being here on these rocks. shall find more amusement from this window than Iever did from the windows of Chester House. Here, at least, I have peace—there, [had none. If you have quite finis ed your charming little eae re Chesterleigh, I should like to be alone.” “Alone you shall be; but remember, when you weary of. your imprisonment, you have nothing to do but write the apology your husband demands; he will not care how simple it is.” “Iam sure he will not when he gets it,” said Lady Evelyn ; ‘‘and that will be when the waves there rise and reach the skies.” “Thave seen braver, bolder spirits than yours broken down,” said Lady ethan yee “You have helped to break them, I have no doubt; but. orgn = will not help to break mine,” said y Evelyn. And then they parted. It was lonely; she owned it to herself after a time—terribly lonely; no hu- man voice broke the stillness. There was nosound save the beating of the surf and the shrill ery of the northern wind. “IfI can but keep myself from stange fancies,” she thought. eet Ss ; She began to look round her prison-house; her suite of eee eonsisted of four small rooms, two sleeping rooms, one for herself and one for her maid, the little sitting-room, and an outer room, 0 you suppose, Lady Chesterleigh,” she asked, Se ad tie rH ~(fa@ ROSES. \ NEW YORE. WEEKLY. t= -" the use of which she did not understand. The four were all upon one floor, and opened into cach other; the door that led to the, staircase was in the outer room, and formed the only means of com- munication with the outer world. Each room was rovided with a bell-rope; Lady Evelyn pulled one, ut wherever the bell sounded she could not hear it. It was heard, however, and answered by a young Scotch lassie, Alice Laelon, a pretty girl with asweet Scotch face. Lady Evelyn felt brighter when she saw her. : ; “Did your ladyship want anything?” she asked, when she unlocked the door. » : Lady Evelyn smiled, and the Seotch lassie thought she had never seen anything so beautiful as that smile. ie . “Yes,” she replied; “Iewant agood deal. Go to Lady Chesterleigh, tell her I want books to read, and work to do.’ 2 “Anything else?” said the maid. : ner Evelyn laughed—that laugh which was so terrible to hear.” Pee : “No; nothing else. I have everything in the wide Ser I want, except books and work—fetch em. ‘ And Alice asked for them in such good faith, the dowscer » bsolutely could not refuse them. “Does she seem very unhappy. mother?” asked the earl, as they sat down to dinner together. “No, my son, she does not,” was the answer: ee in my opinion, she would rather die than yield.” . , “We must not be too severe,” he said, and she answered grimly: “No; certainly not.” [TO BE CONTINUED a J / 4 FOR SALE IN BROOKLYN, “On the Hill,” (the most fashionable part of Brooklyn), a mag- nificent four-story and brown-stone front house, elaborately furn- ished and frescoed throughout. This house has been built about five years. It has been thoroughly overhauled, painted up and. replumbed throughout, and is in perfect order. The stoop is high and wide, and of pure stone, palusters and all. The house is richly built, and is just the residence for a person of means. It is entirely unincumbered, and will be sold at a sacrifice. 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Write now and we WANTED! month, hotel and traveling ex- penses paid. Address ROBB & CO., Cincinnati, O. 74 EARING RESTORED. Great. invention. Book free. G. J. WOOD, Madison, Ind. ~ S A Sure cure. Sample Free; post-paid. A e@ trial is its best. advertisement. WONDER- WORKER MEDICINE CO., Salem, New Jersey. VICK’S FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SEEDS, ; are the best the world produces. They are planted ay a million people in America, and the result is beautiful Flowers, and splendid Vegetables. A Priced Catalogue sent free to all who in- close the postage—a 2-cent stamp. : WVick’s Floral Guide, Quarterly, 25 cents a year. Vick’s Flower and Vegetable Garden, 35 cents; with cloth covers 65 cents. Address JAMES VICK, Rochester, N. Y MIXED CARDS, 7 Styles, with name, 10 cts.; or 20 acquaintance cards, new style, 10 cts.; post-paid. * J. B. HUSTED, Nassau, Renns. Co., N Y. “FACTS ARE STUBBORN THINGS.” Thousands of human beings are yearly borne on the swift current of disease down to the grave, just because they do not possess a _ sufficient nowledge of themselves. A man meets his neighbor, and the first salutation is: “How are you?’ or “How is your health?’ The reply fre- quently is: “Oh, lam well, with the exception of a cold.’ Most persons lightly regard a eold. Reader, do you know that a cold is one of the most dangerous of maladies? A cold not only clogs up the pores of the entire system, and retards circulation, but itis productive of Catarrh, which is quite apt to lead to Consumption. ‘Oh,’ you say, itis nothing buta coldin my head.’’ True; but that cold is really a mild form of Catarrh, an if not arrested in its course will become chronic. Catarrh is one of the most disagreeable, offen- sive affections in the catalogue of diseases. The e to the nose is obstructed, the sense of smell impaired, and there is a disagreeble sensa- tion of pressure in the head. In the more ad- vanced stages, there is a dischange having an offensive odor. If the disease be allowed to con- tine in its course, thick, hard inerustations will form in the head, the bones of which sometimes become softened and break away in pieces. Why will persons continue to suffer from such an an- noying, dinaueias, d , when they can just as well be cured of it? Dr. Sage’s Catarrh Remedy will eure the worst forms of Catarrh; in fact, it is the only sure and safe remeiy which has _ yet } been offered to the public. Many harsh, irritat- ing preparations may,' for a time, relieve the urgency of the symptoms, but they do not cure the disease. Dr. Sage’s Catarrh Remedy is sooth- ing and og in its effects, and when used with Dr. Pierce’s Nasal Douche, according to direc- tions, does not fail to effect a cure. Sold by all Druggists. HIDDEN PEARLS. BY LOUISE 8. UPHAM. In mailed armor from crown to foot, For a bauble for beauty’s breast, In the billowy depths of the limitless sca, The pear! diver’s a frequent guest. The seaweed clings to his groping hand, And the wild waves over him beat, The while he clutches at rock and sand For treasures a-near his feet. Ah! the slimy shells are a joy To the bold, bold driver boy; For often in the crusted shell A gleaming pearl we find. The man we meet seems gloomy and stern, Day by day on the crowded street; What to him is the breath of the fragrant air? What the odor of flowers at his feet? He walks with a lordly, proud disdain Of all human help or praise; Yet many who censure may neyer gain The height of his sun-crowned ways. For he joys that he can take All the burdens for love’s dear sake; And often under forbidding brows A princely heart we find The dwelling is low, and brown, and old, With worm-eateén rafters and foor; And the bats fly in and out through the roof, Where shadows await evermore But a-near that heartstone ever glows A rosy, dimpling face: . And a child, like a little wildiing rose, Fills all the room with grace. Ah! the dréariest place is bright, Seen by love-illumined sight ; And often in a wooden house A golden room we find. & & WASHEMAD 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 XXyY. Gerald wont back to his rose cottage and his mys- tic bride, but he was a chan man. — He folt as one who has been asleep and dreaming of the joys of Paradise must feel when he awakes in a dungeon, with hideous, unseen monsters crawling over him. He writhed and did not know when to expect a sting. - ‘ Poison! Did he swallow it?, Did he breathe it? Poison! By whom administered? By himself ee By a secreted traitor in his house? Worse 4 Oh, what a monstrous thought! r Yet what wonder if he should enter her presence with frozen manner and averted eyes? “At last. my beloved! Oh, how long you have been away!” cooed Victoria. “‘Surely you were not allthis ime with the lawyer?” OP ROT ¢ What! she is curious about his movements! - : “Those village lawyers waste one’s time so,” he muttered. ¢ 3 aig s Pe “You are quite wearied out, my Gerald. Happil that unpleasant business 'is over now, and we shall tere eare that the will is not burned a second’ ime.” Is that smile naturat? Is she not too radiant over this new will, made after her directions? Obeying an impulse which yet he hates, he lowers his hardening eyes, and mumbles: “Twill not haye a will made at St. Felix. Trent knows nothing about it.” : Hush! was that a gasp ofdismay? He steals a glance at her, but cannot see her face, Ha, trai- tress! must you hide it? i _ What madness! Surely he must be insane to jud; eam Victoria so. See, her very own adorable smile “Think no more about it, darling; you must be quite out of humor about the affair. Let the will alone for the future, or write to your own man of: business in England.” Is that sincere? What does that look mean? De- fiance?_ Hatred? A threat smothered up in dim- ples? Murder couched in a beaming eye? “Poor, tired love! Come, dear,and see what a fairy repast I have spread for you with my own hands. I thought ‘he will relish most what iy fingers have touched,’ so I touched eyery- thing,’ “Did you indeed, Victoria?” “Heaven guard me from a Borgia!” he exclaimed in thought. “Oh, shame to doubt this fond woman! Am I mad? I mad?” y Gerald sat down to the dainty repast, and his hectic eyes glanced feverishly over the glittering service. “As you have touched everything, so you must taste everything, Victoria, before I can relish it,” he huskily muttered, trying to smile. So_his wife with an unchanged countenance touched the yiands to her rosy lips, and passed them over, which coe oe affected to eat with a sickening restriction at his heart, but tasted noth- ing. : i “is she a female fiend? Oh, Heaven! Poison! Can I believe in anythingif thisis true? My wife a creature capable of the most unparalleled dissim- ulation! See her sweet eyes smile on me! Oh, Heaven, strike me blind!” . When she had left him for a moment—how few those moments were!—he stole off with the will fast hidden in his bosom to find a place to hide it. Was she not mistress of every corner of the house? Had he not—doting fool!—given her the keys ef every receptacle! ye ‘ f He paced about the rooms like a madman; he stole guiltily through the library window ; he peer- ed about like a thief to seethatno spy marked him; he tore the ground: beneath the window, and thrust in the will; he stamped it down, and sprin- kled leaves over it. and fled away with his white face and disheveled hair as if the hand of an assas- sin was-stretched out behind him. His Victoria was under the hands of her maid, and had not witnessed this wild act. He threw himself upon his bed, and wept for shame at his own treac ony i But for all that he found himself when they next met watching her with a fell intensity. Somehow, without looking at her he seemed suddenly to pos- sess the power of knowing all that she did. He could not force a word outscareely so he affec- ted to be fatigued, and lay on his sofa, his eyes vailed by his hand. : _ She talked with her usual silver-tongued allure- ment, and then she sang sweet and low,’ in true siren strains to please him. For the first time his soul resisted her influence; he forgot nothing. He affected to sleep, and she leaned back among her cushions and rested herself. He could see the splendid Sultana visage, and the down-dropped, wondrous eyes, ’ 3 She was, indeed, a woman to be looked at with dazzled surprise—a woman to be passionately adored! “But,” thought Gerald, ‘has she asoul?, What is the secret of her es ? Beauty—enticement.” She had blinded him by her nameless spell so that he never looked closer. He does not know what she is. Hist! she has flashed wide her marvelous eyes, she has given him a keen, attentive look! She slips from her seat; with a motion as noiseless as the shifting of a shadow, she has gone from the room. : Whither away, Victoria? = | Gerald springs up with an i¢y lip, resolved to fol- low her, chained to the spot by self-reproaching love of her—torn between two emotions. : ; © succumbs at last—to suspicion—and disdain- ing to muffle his steps, walks thvorg's the eorridor looking in at every door in Search of her. She is not to be seen in the lower regions, and_he mounts the stairs, and listens at the door of her boudoir. : ; A curious chemical odor greets his nostrils from the keyhole, and he hears a noise within. What! is my lady at the poison ? He shakes the door in dumb fury; he would dash it open if it were not locked. ; ; “Is that you. Georgette?” calls Victoria, sharply; “go away! Iam engaged at present!” hen he hears the stiff crackle of paper, and the jingle of her keys, and he goes away on tiptoe with a pace'like death. z he day wanes, and the night drops like a eur- ‘tain over the guilty drama. That curtain may rise on a scene of murdér! Shortly after ten o’clock went up stairs to his room. He left his wife yawning over a new periodical, and declaring that she felt so weary that she also would retire in a few minutes. . Gerald entered his room, but not with the inten- tion of sleeping. He paced the room for along while, Then he be- thought himself of opening the window to cool his fevered blood as he had done last ni The window would not open! (ue He snatched up the lamp and examined the lock ; it was wedged on,and a small copper nail driven in, preyented it from moving. ‘ Gerald’s blood rushed to his brain; he staggered back at this manifest treachery. He put out the lamp, opened the door, and looked ‘ out into the passage. The house was all silent, and he heard nothing. ‘ q He went to a hall window, which commanded a view of the rose-shrubbery, and looked out. He saw two figures pacing, arm in,arm, down by the gate—a man and a woman. : Gerald Trayers rushed down to the room in which he had left his wife, with a white face and glitter- ing eyes. tt iss The lamp was blazing; the periodical was open on the table, but Victoria was not there. False to him? Oh, Heaven! He rushed like a maniac upto her chamber. It was unoccupied! i, Y The waxen tapers, burning pale by the mirror, reflected his awful face. In that startled glance upon himself he saw for the first time the extent of the change which his marriage had made upon im. Not two months yet, and his eyes were sunk into caverns, his cheek-bones prominent, his skin drawn and ey! He almost laughed aloud to think how unsuspi- cious he had beén. Then he saw her little ladylike desk peeping out of a half-opened: drawer, and he took his penknife from his } ocket and grimly forced it open. He wanted to see, what paper it was which she had been folding up and locking away. He ex- pected to find a paper of poison, perhaps. What he did find was the will, which had been made in Thretford, leaving all his estates and mo- ney to hiv beloved wife. Reading it over now, it left all his estates and money to Victoria Mist! | he man thought his eyes had played him a trick; heturned the paper round and round to. assure |himself. There was no illusion in the matter. “My bcloved wife’ had been erased by some chemica! préparation which still could be smelled on the paper, and “Victoria Mist” inserted in a hand so marvelously like his own that not even he eould detect a flaw! 305s Gerald reeled with horror: strange convictions assailed him: he could not give the hideous images shape fast enough. Was ita demon that he had married?” © ; i ' Butafter atime he contained himself, and fold- torélockthedesk. § - hy He went back to the hall window and looked for the pair. He saw the woman hanging ut the neck of the man in unbridled adoration, and then they parted, and she, muffied over the Justrous toward the house... f f Gerald Travers: retired to his own room, and meditated for a few seconds. He knew she would come fawning upon him ere long, and lulling him to sleep with her wiles. Should he crush the Delilah; tear out her false eart ‘No, no; let him be patient. She must ruin her- self. He tore off his clothes and betook him to bed. With distorted face hidden by his arm, he waited her coming.. Bd 5 She comes, lustrous in her white dressing-robe, with her yellow hair swaying heavily to the floor. She gazes at him,shading the taper from his face ee one pink hand, and with a tutored love-beam n. her eyes. ’ Like a spirit she flits to and fro, drawing the cur- tains close over the windows. She looks around with a critical eye, then goes to the door, kneels down, and—plugs up the keynole. Oo i‘niay I Gerald watches her loathingly. Shehasdone all this so often before that she is quite deft at it. She oes out for afewmoments, and returns with some- thing shrouded in acloth. She steals to his bed- side, sets ition the floor beside him, and draws'the heavy curtains round the bed, indulging it'also in their folds. 9.1” hit B Fie) In a few minutesmore she is gone, locking the door gently behind her. « ag (waoo OV ES Gerald springs -up,a as suffocating odor ermeates the little air there is inside the curtains. A wave of memory assures him that he has either coed of that rank odor or has breathed it in his slumber. fh aoe He puts out_his.hand and’ feels the object which she has placed beside him. Itis a flower-pot, with a plant in it whose leaves touch his pillow. _He dashes the curtains aside, springs out, and lights the lamp. plant. , ; : It is a large one; its leaves bluish green, its blos- soms large, delicate, and snow-white. t is aspecies, of the East Indian papaver, from the seeds of which the opium is extracted. He understands his cataleptic trances now. CHAPTER XXVI. Victoria rushed down to the breakfast room the next morning, with a charming song on her lips. “Oh, Lottie!” she said tothe maid who was put- ting the last touches to the breakfast table; “do go and knock at the captain’s door, and ask him to rise, for thisis really too superb to be enjoyed with- out him.” 1 Lottie according] y went and knocked, but receiy- ed no answer, soshe returned and reported mat- ters to the doting bride. | : “He did not speak!” eried she, getting very much alarmed. ‘Surely you did not knock loud enough.” “Oh, yes, mum, indeed I did!” : “Oh, I trust he has not had another seizure,” gasped Mrs. Hazard, forgetting the presence of the maidin her wifely terror, “Howl tremble! One more like the last, the doctor said, would be fatal. With an unsteady step she crossed the room to go up and see for herself the cause of her beloved husband’s silence, and met Gerald on the threshold. For one moment she seemed stunned, her eye glared, her lip whitened, the nextshe held out both her hands with a playful little ery, 2 “My dear love,” she eried, ‘‘you up and looking so well? Iwas just about to go into convulsions of terror because you did not respond to Lottie’s sum- mons.” “T haye not been in my room forsome time, Mrs. Hazard,” said Gerald, in a low, unnatural voice, His face was deadly pale, his eyes cold, with a piercing brilliance in them, such as she had never seen there before. A dark frown of constern- ation flitted over the siren’s face; she could not un- derstand it at all. : , 2 “How did -you sleep?” inquired she, leading the wel the table. \ “Not sosoundly as_usual, yet I fancy Lam better than usual this morning.” , : She flashed another inquisitive glance at him and eleyated her eyebrows in scorn. : i The table-maid left the room in compliance witha nod from her master. . . ; “T shall not breakfast with you to-day, Victoria,” said Gerald, in icy tones. “Ihave already break- fasted at St. Felix.” Then he examines the mysterious t St. Felix? You haye been down to the yil- age?’ BV os, I have turned botanist. Dr. Hennessy po Ihave been examining a new and remarkable plant.” . ; “And who is Dr. Hennessy, my Gerald, and what plant were you ema nea a “Dr. Hennessy is a physician to whom I haye yentured to carry my case. The plant is one which IT found—would you believe it—standing by my pil- low in my bed-chamber.” : Under these two blows she kept hergelf magnifi- cently calm. of er, » “Go on, dear,” said she, poising the silver teapot over her cup. ““You'surprise me”... : “My good Victoria,” returned Gerald, with a glit- tering eye, ‘the doctor Says that it wculd be better for my heath tosleep_ without the papaver plant held to my nostrils. Will you be good enough to remember in future?” ‘ : She sat with her large eyes fixed upon him, the picture of astonishment. : “Whatinthe world do you mean, darling?” she dotingly inquired. “IT mean that I do not care for your_ choice of a erfume, my love. I would recommend something ess fatal in its effects.” . iat mia? “My own poor Gerald, what, hallucination is this that you are laboring under?” “A very disagreeable one, madame,” retorted he, ironically. “Do you know I fancied that you came into ny room last night and placed the poisonous plant, beside me, and drew the curtains nicely round that L might lose none of the sweet fragrance, and plugged up the key-hole lestthe draught might annoy me. ee it not shocking?’ _ Dreadful. You must indeed haye been dream- ’ 5 “T have not the slightest doubt upon that point. And furthermore do you know I fancied that when. Irose this morning to carry my plant to Dr, Hen- nessy that we might have a botanical discussion upon its virtues, I found my chamber-door locked, aie DAS to get out of the window after wrenching its bolt?” * “Good gracious, Gerald! you become more and more extraordinary.” : “IT knew you would be astonished, myjove. But stay, [haye some more hallucinations to tell you. Upon pacing the halls last night methought I dis- covered that Sally had been most unjustly dismissed for another person’s misdemeanors.” “Gerald, you frighten me! Come here and let me feel your pulse.” ; s Something glittered in her small pink hand, snatched quick as light from a case in her pocket; she could look him eye to eye with almost perfect solicitude, and clench that something in her hand. “Pardon me, my dear wife.” returned Gerald, with a gazeof stifled fury, “but the state of my ulse would amaze you, it is so strong and steady. have one more dream to relate which Lam sure “T will hear nomore dreams!” exclaimed the wo- man, rising with a tawney gleam in the poisonous eyes: “they are becoming so rcosteene dan- .gerous,” and she crept toward him while her short upper lip drew up in a flerce eurve, as a dog bares its sharp fangs before a spring. . “So dangerous,” interrupted Gerald, with a torri- ble voice, “that I—not you—will put a stop to them. ing up the will put it where he had foundit, and: -| with a twist of the fine blade of his knife contrived locks and brilliant face with a dark mantel, stole} Thave seen that missing will in your name forged upon it. eovered ali!” n your desk, with Woman, I have dis- (TO BE CONTINUED.) >~3<+__ A Problem bya Small Boy. Our readers are requested to send the answer to the following problem: James is twice as old as his brother John; John is one-sixth as old as his mother; and his father is five years older than his mother. Thesum of their ages is 170. How old is each person? The answer will be given in No. 19 of the New York WEEKLY. LAWRENCE RICHARDS, aged 13 years. ANSWER TO PuzZLE IN No. 15—Father, 35 years; boy,15. Corrects answers have been received from Carlo, Addie H., Herman Garlicks, Germantown, Andrew B. Miller, Jerome Buck, J. Stetson, Dal Tucker, D. H. Egee, L. E. 8S... M. L. Jacobs, Howard R. Ruth, Wm. Frank Beller, Henry Harris, George Adams, Fullerton, J. M. K.. Eya Deutsch, Freeman H. Tillotson, Congress Avenue, Louise Lackey, Wm. Meade, Professor Search, Lewis Nolan, Wm. F, Bournes. The Ladies’ Work-Box. [The winter Catalogue of Patterns now ready, price 6 cents. Send to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. | “Dressmaker,” ‘Mrs. J A. Lenox,”’ and. others who make in- quiries about spring styles.—By sending name and address in full, and six cents, you can procure a catalogue of spring styles. An aeceptable fact is that polonaises will not be discarded, but, if-anything, are rather more fashionable than, they have been for twoseasons back. A stylish and exeeouinaly prance polo- naise is No. 4,328, price 40 cents. The fronts of this novel gar- ment overlap each other diagonally below the waist-line, and each side contains two darts, one of which is situated under the arm. There are side-backs and a center-seam, also extra widths allowed at the waist-line, and arranged in two box-plaits, which contribute the skirt fullness. The plaits are turned in the oppo- site direction a short distance below the waist-line, and a single plait turning downward is laid on each side-edge of the back. Ashort strap is then fastemed at the lower tacking of the box- laits at one end, and the other 1s them sewed at the upper edge; py this means the drapery is sustained 1p position andthe grace- ful puffed appearance of the back produced. At the point where the single plait is arranged the seam is discontinued, and the lower parts of the side-backs having been properly shaped are erossed in a single knot, and tacked to position over the skirt of the back, forming a handsome sash-like arrangement. A pocket with a pointed lap is placed on each side of the front. All the lower and unattached edges of the polonaise are bordered with a lace ruffle below a heading of lace insertion. The pocket is over- laid with the lace, and the lap is finished-with cording, and held in position beneath a crochet-button, all the remaining edges be- ing decorated with lace. The sleeve is provided with a pretty cuff slashed at the outside seam, and ornamented to harmonize with the general aspect of the garment. A stylish military col- lar enriches the neck and button-holes, and button close the front its entire length. “Jennie Murden.’’—Your letter did not®reach us until after the first Friday in the month, and therefore too late for the answer. “Mrs. H. T.”—Do not discourage the child. She does very well for a self-taught little one. Ifyou cannot aid her in any way, let her go on trying by herself, and it there is really genius in her,, and she perseyeres, there will a way come to make an artist of her. Any way she wili find pleasure and comfort in making her efforts, and even such satisfaction is something to give our children, if we are powerless todo more. She must not, how- ever, devote the time that you need her assistance to drawing; let her take all her odd or leisure moments for that purpose, and then if she fails she will have the satisfaction of knowing she lost notime. We'll write again, and give price of books and colors. “Susianna Simpson.”—The material is silk and linen, pongee, we should term it. This fabric makes cr handsomely, has a silken finish, and usually wears splendidly. No, you will not need heavy or very dark fabrics for that climate, exeept for a few weeks in mid-winter, and perhaps not then. A blaek suit is con- yenient in any and all climates, only you should not select the heaviest grades. Mohair or alpaca is quite heavy enough. ‘Marian /.eslie.”.—A new trimming for ball-dresses is bro- derie lace. ‘s is strong, firm illusion, exquisitely embroidered with satin silk. The effect is very rich and elegant upon the creamy-tinted failies of this season. . Another new lace is an imitation of the genuine roya} Venetian point, in rare devices of elaborate antique figures of interlaced bars and scrolls, and in fleur de lis and roses of eathedral windows and the trefoil of al- tar screens and Moorish arabesques. There are other imitations of the costly and rare point @ Alencon, its patterns taken, as most of the lace-work designs are, from the minute traceries of artists in stone. These laces are used to trim the oyerskirts and aprons of ball-dresses. ‘Miss L. T. P.,” ‘Miss Dora Maye,” Mrs. B.,”. and others,— While the combination skirts still continue in favor, we see quite a number of spring costumes in which only one material is used. A very stylish suit is made of eamel’s hair, and trimmed with silk. The skirt 1s handsomely demi-trained, and comprisesa front gore, a wide gore at each side, and two back breadths. The lat- ~or are laid in a large triple box-plait at the top, while graduated straps placed underneath retain the position of the folds formed by the plait. The gores join the belt without fullness, while a closing is simulated over center seam of the breadths with but- ton-holes and buttons. The grace ofthe drapery renders trim- ming unnecessary, but decorations may be added if desired. The skirt pattern is No. 3,966, price 35 cents. The over- skiry depends wholly on the arrangement oi its drapery for its dregsi:->38, no orations ot any kind except a double-stitched hem being used as finish. The apron, which consists of a wide gore, is laid in tiny, upward-turning plaits at the center, while the back edge is draped by five or six similar but deeper plaits. The front edge of the back-breadth is turned under and gath- ered to form a ruffle, while another gathering is made at each side of the center to form lengthwise puffs. The rutied edge overlaps the back edge of the apron, and the parts. are joined in -a flat seam, while tapes are used to secure a proper adjustment of the drapery. The bottom is hemmed in the manner already mentioned, and the skirt joins the belt plainly, except at the back, where the breadth is gathered. The pattern of overskirt is No. 4,309, price 35 cents, and our readers will find the garment decidedly different from any before described. The basque too is new; the No. is 4,301, price 35cts. It has two vests, the front used in connection with them is cut away from the neck, two darts and a cross-basque seam being employed to adjust the under- yest, and one dart and a similar seam being adopted for the front and remaining vest. The undervest closes with button-holes and buttons, while a lapel-collar surrounds the neck. The back is fitted by side-backs and a center-seam, while the skirt is deep and pointed at the latter, and like all the remaining edges eres with silk. Thesleeve is left open below the elbow, and under neath is set a second sleeve portion, which fills the opening and makes the first one long enough. A pretty silk bow is over the termination of the seam, and the upper portion is finished to correspond with the jacket-edges, as well as with buttons, while the lower one is completed like the overskirt. A plaiting of silk outside a linen collar, together with cuffs at the wrists, completes the pretty basque, while a silk bow closes the collar. These gar- ments may te made of silk or any fashionable fabric, either plain, plaided, or striped. ‘ “Blonde Belle.'—For young ladies silk may be used withthe most transparent fabrics, which serve to disguise the heayiness of the silk; for instance, a costume of frozen water green is trim med with creamy-tinted crepe lisse plaitings, and a bewildering arrangement of soft putfings and drapings at the back. A plait- ed scarf of crepe lisse 1s gracefully laid across the front of the skirt, fringed with white rose-buds and dark tollage. The tavor- ite colors for ball-dresses are lvyory, cream, water-green, rose- pink, and light blue; over these are clouds of tulle, fringed with garlands of rose-buds. Dead white is no longer fashiomable. A beautiful dress is ofa tint of white witha rosy hue. Flow- ers are much used in the way of ornamentation, some ofthe ball- dresses being almost covered with them. The wreaths, too, are very elaborate, also the breast clusters and shoulder sprays. “Tl, E.S."—You can use your white asthe foundation, and trim with ruffigs or plaitings of the pink. “Mrs. E. S. v.” Gallipolis, 0.—We can fiurnish you with mon- ogram patterns, both for braiding and embroidery. We give the prices for each letter.in the combination. - Under two inches, 20 cents each letter in monogram; between two and four inches, 25 cents; between four and six inches, 30.cents; between six and eight inches, 38 cents; between eight and twelve inches, 50 cents; between twelve and eighteen inches, 75 cents to $1 25 each let- ter, made in braid and embroidery, plain and ornamental, as ordered. Monograms are always made to order, not kept in stock for sale, and require some time to get finished. “Martha Owens.”—Geét about eight or ten yards of some solid- colored camel’s hair, cashmere, or merino, and make a suit after any of our descriptions you may fancy, and trim with flounces and ruffles ot your striped silk; you can make a pretty and use- ful suit of the two fabrics. ’ “Gipsy.’—We have in_preyious articles described some of the costumes you mention. , Peasant dresses are popular and easy to make. The Normandy peasant dress is simply a short striped wool skirt with a short round upper skirt of another color—gray over blue is pretty. The low bodice is nearly covered’by the muslin ficht, which is folded on the breast, or else the bodice is cut square, and worn oyer a full white blouse waist. High-point- ed cap ot muslin. e cross hanging low on the breast from a black velvet ribbon. High-heeled slippers and striped stockings. . The Alsacian peasant’s dress is distinguished by its long muslin apron and the large bow worn just on the top of the head. Undine wears a dress of gauzy green tabric as light and beautiful as foam. It, is decked with sea-weeds, and her orna- ments are all the ocean gems. Her hair is worn hanging, and the gems sparkle through the golden mass. Our Knowledge Box. A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING. nar We take pleasure in responding toevery 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 ourcirculation has grown the number of questions soliciting answers by mail. These questions are almost uniformly important ones, costing, to satisfactorily answer them, much time and labor. For this reason all persons in future wishing their querits replied to by mail, wil}, please inclose 50 cents to defray the expenses necessarily incurred. QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.— W. W. W.—CEMENT,—Yon will find a simple but excellent recipe in No. 54.0f volume 30. ...Curious.—1. COLD SILVERING.—Mix one part of chloride of silver with Shree parts of pearlash, one and /a half parts of common sa‘t, and one part of whit- ing, and rub the mixture on_ the’ surface of — brass or copper, (previously well-cleaned) by means of a piece of soft leather or cork, moistened with water and dipped into the wader. 2. Red precipitate mixed with lard will destroy bed- jugs. For roaches and ants freshly pulverized borax is recom- mended....An Anxious Man.—We cannot advise you at present. Wait till the times are better... . Sweaty Fingers.—Thehands may be preserwed dry for playing the piano or any other instrument, by rubbing a little club moss (lycopodium) in very fine powder over them..,....Wose.—Rub briskly with a rather coarse towel after washing. It is the only remedy we know, of...........5..... Blue-Black.—To CLEAN WALL PAPER.—Moisten fresh, dry, cal- cined magnesia with pure benzola, and cork it for use. Rub his on fresh grease-spots and they will flee at once. Ifthey are t long-standing, spread the paste on. the spot and leave it, till the benzola evaporates, then remove the mass carefully with a paper- knife, so as not to scratch the surface, and brush the magnesia away with a nice dry brush. With this preparation, paper, archment, ivory, kid, silk and woolens can_ be eleaaed so as to ook likenéw. Wash fabrics that will bear it with water, to re- move the last of the magnesia. Silk and wall-paper should be sponged with ether...... W. L. O—TO MAKE MACASSAR OIL.— Take two and a half pints of castor oil, and add to it eight ounces of 9 per cent. alcohol, one dram of oil of cinnamon, two drams each of the oils of amot, lavender, and orange. Color a deep red with alkanet root. Tumeric root will color it yellow, and the two mixed will color orange. All oils will extract the color from the above roots by soaking the roots and letting them stand a sufficient time.. ... W #.S.—Yes... . Appleton & Co.—TO GILD WRITINGS, ETC.—Letters written on vellum or paper are gilded in three ways. In the first, a little size rs mixed with the ink, and the letters are written as usual; when they are dry, a slight degree of s yes. “What was that remark you made a minute ago about pan-handles?” ‘I merely inquired if you were going to Kentucky by the Pan-Handle route; that was all. Don’t let it worry you.” ‘ ‘‘Now, see here,” exclaimed Offley, “I don’t want to give youtoo sudden a shock, or to unnerve you, and I don’t want youtothink that I am too sensi- tive about the thing, but to tell you the honest truth, I would like to know whether you are only joking or whether you are only alittle bit wild in your mind, when you talk aboutaroute along a pan- handle? Now, keep cool; don’t fret about it if you have a weakness for that form of foolishness. Take time to think before you speak.” : , hen Peter revealed to him the existence of a rail- way line in that queer corner of Virginia known as. the Pan-Handle; and when he had explained him- self, Offley said: : ; “Oh, very well, then, it’s all right. I’m gladl asked you, for, tobe fair _and square, as between man and man, hang me if I didn’t think you were a lunatic that maybe had become insane on the sub- ject of pan-handles.” % So he changed cars at the junction, and Mr. Lamb left him to go by the route that suited him hest. Pe a Items of Interest. gar A vicious horse attacked a Mr. Needham in Danvers, Mass., @ short time since, as he was riding in an open buggy. Twice Mr. N. wheeled round to avoid the beast, and twice it came alongside of his horse and commenced biting. It made three attempts at Mr. Needham’s horse’s-windpipe, and crowded the horse and buggy down an embankment, where Mr. N.’s horse stopped, held by the infuriated animal, until the har- ness was torn off. Mr. Needham remained in the buggy until his horse was clear, then let him go. His horse went home, fol- lowed by the crany animal, but by the efforts of several neigh- pors, after a long tussle, he was rescued, somewhat bitten. he horse that attacked Mr. Needham is said to be always set wild at the sight of a white horse such as Mr. N. drove. sae A cow in the town of Eden, Wisconsin, the mother of a handsome calf, was crossing arailroad a few days since. She had cleared.the last rail when a train appeared. Looking back, she saw her offspring standin With a frightened look, she made an appeal to the calf to follow her. On came the train, and still stood the calf, by this time facing the train. The engineer tried to scare the little thing away by making the whistle scream, but he wouldn’t scare. When the train was within ten rods of the calf, the cow made a rush for her little one, daught him on her horns, and bore him away in salety. rar A pitiable case of destitution has recently come to light at Ellenville, Ulster county, N.Y. A Mrs. Came- ron, with her family, resided in a tenement-house near the canal, and being unable to pay several months’ rent which was due, was informed that she must leave the premises. She moved her small quantity of household goods to an old boat lying in the canal, and there, with her family, half-clad and half-star¥ed, she gave way to bitter grief, and finally became a maniac, and had to be removed to the Hudson River Insane Asylum at Pough- meer Her children have found good homes with families in Ellenville. no Four members of a family living near Hol- lowayville, lll., were burned to death recently, They were Geo. Heindle, his wife, and two children. Their dwelling took fire at night, and the flames spread so rapidly that they eould not effect their escape. A daughter, 19 years old, saved her life by jump- ing from # second-story window rae Chang, the Chinese giant, is said to be re- siding with his wife at Shanghai, where he was. lately received into the Baptist communion, It may be known that Chang’s height is 7 feet 8 inches, but his sister is.eight inches taller than himself, and the whole family—father, mother, and four broth- ers—rival him in height. na A horse-chestnut tree near Geneva, Switz- erland, is thought to be the parent of all the horse-chestnuts with double flowers in the world. It has only one branch which bears double flowers, and these have no tendency to affect the i of the tree. Grafts from this branch bear the double owers. aa A centenarian, Mr.. Joseph Mishow, lives in Williamsport,-Pa. He was one hundred and one years of age on the 8th of March, 1875. At present he is hale and hearty, and may or for many years yet. Ofcourse he will be at the Cen- tennial. na- Av immense eagle was recently shot in Eastwell rark, Eng., by one of the Duke of Edinburgh’s game- keepers. It measured seven feet two inches from tip to tip of wings. The keeper saw the huge bird strike down a pheasant, and eat it completely, leaving only the tail feathers. nay At Eton College, Eng., the study of music has lately been made compulsory for all the boys in the fourth and higher classes. In the public schools of England it has been taught from the beginning. aa The first normal school in Massachusetts was opened at Lexington, in 1839, with a total attendance of on the track. three scholars. tongue, pepper, and - While using either of the above remedies t THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ¢30- £ wo 4 COLES peas Qe OD> oat {oy z =: Se nae ae BSS eet "ff ba a 7 kly GQ a ew York Wee Ra cies 7 eed ses rat > Ree). cs ' ' NEW YORK, MARCH 13, 1876, Terms to Subscribers: ‘One month, (postage free) 25c. | One Year—l copy (postage free)$3 OYE SINOIRUS, 5 cele s ko 50¢. Ae ae OTIS in isle an, 0is'o ioe 5 oa Three months -........... 75C. TE ee Pr a stile oad 10 Four months. ..........0. $1.00 Phat Sn BT iene hb en Autksaiae 20 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-Office Money Order, if possible. Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but al- ways in &@ REGISTERED letter. The registration fee has been re- duced to 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. All Postmasters are obliged to register letters whenever requested to do so. _ In addressing letters to STREET & SMITH, do not omit our Box Number. By a recent order of the Post-ofiice Department thisis absolutely necessary, to insure the prompt delivery of letters. ig TO SUBSCRIBERS.—When changing your address, please give former, as well as present address, with County and State; also, be certain to namesthe paper for which you subscribe. .@& ALL LETTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO STREET & SMITH, Proprieters, 25, 27, Zand BL Rose St., N.Y. P.O. box 4896 MOLLY MAGUIRE, — HE ee of the Coal Fields. By DANIEL DOYLE, A Mine Boss. On the first page of this number of the New YorK WEEKLY will be found the opening chapters of an ably constructed and deeply interesting narrative, to which we direct particular attention. It is a thrilling story of the Anthracite Mining re- gions of Pennsylvania, entitled Molly Maguire, THE TERROR OF THE COAL FIELDS. The story is from the pen of a PRACTICAL MINER, who assumes the nom de plume “‘Daniel Doyle,” to shield his life from the misguided men who might misinterpret his motives. ’ He draws most of his scenes from real life, and gives some powerful portrayals of Poverty and Crime in Pennsylvania. He strikes with an unsparing hand the vice that like a leprosy has spread itself over the rich region of the anthracite belt; points out the TERRIBLE TYRANNY OF MONOPOLISTS AND MILLIONAIRES, and the awful struggles that agitate the working classes in the “black battle of life’ underground. The Society that has made its name aterror in the land, is arraigned of awful atrocities. Its plot- tings, meetings, midnight murders, burning of coal-breakers, and - Fierce and Fiendish Deeds, are presented in a graphic and vivid manner, and keep the reader spell-bound from beginning to end. The writer does not identify honorable Irish soci- eties of any kind with this worse than Communistic combination, which has been repeatedly Denounced by the Catholic Church, and he draws his heroes from all classes and creeds that play a part in mining pursuits. Origin of the Molly Maguires. The Monuy Macurre Society is one of the most modern of the several secret organizations that have sprung into existence in Ireland during the past century, and is decidedly the worst. Its origin is owing to the cruel murder of an old woman named Maguire at the hands of an agent who, in company with his minions, seized on the poor wo- man’s property for rent. Her sons and their friends formed a society to which they gave her name. It spread through portions of the North and West of Ireland, and confined its operations to landlords and their agents, whose property, and whose lives, sometimes, paid the penalty of any seeming cruelty on their part toward any of the members of the society of Monuy Maacurre. Its introduction to Pennsylvania is quite recent, but ithas spread throughout the counties of Lu- zerne and Schuylkill with amazing rapidity, making A BLOODY . TRAIL wherever it has been. Its objects and aims sink to the level of the meanestianimal instinct of wreak- ing revenge for wrongs, real or fancied, and many a mine boss has paid the penalty of doing his duty, with his life. ; Don’t fail to read the thrilling story of MOLLY MAGUIRE, THE TERROR OF THE COAL FIELDS. After you have read it, as we are certain that you will like it, recommend tt to your friends. PA The Female Clerks. No good reason can be given by storekeepers for refusing to permit their female clerks to sit down occasionally during the day, or at any time. when they are not serving customers. Most of. these clerks are delicate girls, whose health suffers from the close indoor atmosphere. When they are un- necessarily forced to fatigue their fragile frames by standing many hours, all the time breathing im- pure air, they sow the seeds of disease, and soon become unfit for the active duties of life. Employ- ers may say, “Well, if they are disinclined to obey eur rules, they are not compelled to retain their situations.” This isa harsh alternative, and only a hard-kearted employer would suggest it. Ifthe girls could readily obtain more suitable employ- ment, and with men who would treat them as wo- men should always be treated—with liberality, res- pect, and kindliness—storekeepers would soon be moved to pity those whom they now shamelessly abuse. * ——___—__ 0+ AN OLD MAN’S ADVICE TO BOYS. My dear boys, readers of the New Yorr WEEKLY, little men, every one of you—you who read with such eager thirst the delightful story of “Wrestling Joe,” and the many other equally interesting ones that are running through its columns—listen to the prayer of an old man. tf you have not drank the ‘first glass,” don’t do ic, If you have, let that one be the last. Voutd to Heaven [had listened to such counsel. T did for atime, for I had most saeredly promised my mother, whom [f dearly loved, that I would drink no more; but I had notthe moral courage to Bay VO.” My boon companions said: “Come, take a glass of ale, Greee: it will make a man of you. You Jook blue, old fellow.” + Was only sixteen then. and afraid that if I re- mined they would laugh at me. So I would say to myself: “Tl take this one more, and quit forever.” I resolved and re-resolyed in vain. Each day found me looking forward to the hour of noon, when, on my way to dinner, I could take an appe- tizer, as the boys ealled it. I was second tothe best clerk in a large dry-goods house on L-— street, in New York, at that time. My father was one of the firm, andI had eyery prospect of a brilliant commercial career before me; but in lessthan one year I disgraced my noble, generous father, broke my gentle, tender mother’s heart, and left my native city dishonored. Pray listen, boys, while I tell you that the very ones who influenced me to drink, to risk every- thing, to forge a check in my father’s name on the banking house of the firm, and lastly to rob the money-drawer, were the ones who turned coldly from me when my disgrace became known. To-day I am a wanderer from the city of my birth, the home of my childhood, friendless and alone. And why? All because I had not the moral courage to say “No.” ; z Heaven pity the man who drinks, who crazes his brain with rum! Boys, you no doubt willthink that when I talk to you in this way that I have reformed, that I have drank my “‘last glass.” Not so. I could not live without it. Many times have I gone hungry—with- out bread—that I might get a drink of whisky. Pm a whisky wreck. When I cannot get it I shall die. Oh, Heaven! when I review the past, and see what a shipwreck my life has been, it erazes me. Boys, I implore you, if you want to be manly, true men, whom your fellow men can trust, pass the wine-cup by. “It biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.” FICTION AND THE REY, MR. BLOWHARD, We have been attending, at odd intervals, a series oi—so-called—revival meetings. ? We have nothing to say against revivals—on the contrary we believe that great good often comes out of them—and if the people can be brought closer to God and humanity, we should certainly bless the cause which is instrumental in bringing it about. i We have been struck during our attendance on these meetings by several things. 5 4 One is, the pertinacity and temper with which the leading spirit, whom we will designate as the Rey. Mr. Blowhard, came down on fiction. : Works of fiction, he informed_us, came straight from the deyil, and as he alluded often and famil- iarly to that personage, and seemed to be well ac- quainted with him, perhaps he had authority for his assertion. A ; _ He was especially bitter on that class of publica- tions known as story papers—so much so, that we came to the conclusion that something he had written for some of these godless periodicals had gone into their waste paper baskets. Hedenounc- ed them by wholesale, calling the most prominent by name, and of course the New YoRK WEEKLY came in for its share. : He told us that the lessons taught by these papers were pernicious; that the hearts of the youth were perverted by their teachings, that they learned slang and blasphemy from their foul columns, and that half the murders and robberies which took place in the world, could be traced to the infiyence of story papers! ? ; And listening to him, we began to wonder how it was that crime had been rampant from the crea- tion of the world, since story papers were the cause of crime, and their existence was a thing unknown a hundred years ago. f 5 We have always been in doubt as_to why Cain killed Able, but after listening to Blowhard, we know that the whole thing was brought about by Cain’s proclivity for reading story earns: The reverend gentleman warmed as he went on, and gave us many valuable scraps of information. He said,‘If we got religion”—his kind—‘‘we should be a whole team, and a horse to let!” ; He told us “that Jesus never went back on his word!”—and he furthermore said that ‘if we did not come forward and occupy the front seats, and be braves for, we were bound straight for hell!” He said “‘the regions of damnation were gaping to receive us!” a ee ane language is his, not ours, and we give it ver- im, set Andthis was the man who inveighed against fic- tion! who told us that its language was _blasphe- mous—its influence pernicious—its effect deadly! And while he was talking, he drew out his hand- kerchief to wipe the profuse perspiration from his brow,and out came a eopy of a leading daily, which falling open just at our feet, revealed to us on its well worn first page, in large letters, the sig- nificant caption—“THE GREAT SCANDAL CASE.” Mr. Blowhard, it was evident, was not afraid of the influence of pernicious literature upon himself. He probably considers it necessary to keep him- self posted on the course of current events. The episode in question reminded us of an occur- rence at the Boston Jubilee a few years since. We occupied a seat just behind the wife of a cler- gyman; a woman of very strictly orthodox views, and one who had more than once remonstrated with us for lending our pen to help fill the col- umns of astory paper. It was during the era of paper bustles, and the lady’s overskirt was unluck- ily fastened behind, and during the progress of one of those interminable anthems, the slit in that overskirt “gaped open,’ and displayed to our as- tonished gaze acopy of the Police Gazette—doing duty as a pannier! - But to return to Blowhard. In many things we do not agree with him, and we suppose we have as g0od a right to our opinion as he has to his. The religion of Jesusis not to be preached in slang profanity. ; We would as soonachild of ours should learn bad languageinabar-room as inachurch. And we believe that he who would set himself upasa teacher of the people should keep his lips pureand his conversation clean. : As for fiction, its mission is a high and noble one. It is no more to be condemned in the whole, be- cause there are in existence obscene and offensive publications, than is Christianity to be condemned in the whole because of such examples as Blow- ard. : Some of the sweetest and most beautiful lessons of the Bible were taught by parables. Some of the noblest examples of faith, and hope, and loye, have been given to us in works of fiction. And we venture to say that more people have been reclaimed from evil by the ministry of fiction than will ever be turned from wrong bythe preach- ing of every Blowhard in existence. Fiction often shows us the mysterious workings of our own hearts, and learns us to.avoid the rocks ape which we might have dashed ourselves. It often stimulates us to’noble deeds, suggests to us a eourse of honor and integrity, teaches us “to make our lives sublime.’ All honor, then, to fiction which learns us to be true to-ourselves, and which lifts us_ through its lessons of hope and faith nearer to the source of all true living, which is to do right. KATE THORN. An Attentive Congregation. Rey. J. Hyatt Smith does not like rainy Sundays. “There was only one oeécasion,” he said to us the other day, on a Franklin Avenue car, “when rain on the Sabbath failed to diminish the attendance at my sermons... That was at Auburn prison: AIl- though the rain fell in torrents, I had a full con: gregation; and not one of the prisoners seemed anxious to leave. They appeared spell-bound. They may be there yet, for all I know.’ ——__>-4+____ BARBARA’S ESCAPE. BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES. “Engaged, really and actually engaged! Itis a strange sort of feeling, and yet it isn’t unpleasant!” Barbara Esmond stood in the middle of the room, one slender hand par by its forefinger on the table, the other holding back the jetty tresses from her pure, low brow. She was very beautiful, ina dark, glittering style of beauty, and in that elegant room she might have reminded one of a pearl in its satin casket. Black-eyed and blaek-haired, with a creamy skin, fine-grained as velvet, and straight, delicately chiseled features, hers was an uncom- mon beauty, yet strangely fascinating. Eighteen years old, and engaged to be married! It was a new leaf in the book of life for Barbara Esmond; a sensation as novel as it was delightful. I wish [had a mother to go to, or.a loving, ten- der, elder sister,” mused Barbara, restlessly. “I scarcely understand my own feelings. I wonder if do love him or not as Ishould love the man I in- tend to make my husband. Husband!” she added, with a little tremulous sort of shudder. “The word implies a great deal. And Harry Milbrook is to be my husband!” Barbara was like a newly-caged bird, restless, fluttering against the invisiblé bars of her prisoned existence; captured with her own toils, yet half disposed to break away into solitude and indepen- dence once more! Mr. Henry Milbrook, however, was troubled with no such vague ideas. He had won the heart of Miss Esmond, the heiress. and what was of rather more consequence to him, he had won the right to Share her wealth. . Pm a fellow of talent,” mused Mr. Milbrook, and fellows of taisut aever could endure to work like common cart-horses.. Therefore it follows that I must have money, and possessing none of my own, I must marry the article. -And, although I object to red hair and erooked spines, I am quite willing to accept the incumbrance of a beautiful girl along with said cash!” > That was the decidedly practical and unromantie manner in which Mr. Milbrook contemplated his approaching felicity! He kept his rhapsodies of romance and soft poetic whisperings for Barba- ra’s ear alone, and she, like any enthusiastic girl of eighteen, believed in him. She told no one of the precious secret enshrined in her heart, it would have seemed almost like de- secration; but her lover was by no means so deli- cate. “So you’re to be married, Hal!” said Mr. Joseph Pierey, at the club, | “Yes, ?m going to be married; to a cool hundred thousand, too,” answered Mr. Milbrook, rubbing his hands. “Who is it?” “Oh, the lady, you mean?” “Yes, I mean the lady.” “Tt’s old Esmond’s daughter.” “What, the star-eyed Barbara?” “Exactly so.” “T econgratulate‘you, old fellow.” aan “Much obliged,” answered Mr, Milbrook, indiffer- ently pulling his mustache. ‘I flatter myself it’s a pretty good speculation for a fellow that travels on his good looks alone.” take wish she had a sister for me,” observed Mr. lerey. , “Fdon’t. I can’t afford to go halves in the cash.” There was a general laugh among the youths of fashion in the club-room at this scintillation of wit, and Mr. Milbrook sauntered leisurely out. “T promised sheshould haye my picture,” thought Mr. Harry, “and I suppose the cheapest place I can have it done is at that poor devil of an artist in Grove street. I guess Tl go round there.” It was hard for so exquisitely gotten up a youth as Mr. Milbrook to be compelled to hide his light under the bushel of so agscure a street as that to- ward which he now bent his footsteps, but econo- my was just at present something of an object with this modern Apollo of ours. Signor Fernelli, the artist, was at home, a dark, courteous little Italian, with a wife and sevensmall children, and very glad i brook’s order. “‘On ivory, I suppose, sir?” “Yes, I suppose so, It’s dreadfully expensive,” thought Harry, with agrimace; “but engaged girls must have their way, of course,” i ; j As he sat walt meee Signor —— to bring out some specimens of his art, to select the most appro- priate size and style, he saw through the open door a dark silk dress brush by, and the pure, clear pro- os of a face that he well knew. Barbara Esmond’s ace. “Hallo!” ‘ejaculated our hero. “Fernelli, who thy duse is that young lady, and how came she ere?” » Se ; ; “That young lady, signor, with the brown dress, and the long throat,and the head like the goddess Diane, ; ! : es,” f nee: § ; ey. OMe “Ttis the music —* ss of Pauline Delatour up stairs ; she comes twice of the week, and sings, my word, like a nighti Pe > “Who is Pauline urhet ae ioe" “A poor girl, signor, who sews on. dresses; but one day she will come out on the stage—she will | singatthe opera.” ‘ 625% Se Harry Milbrook stared at Signor Fernelli like one emen . 3 , * & ; : “Which size did you say, sir?” baiji “I—I don’t thin Til make a selection to-day. I will call to-morrow.” ~— 5 | ‘ And Mr. Milbrook rushed headlong down stairs, greatly to the surprise of Signor Fernelli. ' “The duse!” he ejaculated to himself as he strode along the narrow t, aes restraining himself from tumbli t every other step over the babies who swarm thegutters. ““A music mis- tress! Giving less such a hole as that. Upon. my word I’ve come iously near taken in and done for! So it show and empty pretense that wealth of hers, id she was going’ to entrap a meth of: it. My stars! it’s enough to make air stand sight straight up on a fellow’s head. hat a lucky thing it was I saw through the stratagem before I was dotted past escape.” ae ‘ ai He lifted his hat, and wiped the chill beads of per-. spiration from his forehead. ee “No, you don’t, : Barbara Esmond,” he mut- tered to himself with a bitter, sarcastic smile un- wreathing his lips.; “Iam not quite such a fool as that, than goodness.” Bs : Barbara Esmond had fluttered Sane up the nar- row staircase, all w scious of the eyes that were noting her, through Signor Fernelli’s ao opened door, and entered a small room in the story above. A pale young girl, wien a sweet, spirituelle face, sat sat at her sewing by the window. She brightened up as the husband on the s he délicate figure came in. ss Esmond, it issokind of you to remember meso COP aro i tairee 2 - oe “Not at all kind. Tam & genius worshiper, Pau- line, and I have discovered the divine spark in you. “How shail I ever pay you, Miss Esmond?” “By cultivating the talent Heaven has bestowed upon you. Nay, nay, Pauline, Iam but following out a pet whim.” : “And the piano, too, that you sent here. O, Miss Esmond, one of Heaven’s angels could hardly be more generous!” ‘ “Hush, hush, Pauline! poet your lesson. I never thought, when first I heard you singing at your work, and paused to listen to the flute-like notes, | that you would be half way through the exercise book in less than six months. When you sing at the operal shall be the first to throw bouquets at your feet.” 7 Pauline looked with ashy brightness at her bene- factor. Would that time ever come? The lesson was longer than usual that day. Pau- line and Miss Esmond were both deeply interested, and it, was nearly twilight before Barbara ee from the house, closely vailed, and walked swiftly through the darkening streets. 3 “There’s a note for you, Miss Barbara,” said her housekeeper, as she sat down to rest a minute or two in the reception-rdom of her own mansion be- fore she laid off her things. - ne ; “A note? Let me see it. When did it come?” “About fifteen minutes ago, miss. O~<¢—-- AMONG THE JAYHAWKERS. BY CHARLES DALY DOUGLAS, Many years since I took a fancy to travel far be- yond the region of railroads and steamboats, into one of the new territories of the south-west. My object was to see what could be done on a large seale in the way of trade. It was toward the close of a fine spring day that I rode up to the great barn-like tavern of one of those spread-out, pine-board towns of the far west, which grow up so rapidly in the path of emigra- tion. A large group of rude-looking men stood on the steps, and seemed to be carefully criticising me and comparing notes as I dismounted: I was con- scious of nothing peculiar about me, except the generally smart and “‘natty” appearance of my- self and animal, The latter was a splendid road- ster that I had purchased in St. Louis, in fine eon- dition, and with an action that would excite the ad- miration of any horse-fancier. I was habited in a new suit, surmounted by a slouched hat, and com- pleted by great top-boots. My saddle and bridle were half military in their shape and trimmings, and I had a valise and blanket-roll strapped on be- hind. On the whole, I think almost any observer would have set me down for something more than amere private citizen traveling on his own busi- ness. I left my horse in care ofthe first man whom I found willing to take him, and ordering my sup- per. walked about the uninyviting bar-room, and nally took a seat and hogan to read a pamphlet that I had in my pocket. While I was thus engaged, a great burly fellow came and stood in the door- way, and deliberately stared at me. “Good eyening, sir,” I said. “I should like to make a few inquiries, if you please, about the peo- ple here and through the country, and——”” “Not of me, you won’t!” was his rude rejoinder, om he was gone beforeI could ask an explana- ion. Iwas a little neyded st such boorishnéss, and still, rather amused Seer ay I should probably have thought no more of it but for more ofthe same kind of treatment that I shortly experienced. A shock-headed girl called me out to supper, and finding atable abundantly spread with the substan- tials of life, I was peaging my hunger vigorously, when awild, wolfish face was thrust inside the door, and two staring eyes surveyed me closely. -“What’s wanted?” I as ed, rather irritated by the ention. There was no an- swer; the head was withdrawn, and within the same minute I had the pleasure of seeing two more faces looking in upon me through one of the win- _ “What do these people mean?” I asked of the girl *, waited on me. She shook her head, but there was an expres- sion on her face that informed me that she did Raew, and that she pitied me. I was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable; my appetite was spoiled before it was half appeased, and I resolved on the spot to continue my journey that night, ra- ther than remain in such an ee eehis place. rose from my chair and laid down three silver dollars on the table. \ “That’s for my supper and the horse’s feed,” I said to the girl: “and you may keep the rest your- self. Now, please tell them to bring the horse around right off, for I must be gone.” I shall neyer forget the lapk of pain and pity that was shown at that moment by the face of that rude, homely girl. . den! “They won’t give you the horse,’ she said, ahaply. Ah ae POL iw. é : “Won’t give me my own horse?” Iechoed. “And Pee DEAY?! 20 6) hss } “Hush!” she said, jaying her hand_ firmly on my mouth. “Don’t bpm ing a noise. If they should think you suspe it, they’d do it now.” . Now, although T had no idea of the full import of hers wenag words, yet there Wesemeigeous sug- gestion in them that fairly made my h creep. “For Heaven’s sake tell me what you mean,” I ‘said, many. “Ican’t account: for the actions of nese neon e.' What do they mean, and what am I 3 : to do? FOR SRE -“T hoped Ishould see no more bloodshed,” the irl said, looking sadly and wearily into my face. hen phe put her hand on my shoulder, and con- tinued, fiercely: “It’s all your own fault. Why did you come here? Any foolin Jefferson could have told you what they’d do if youcame here.” 1at_do they take me for?” I asked,a suspicion of the truth breaking upon me, gle" “The marshal, come to serve writs of ar- rest.’ : ; “They are mistaken; you are all mistaken,” I protested. “I am nota marshal, nor an officer of any kind. I am merely a merchant, traveling on my own business.” ~ i i She looked at first incredulous; but I continued to assure her of my real character, and she, 'seeing my sincerity, soon believed me, geal “But you can’t make them believe it,” she quickly added. “The last marshal that was here was dress- ed and mounted just like you, and that question you asked Aleck Maxwell made.’em sure you’re the same kind. The truth is,” and she lowered her voice, ‘‘there’s a great many, horse-thieves and cattle-stealers in this county—the ‘people are pretty much all up to it—and there’s dozensiof ?em.sworn never to let an officer go out of the country-alive.’. “What did they do to the marshal you speak of?” I asked, with a cold shiver: ©os-1 9 ome? se 6 [a: “Well, they just; hung ‘him :to that bigclive oak across the road, and buried him ander it:? » >: “Good Heaven!, Butl’m not a marshal; Iwould- n’t harm a man in the county if Icould.” She shook her-head.; pvc} mis gil by “Its no use, stranger,’?) she said: ‘They won’t believe you; your Jooks believeverything you say. They’ll serve yout OC Way.2d anv “Can’t I escape?” I asked, ina perfect agony of terror. “Get me my horse and let me go.” “It’s no use; they’d kill me if Igot your horse for you. Here!” She softhy opened a dogr, and point- ed out. “It’s aslim chanee life, but it’s your only one. Take-to the woods, and may Heaven have mercy on you! Don’tstop to thank me—go!” I waited for no second :inyitation, but cleared the house, and plunged into the woods unobserved. I ran without stopping for sometime, and then un- expectedly found myself inthe highway that I had traveled two hours before, with the village visible a mileaway. Thetruth was, I had cut off a great corner of the woods in my flight, and the road turning, I-had thus struck it. fay It was now almost twilight, but a shout warned me that I was discovered, and the sound of furious galloping broke on my ear. I was too much ex- austed-to fly any farther, even if that could have doneany good. . I dropped down behind the trunk ot-a huge tree, and desperately awaited my fate. I -had pistols. with me, and I resolved that I would ‘not be lynched without a struggle, ; A dozen horsemen rode up to within a few yards of where I lay, and separating, rode hither and thither about the skirts of the wood. The hoof of one of the horses once brushed my leg, but I lay quiet, and was not discovered, though I lay trém- bling. Soon the party gathered for consultation, and with plenty of curses on my devoted head, they agreed that I must have taken to the woods again, but that I could not be far off. By common consent they dismounted, hitched their horses, and dividing into two parties, plunged into the woods on each side of the road. I waited, with beating heart, until they had gone so far that I could not distinguish their voices, though I could see the flashing of the lanterns they had lighted, and then I stole forth from my concealment. What was my surprise and delight to discover my own gallant steed hitched with the others, with ortmanteau and blankets strapped to the saddle. n the act of mounting him, a sudden thought oc- curred to me, and I acted on it promptly. I had a sharp pocket-knife, and a minute sufficed to cut every saddle-girth and bridle. Then Imounted my horse and put hi top gallop, which I never al- lowed him to slacken for five miles. I traveled over twenty miles farther, and never halted till I had found the sheriff of the Seniae county and put myself under his protection. e heard my story, and said: bse ; “A pretty close thing, my friend. They’d have hung you at sight if they’d laid hands on you. But you’re safe now; they won’t venture overhere. I’ve got warrants for the arrest of more than half of them, and they know it.” I never learned that ey were able to make any pursuit that night, but I should think not, after the situation I left them in. Bee: a Pp | Dantex Doyze, author of “Monny, MacurRn;” was long employed as a coal-breaker in “the ‘mines of Pennsylvania. Be iol op ~ Aobey ‘How He Weighed His Wife. The Lewiston (Maiié) Journal has discovered the rape and thus aera ot ee isa bog os weighing, it was supposed, about 250 pounds, but her husband could not induce her to be weighed. So the other ‘day be was driving out with’his wife, and drove up to Mr. Dorman’s store in Atburn. Dorman’s pey While he was talking with % gentleman! at the'door, his whole team was bein left _his wifeto'do some shopping. Then he droye back to Mr. Dorman’s hay scales, and the team was weighed—minus the wife. It was but a simple sum in subtraction to discover the weight of the woman. ‘ For just what you are, of course,” she said, The wife gid not aes. that the team stood on Mr. | weighed. He then drove over to Lisbon street and | ee _ = ep errr eee we On getting home the joke leaked out, but his neigh- bors declare that Caleb will never see another day of judgment in which he will be more sorry for his sins than he didthe hour when his wife learned she weighed two hundred and forty odd pounds.” —_>-@—4—____— ALL WRONG. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. My name is Brown—Philip Brown. My father’s name is Joel, my mother rejoices in the old-fash- toned cognomen of Hannah. _ Lastsummer, a friend of mine, enthusiastic, and just out of college, went to neville to rusticate, and visita bachelor uncle. He came home in rap- tures with Laneville, but more particularly in rap- tures with one Bessie Blake, a resident of that for- tunate town. : : My: mother, being of an inquiring: disposition, questioned young Gurley in regard to this particu- lar Bessie, and learned that she was the daughter of Moses Blake, and’ Moses Blake’s wife was a third cousin to my mother’s unele’s wife’s brother-in- law. So we were le closely related. My mother had once known Mrs. Blake, and Moses was a man of wealth. Bessie was his daughter. Here was an opening! My mother ought to have been a President, ora Prime Minister, she was such a sharp one at plan- ning, and before many days she had decided that Iwas out of health,and needed country air. She wrote san _ affectionate letter to Mrs. Blake, stating the afflicting circumstances, dwelling on her anxie- ae her only son, and asking that early friend if she would not receive the invalid into her family for a few weeks. ; In due time a letter arrived, saying that I should be welcome to the domicile of the Blakes. “Deary me!” said my mother, adjusting her spec- tacles to get a more accurate view, “it seems to me that Betsey Ann Blake has neglected her spelling dreadfully. Why.scarcely a single word is correct- y spelled, and Betsey Ann used to be a good seho- ar! It was decided on the spot thatI should go to Laneville and recuperate. : My wardrobe was soon put in order, and I set Hore for the home of Bessie Blake. parting, “and keep on the right side of old Mr. lake. He’s an odd stick, if I remember, and can’t bear to be crossed. And recollect, my son, that he is worth fifty thousand, and Bessie is all he’s got.” Perhaps you were neyer in Laneville? If not, then, of course, you do not know that all the houses are aS much alike as the peas in a bushel bag full of peas, and the man who could tell one house from another would be a genius. . The village is surrounded by brickyards, and the Lanevillites believe in encouragin home indus- try. so allthe houses are brick, There isa patent roofting factory in the place; and so, for the same reason cited above, all ths houses are patent roofed. Green paper window shades. are manufactured here, and of course all the shades are green paper. It was nearly dark when [I arrived at neville, anditrained. It always does when anybody goes anywhere. T inquired for Mr. Blake’s, and a small boy agreed to pilot me thither for ten cents. How the little wretch managed to single out this house from all the other houses just like it I donot know; but see- ing the name Bake in large letters. on the door- pints. Dears him his hard-earned pittance and rang e bell. esx They were delighted to see me, had been expect- ing me for a month, old Blake said, and remember- ing that ae ae not aaa ae tone I pores rom contradicting him, thoug new well eno Pe my mother nedweltien them only Wfertnight efore. oe ve Se was shown into the parlor and the presence of essie. “This is my daughter,” said.old Blake, indiffer- ently enough, as if such angels as Bessie Blake were too common with him to merit much notice. And I felt that if my pantaloons were not new, and Iwas sure the carpet had been swept that day, it —and—well, I didn’t orn ‘know what. _Mrs. Blake was a fat old lady, and she was knit- ting a gray stocking. Sweet domestic employment! I shook hands all round, and sat down on the so- fa beside Bessie. The first chance I got I squeezed her hand, and received an enchanting smile by way ofencouragement. | i we lake got out his spectacles, wiped them, and put them straddle of his nose. Then he straight- ened back in his chair and took a good look at me. “Hum!” said he, “Tollerble tall and well built! Six feet, ain’t ye?” pitas: eS I assented, knowing that he did not like to be cngeeed, but Iam only five feet six.” | ; “T used to be six feet two myself,” said he; ‘‘that was when I was young. A hefty man,too. Takes xr his father—eh, Martha?” nodding to his wife. “All that tribe was tall. Gota nose like hi father’s—no, let me see; it’s more like his grand- mother’s. There’s a great. deal in noses—eh, Martha?” : ; “Yes,” said Martha, absently, counting her stitch- es, “especially when a body has a cold.” : I noticed that the old gentleman made a mistake in calling his wife, Martha, when her name was Betsey Ann, but I didn’t crosshim. Ikeptstill,and made myself more deyoted to Bessie. “Yes,yes,” pursued he; “nose wide at the roots, and sot up—good sign. Hain’t you had. the small- pox lately, young man?” “No,” said I, indignantly. “Oh, you hain’t? Tseed the sides of yer face and yer upper lip was kinder broke out and dingy.” ble a size as any one’ could expect from three months’ nursing. t only yesterday Araminta Jones had said it was divine, and just as “scratchy” as need be. = : I was angry, but a glance at the sweet face of Bes- sie made me restrain mytemper. What could I not bear for her sake? “T used to know pretty near all your folks,” said old Blake, “and there’s a heap of ’em I should like to ask about if Icould_only git my wits to work. There was yer Uncle Joshua—you don’t remember him, I guess; he died afore your time——” ‘Tneyer had an Uncle Joshua,” said I. “Don’t contradict me, my boy,” said he, testily; “I guess Lknow. *“Tain’t likely they ever told you any thing about him. He was put in the State Prison for stealing a sheep—or was it a pig ?” to harrering up the boy’s feelings. what his uncle did.” ; “I hain’t a harrering,”’ said old Blake, crossly. “You mind your own bizness, Martha.” ; And while the old people were disputing asto the real meaning of the word “‘harrering,” I improved the chance which offered, and kissed Bessie. Before this fact was accomplished, a tall, red- whiskered man strode into the room, and, for an instant, stood glaring at me like a wild beast.. Then he dashed toward me, seized me by the collar, and planted his foot at that part of my body most convenient to. kick, and landed me at the other side of the room. “Take that, you scoundrel!” he remarked, im- pressively; but I could not oblige him, I had al- ready taken it. I rose to my feet. and prepared to strike out.. ‘What do you mean, sir?” demanded I, before striking. ; He can’t help “What do you mean, sir?” demanded he. “What React mean by kissing my wife ?” our wife! Jupiter Jorum!” cried L ‘Bessie Blake your wife!” : “Bessie Blake?” said he. “Who in thunder is Bessie Blake?” ' “Don’t be profane my son*” said old Mrs. Blake. “Scripter is agin it.” “Are you not Bessie Blake?” said I, turning tothe Venus. “No,” said she; “my name is Annie Hall.” “Well,” said I, ‘this is a pretty kettle of fish. Who are you, sir?” to the red-whiskered man. ‘Tam Robert Hall, at your service—Mr. Blake’s step-son.” “Isn’t this Mr. Moses Blake’s house?” “No; my name is Jeremiah,” said old Blake. ‘‘And I was going to Moses Blake’s,” said I. ‘Why in the duse didn’t you gothere then?” cried Mr. Hall. “Don’t swear Robert,” expostulated Mrs. Blake. How was [ to tell one house from another in this abominable village?” cried I, indignantly, “where every house is just like every other one.” —_. ‘My house cost twice as much as Moses Blake’s.” said ae Blake. : B . ..Ain’t your name Jeremiah?” asked Mrs. Blake. “Mercy forbid!” said I. egle Then,” said she, “I guess things is kinder mixed ep: We was aixpecting our nephew, Jeremiah; Muggins, for to pay us a visit. He writ some time ago to say he’d come. We hain’t seen him sense he was achild, and naterly we took you for him. And: “ fact of it is, you’ve got into the wrong house.” saw directions as to the locality of Mr. Moses Blake’s house, and departed. The less I say of my visit therethe better. Bessie weighed a couple of hundred, to say the least, and was red and healthy asa washerwoman. A fine girl, no doubt, but not to my taste. 1 “recuperated” speedily, went home, and mar- ried Araminta Jones. it -~o~< ae WE have been informed that Frederick Loeser, of Brooklyn, does not allow his female, elerks to sit down. Wecannot believe this of him. Will some of his clerks confirm or contradict the assertion ? TWO NEW STORIES THIS WEEK. ‘In this number of the New York. WEEKLY two new stories are cotninenchd Sage Wisacvee THE TERROR OF THE Coan FIELDS,” and. “DANIEL Boonk, THE THUNDERBOLT OF THE BORDER,” e very careful, Philip,” said my mother, at, would be happinces to kneél down at her feetand — is grand-_ Broke out, indeed! ‘and my mustache as respecta- “Now, father,” said the old lady, “‘don’t you gofor © how it was, apologized, obtained definite> 5 Den IICEES: Perera rr Shey I EET TE NS LE TERT TN II mums Br AED Rem, ea ale ca Ne as — THE TRUE MISSIONARIES, BY FRANCIS S. SMITH. The high-toned Sons of Mammon bdast their churches broad and high, Whose window panes are gems of art, whose steeples pierce the sky ; Whose highly-polished pews can boast the upholster’s nicest eare, And in whose vast interior wealth shows plainly everywhere. The pastor is a gentleman otf courtly, solemn mien, Qf deep scholastic knowledge and reasoning clear and keen; He deals in well-turned periods, and advances ideas new, But in my thinking he is not a missionary true. Qur biessed Saviour, while on earth, taught not in temples grand; He gave no heed to pomp and wealth—He owned no foot of land. His chosen ones were men of toil, who earned the bread they ate, And followed humbly after Him, well pleased with their estate. Their dwelling was the broad, bare earth—their covering the sky— i Their task te teach the vicious how to live and how to die. With simple faith they gladly went where there was work to do, Each strong in love and charity, a missionary true. And some brave ones are treading now the path the Saviour trod— They seek the vicious in their dens, and point the way to God. Once sunk in crime and anguish, now they’ve found the price- less gem, And tell the vile in simple phrase what Christ has done for them. : They take the drunkard from the street, and strength to him impart; . They argue with the felon till they reach his flinty heart; And many a crime-stained, guilty wretch a convert is enrolled, And many a sincere penitent is gathered in the fold. ~ God bless these brave, unselfish men who labor for their kind, They may not be so full of grace, so learned and refined As others who are working in the vineyard of the Lord, But when their labor endeth they will meet their true reward. “Well done, good and faithtul servants! will be the verdict given; ; “Come up, ye humble workers, and enter into Heaven! For in our blissful mansion there’s a place prepared for you, Come up and reap thy guerdon, ye missionaries true.” DANIEL BOONE, THE THUNDERBOLT OF THE BORDER. By BURKE BRENTFORD, ef “SQUIRREL CAP,” “THE STEEL CASKET,” etc. CHAPTER I. THE DRIFTING CANOE. ‘The passing sunshine of a peerless spring fell divinely over the tree-tops of the great wilderness, beamed protectingly upon the stockades and clear- ings which the hardy pioneers of Boonesborough had erected in and redeemed from the backwoods of Kentucky, and streamed so vividly upon the near-flowing river that its surface blazed like a shield of burnished steel, and sent back the flashes until the atmosphere was instinct with almost trop- ical radiance. The splendid weather appeared to be fully enjoyed by all the inmates of the fort, soldier and hunter, woman: and child,and especially by two young girls, who were paddling inthe riverin a canoe, beating the water into glistening showers of spray, and making the surrounding woods echo with their merry laughter. The sentry atthe stockade look- ing out upon the stream regarded them with grim pleasure, but presently muttered to himself: “Ah, Bettie Boone, my forest bird, if Colonel Daniel, your father, was at the fort, he’d have some- thing to say about your being out there in the only canoe we have to cross the river with. And I reck- on old Jack Callaway would have something to say to you, as well, Madcap Mollie.” But Bettie Boone and Mollie Callaway, unconsci- ous of their being the objects of the militiaman’s solicitude, continued to splash their paddles gayly, and laugh and talk unconcernedly. “Girls, don’t go too near the other shore,” bawled the sentry, using the hollows of his hands for a speaking trumpet, and flinging a good deal of anx- iety in his voice. They heard the sound of his words, but not their ane and only sent back cheers and laughter in reply. The sentry grumbled something to himself, and, be “ae ved from duty a moment after, went into the fort. “Twonder what ails old Jack Kattridge, Bettie,” said Mollie Callaway, atall, fair-haired beauty, of about nineteen, with very pretty blue eyes, buta certain expression of weakness and timidity about her full, pouting lips. “We can’t venture upon a little row in the stream, but that he imagines some spook or goblin is to carry us off.” “Dear old Jack,” replied Bettie Boone, laughing merrily; “he knows my father has great faith in him, and therefore, whenever our fathers make any expedition into the woods, the old fellow regards us as undér his special protection.” “For my part,” said,Mollie, “I don’t see what ne- cessity there was for their going hunting to-day. We have plenty of venison in the fort. It’s a shame,” And her pretty lips pouted.as she spoke. “Of course, it’s a shame—a crying shame,” laugh- ed her companion, “simply because my brother and your lover, Harry Boone, happened to ‘accom- pany the party.” ane blushed to the eyes, but was swift in her retort. “You should be equally vexed at their going, Bet- tie,” said she, “since my brother and your lover, Tom Callaway, also forms one of the party.” “And pray why should I care whether Tom goes hunting or remains in the fort ?” said Bettie, defi- antly; but her own blush showed that her simple love-secret had been betrayed as well as Mollie’s. Bettie Boone’s beauty was of a different order from that of her companion, Her form was shorter and more robust, but indicative of bewitching grace, as well as gee health. She was a charm- ing brunette, with hair and eyes as dark as night, a clear olive complexion, and sweet, tempting fea- tures, which were, nevertheless, imbued with an expression of self-will and determination which spoke at a glance of the fearless hunter’s blood that flowed in her veins. As their fathers had for years been tried and faithful friends in the perils of their arduous voca- tion as hunters and pioneers, so Mollie and she were bosom friends; and, from the careless con- versation which has just been recorded between them, may be gathered the simple story of their girlish loves. Kach was betrothed to the brother of the other; and this was, of course, an additional bond between them. They continued their amusement of splashing the water-spray at each other, with their faces turn- ed toward the fort, and unconscious of the fact that their canoe was drifting slowly down around the bend of the stream, and also being carried by the current toward the further shore—against which old Sergeant Katwidge had warned them. Had the girls turned to that perilous shore, they would have seen something which would have caused them speedily to pull across the stream, in the utmost alarm, The bank on thfs sidé was wooded to its very verge with such a tangle of bush and underbrush as to render it almost jungle-like in appearance.: From the depths of this jungle, Crouched almost to the water’s edge, two piercing black eyes, savage and eager as those of a panther, giared upon the drifting canoe and its unconscious occupants, Nearer and nearer drifted the boat, with its paint- er trailing in the water from the bow, and the girls splashing the water higher than ever, with screams of laughter Fiercer and more eagerly blazed the black eve. from the wooded bank. Suddenly, but silen*’, from the immediate vicinity of those bale- ful vis, a long, gaunt, dusky hand and arm glided out, like a serpent, and the hand closed softly upon the trailing rope, drawing the canoe cautiously to the bank. Mollie was the first to discover the danger, and her shriek of terror caused her companion to turn also, with a blanching cheek. Gutttral laughter greeted them as two Indians leaned from the thicket and grasped them in their arms. The girls gave utterance to piercing shrieks, and struggled desperately, sitting down in the bot- tom of the canoe. and holding on to its sides with all their might. Their cries sp edily brought a number of the garrison over ths bend on the other side of the river; but as only one canoe belonged to the fort, and that’ the one in which the foolish girls had drifted into the hands of their captorsno attempt at rescue could be made, and no one dared to risk a shot at the savages for fear of hitting the cap- tives. _ But a few moments sufficed for the Indians to lift their captives from the canoe and bear them into the dense forest. Here they were joined by three other Indians, who had been lying in wait, and they immediately struck a rapid march in a north-westerly direction. Miss Callaway had become insensible through fear soon after finding herself helpless in the. hands of theredskins; but Bettie Boone, who was made of sterner stuff, mastered her fright by a great effort, and resolved to make the best of her Author position, bad as it was. Her first move to ingratiate herself with her cap- tors was to disengage herself from the brave who bore her buxom form in his arms with consider- able labor, and insist by signs that she was well capable to accompany them without assistance. This was assented to with a grunt of satisfaction, perhaps of admiration, and the party pushed on more rapidly, the woods becoming somewhat less dense as they proceeded. * In crossing a brook,a gourdful of water dashed rudely in her face brought Mollie to her senses, and she also was compelled to proceed on foot, which she did weeping bitterly, her captors urging her on before them with mocking laughs, and otherwise showing that they held her timidity in very slight estimation as compared with the un- complaining resignation of her fellow captive. Bettie soothed her as well as she could, exhort- ing her to bear up, and trust to their speedy deliv- erance by friends who would not fail to startin pursuit at once. Y While Bettie was speaking, to the surprise of both, the Indian who appeared to be the leader of the band turned upon them with a grim smile, and said, in broken English: “White maiden, no go back to. her people no more. Indian travel much fast; pale-face travel much little.” This speech, whether _on account of a natural pride for the admirable English which distinguish- ed it, or for some other reason, appeared to please the dusky speaker amazingly, for he chuckled for at least flve minutes at its conclusion. “Does the chieftain know who we are ?” inquired Bettie. if “He know much who you is,” wasthe reply. “You the young squaw of the great pale hunter, Colonel Dannie Boonie.’ Chieftain no carie who the light- haired crying squaw is,’ he continued, glancing eontemptuously at poor Mollie, who, notwithstand- ing her sobs. was much less cast down than ninety- nine women outof a hundred would have been under like cireumstaneces. “‘One of our own tribe take her for squaw. If she no makie no more noise | the settlement from the forest, bearing game. It was evident from their haste, and the anxiety ex- pressed by their faces, that some messenger had already carried them the news of the capture. Two of the hunters were good-looking, sturdy young fellows, who, despite their youth, had the air and bearing of experienced hunters. These were young Harry Boone and Tom Callaway. The other men were much older, the elder of the two being a short, thick-set man of about seventy, old and grizzled, but evidently with his strength and powers little impaired. The other was so conspicuous of appearance that he would have attracted attention anywhere. He was. over fifty years of age, over six-feet-two in height, straight as an arrow, and brawny as a bull. The extremely picturesque half-hunter, half-mili- tary dress in which he was clad, displayed his mag- nificent form to the bestadvantage. His features were large and noble, though rugged from extreme exposure, with eyes small, jet black, and _ piercing, and with beard and hair whose bushy blackness was as yet but faintly grizzled by time. His tread was that of a monarch of the woods, and men bent with respect at the approach of Colonel Daniel Boone, whom the Indians had aptly surnamed the Thunderbolt of the Border. The hunters threw their game into the gateway of the stockade, and Boone threwa stern and ques- tioning giance at old Jack Kattridge, which discon- certed the latter not a little. “Indeed, colonel, I didn’t know as how the gals was in the canoe until they was in the middle of the river,” said he. . “You should have ordered them back, Jack.” “T’li leave it toany chap in the stockade if I didn’t bawl at ’em at the top of my voice, only they either wouldn’t or couldn’t hear me,” said the old militia- man, stretching out his hand deprecatingly. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped now,” said Boone, in a molilified tone. “Callaway,” he added, turning to the old hunter at his side, “my son and your son will be enough to accompany me in bringing back the girls.” THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. & The daylight slowly waned, and thick darkness descended upon the solitude of the great forest, but still they did not relinquish their pursuit. Boone, who appeared to see in the darkness, as well as an owl, proceeded, crouching almost to the ground, now feeling for the faint signs of the trail with his hand, now catching it with his eyes, and leading the others cautiously on, knowing that every mile thus made wasso much gained upon the Indians. Though greatly fatigued, they proceeded thus until almost midnight, when they approached a place where the trail crossed a narrow opening in the forest, through which the moonlight streamed with a steady luster. They were about to enter this, when Boone sud- deniy dropped upon all fours, and the others, ata sign from him, did likewise, preserving the strict- est silence. : They only heard a faint, far-away rustling, such as the wind might have made among the fallen leaves. Butthe rustling grew louder and louder until it was the distinct sound of stealthy approach- ing feet; and afew moments later a dozen Indian warriors, proceeding in a southerly direction, crossed the glade in single file, and passing so near to the hunters as almost to have heard their sup- pressed breathing. . - But they did not hear, and passed over the open- ing, and away into the forest. A moment later a single brave—who had perhaps been detained by some accident—came hastily following. Just, how- ever,as he passed Boone’s hiding-place, he dis- eovered him. Three unerring rifles covered him; but it would have been discovery, and almost cer- tain death, to have risked a shot. | The Indian sprang into the middle of the glade, and drawing his tomahawk with one hand, placed the fingers of the other to his lipstosound the whoop of alarm to his comrades. But before it sounded, Boone burst from his coy- ert with that lightning-like rapidity which had par- tially earned for him the sobriquet of the “Thun- derbolt,’ and was upon him, One hand grasped With one hand he grasped the Indians throat and with the other he plunged his knife into his heart. we kill her and take scalp. Chieftain much likie long-hair'sealp.” At this t waige Mollie burst out weeping and_sob- bing louder than ever, and it was all that Bettie could do to soothe her. The latter’s curiosity was excited by what the chieftain had said. They madeahalt about the middle of the afternoon at alittle spring in the fo- rest, the cool waters of which they gratefully quaff- ed, while they ate with avidity the fragments of jerked buffalo meat which their captors sparingly gave them. While here, Bettie made another move to ingratiate herself with the chief captor. “Will the chieftain let his captive ask a question?” saidshe,meekly. | “Let the dark-haired maiden speak,’ was the grave reply. “he chieftain said the fair-haired maiden was intended for a red man’s squaw; will the chieftain aay what the dark-haired maiden is intended for ?” twas with great trepidation, which she could but poorly conceal, that she put this question, and her fears were by no means diminished by the manner in which he received it. The Indian chuck- led long and loudly, but at length said, with much gravity: “Big pale hunter, Boone, kill many, many red men. Red man hate big hunter more than all pale hunters—more than big chief Kenton—much hate! much hate!’ His painted_ brows were lowering and dark, and Bettie turned pale. Her father was the most fa- mous hunter throughout the vast wilderness. She knew the hate and fear in which he was held by the ay ges, how they thirsted for reyenge on him and is, But presently the Indian’s brow cleared a little, and he said, rather sullenly and diseontentedly: “Let the dark-haired maiden be not afraid. She no meant for torture,much as red man want re- venge.” And his brows knitted again, his hands worked convulsively,as he spoke. “‘No,” he ad- ded, “the great redcoat chief want dark-haired squaw_for himself. Britishman do much for In- dian ; Indian no disobey.” Bettie Boone turned a shade paler, and an omen of coming evil glittered in her starting eyes as she pressed her hand to her heart and leaned forward. “What—what does the chieftain mean?” she paar “What redeoat ?” “The biggest chief,” was the reply. “Big chief who help Indian kill all American pale-faces, Big chief, Captain Duquesne,” The young girl started back with a faint ery, and her face wreathed with horror,’ She pressed her hand still closer to her heart, in a superhuman ef- fort to control her smotion. But the shock wastoo much. She fell, fainting upon the grour4, OHAPTER If, DANIEL BOONE ON THE WAR-PATH. There was the ztracst eonfusion in the fort upon the garrison beholding the daughters of their two principal officers,and most respected pioneers, carried off before their very eyes, without ability to move a finger for their relief. The news in a few moments spread through the surrounding cabins, and was followed by the usual wailing of women, crying of children, and futile raging of young men. Miss Callaway was mother- less, and Mrs. Boone shut herself in her cabin to conceal _her grief and harrowing anxiety. The wife of Daniel Boone was a true backwoodswoman. She had followed her husband through all his lat- ter pilgrimages; from his farm in North Carolina, by weary and perilous stages of travel, to the set- tlement at Clinch River, where the fight between the Indians and settlers, so disastrous to the latter, occurred, and where she left her two elder sons and one brother dead and mutilated in the hands of the enemy; from Clinch River on, to the present site of Boonesborough, in the neighborhood of which, in the depths of the great forest, another loved son had laid down his life in that hardy cause for which the ax of the pioneer and the rifle of the hunter hewed and fought the way for civilization through the trackless wild. One only son, one only daugh- ter were left to her. Tried as her mother’s heart had been, this was the hardest trial of all. Let us leave her with her grief,as on her bended knees, alone in the solitude of her cabin, she uplifts her soul in prayers for her daughter’s deliverance, for her husband’s return. Hunters are proverbially poor swimmers. Ser- geant Jack Kettridge was the only one sufficiently confident in his powers in this respect to venture to swim the river and bring back the canoe, in or- der that a pursuit of the Indians might be taken up at onee. He didso, and then returned as he had gone, and with the disheartening report that the canoe was water-logged, the Indians having taken care to stave in the bottom with their tomahawks. The young men then instantly began to construct araft, While thus engaged, four hunters entered “Nay, nay, Dan’l,” said the old hunter; “my dar- ter is in the varmints’ claws as well as yourn, an’ it’s only my duty to—” “But you’re already banged up with the hurt,” said Boone; ‘‘and what’s more, the young fellows are their lovers. We shall have to keep up the trail night andday, It must beasIsay. Bid the lads make ready for the pursuit, and hurry up that raft, while I go and comfort the old woman.” “Poor Rebecca!” he muttered, as hestrode toward his own cabin; “‘she’s had many a bitter blow, but this must prove the hardest of all.” We shall not intrude upon the seclusion of the bereaved pair. When they came out into the sun- shine the matron was pale, but composed, and it was beautiful to witness the affectionate confidence with which she leaned upon the arm of her heroic husband and looked up in his face. “T know, Dan’l, you will bring back our darling, if she—she be alive,” said she, in a choking voice. “But if my fears prove true—if these redskins are indeed the emissaries of Captain Duquesne!” “Tf so!” exclaimed Boone, and a reai thunder- bolt seemed kindling underhis darkening brows as he hissed out the words—“ii so! But no—no-it cannot be! That black-souled redeoat, who strove to destroy our peace at Clinch river, cannot have uitted Detroit as yet, and. old Kattridge is sure that these Indians who carried off Bettie and Mollie were Kentucky Shawnees, who can seldom be in- duced to go north of the Ohio. Fear not, good wife, I will fetch back the pretty one.” He kissed her tenderly, threw his rifte over his shoulder, and strode away. We might as well at once, before taking up the soe of stirring and swiftly succeeding incidents which will follow each other in the course of our story, briefly outline the principal incident which forms its plot; and thenceforward the rapid and startling actions of our narrative will scarcely be interrupted by a paragraph of description. Our story opens in the third year of the Revolu- tionary War. Five years before, when Boone and ~his family were settled on Clinch River, Tennessee, there appeared among the simple pioneers a Brit- ish surveying party, commissioned by Governor Dunmore, of Virginia, to explore the country as far west as the Mississippi. It was headed by a Cap- tain Duquesne, a gallant, handsome, and accom- plished young officer, of as fine address as he was utterly unprincipled and unscrupulous. He paid every attention to the beautiful Bettie Boone, then in her sixteenth year, and speedily won her simple heart. But, in the heat of his pursuit, he endeavor- edto- clutch his prey too eagerly. The disguise of the man of honor was dropped too suddenly, and the cloven foot of the born libertine revealed in all} its hideousness. Horrified at the abyss she had so narrowly escaped, the girl, young as she was, had spurned him from her in loathing and disgust, the ; affection which had been speedily ripening in her | virgin heart turning as swiftly to detestation and | hate. ‘Boone was ona hunting expedition at the, time. Duquesne—cursing himself bitterly for hav- ing revealed his true purpose before the fruit was ripe—gathered his party hastily together, and fled back to Virginia from the wrath to come. He had been known to declare many times thereafter— especially after the outbreak of the war, when a command inthe west placed hundreds of Indians, the savage allies of the British, at his disposal—that he would yet possess: himself of the backwoods prewar if Indian subtlety and craft were worth any- thing. The years passed, the war extended, and more than one bloody contest had already taken place in the wilderness between the continentals and hunt- ers on one side, and the redeoats and redskins on the other, andthe memory of this evil man had been the one dark cloud which shadowed the prim- itive hearthstone of the Boones. When Colonel Boone returned to the river side, the raft was already launched. Harry Boone and Tom Callaway were equipped, with a dozen stout fellows to pole and paddle the raft over the stream. Boone sprang aboard, and they pushed off. ‘“When will you. be back, Daniel?” called out old Callaway from the throng on the shore. “When I get the girls, I shall probably send them on by the boys here, and go downto the Lower Blue Licks to see how the salt-makers come on, By the way, tell my wife that. I forgot to.” He waved his hand. With much difficulty the raft was poled across the rapid stream to very near the point where the canoelay water-logged. The trail of the Indians was easily discovered, and instantly taken. up by thethree hunters, Boone in the lead. «The young men were excellent walkers, but it was, with difficulty that they could keep up with their gigantic leader. Sometimes he turned his head and regarded them with a grim smile as he led them such a pace that they were obliged to fairly run to keep up. ee Why, do you eall this a fast gait. boys?” { ane Iwas your years, we called it a snai op. the redskin’s windpipe with a grip of iron before a Sound issued from it, the other dashed the uplifted tomahawk aside, and the next instant the knife of the hunter passed through the red.man’s heart, cleaving downward from the shoulder-blade. _ “Back! back! far back!” whispered Boone, dragg- ing the body of the savage, together with his fallen rifle and hatchet far into the thicket. ‘‘They will be back to seek for him ere long.” They retired some distance from the open space, hastily buried the dusky body beneath some fallen leaves, and then took their positions behind three large trees, which were but a few yards apart. “Mind, lads,” said Boone, inahoarse whisper; “if the twelve return and approach us this side the buried body, we must make the most of it and fight. The report of my rifle will be the signal. Then blaze away, throw your hatchets afterward, and then goin with your knives, yelling like madmen, so as they’ll think there’s ascore of us. Hush! not a word.” The savages returned to the glade in a short time. They looked about, with considerable anxiety, for somé traces of their missing comrade, and finally penetrated the forest in the direction from which they had first made their appearance, but presently re-entered the glade, with increased uneasiness and grunts of dissatisfaction. Pretty soon, one of them, in looking about the opening, with his nose close to the ground, gave a whoop of surprise and alarm and pointed to some blood upon the turf, which also gave evidences of oa trampling fight of but quarter of an hour be- ore. They all started back, and then, spreading their number out like a fan,and holding their rifles ready cocked, crept into the thicket, directly to- sory the positions occupied by Boone and his com- rades, ‘ One of them stumbled over the leaf-buried body, and dragged it out into the half-light that filtered in from the moonlit opening, At that instant Daniel Boone’s rifle spoke, and the curious Indian fell a corpse beside the one-he had unearthed. Two other rifles cracked so simultaneously as to seem but a single echo of the first, and with equal- ly deadly effect. Then three hatehets gleamed like silver lightning through the air, and the hunters, drawing their long knives, sprang out, with dis- cordant yells, upon the astounded savages that re- mained unhurt. y The latter, utterly panic-stricken, and doubtless thinking that they were ambushed by a score of Americans, took to their heels and fled in a north- erly direction, but not before one of them fell upon his face, with’ Boone’s knife buried to the hilt be- tween his shoulder blades. } The victors, now willing to examine the field at their leisure, found that, beside the three who had fallen under the first volley and the one who had been knifed, another had stopped a flying hatchet and the current of his existence at the same mo- ment. “Six out of thirteen,” muttered Boone, compla- cently; “good enough for a short scrimmage!” CHAPTER III. A TRIANGULAR SURPRISE—THE RESCUE, Congratulating each other over their easy—but, under the circumstances, by no means unreason- able—victory, and pretty certain that the fugitives would not soon return, the hunters proceeded on their way, making, however, but slow progress as they left the moonlight behind them. It was Boone’s opinion that the Indians whom they had encountered so successfully had nothing to do with those who had captured the girls, but were an independent hunting expedition from some other tribe. It at last became so absolutely dark that it was impossible to distinguish the feeble trail by sight or touch; so, after partaking of some of'the dry provisions they had brought with them, they wrap- ped themselves in their blankets and laid down to sleep and rest. Thoroughly worn out by the arduous toil by night, combined with the hunting expedition they had engaged in in the early part of the previous day, the younger hunters, if undisturbed, would doubtless have slumbered twelve hours without changing their slumbering attitudes. But the iron frame and restless mind of Daniel Boone were har- dened to every exigency of the wilderness. Three hours after closing’ his eyes in’ sleep, and just as the new morning was stealing through the trees, he was upon his feet, wide awake, and ready to re- new the pursuit. He roughly awakened his youthful followers. * “Come, Harry! come, Tom!” he eried, shaking them so rudely as to banish every vestige of slum- ber, no matter how needed. “D’ye think you'll get your sweethearts by dreaming about them? Up, lads! We’ve already a splendid gain by last night’s march, and must keep it up to the close.” They were soon on the march, and made rapid headway as the broadening light made the trail of the savages very distinct. Breakfast and draughts of cool water at the crossing of a little brook, then on again. At about noon Boone stooped down and picked up @ narrow pink ribbon. “T never notice such things on female gear.” said he, turning around and holding itup. “Do either of you recognize this?” «e do!” exclaimed Tom Callaway, 1 “it’s Bettie’s. I gave it to her myself last Haster. Hur- rah! There’s no question about our being on the right trail now.” ‘There was no question in my mind from the time we started, or I shouldn’t have followed it,” muttered Boone, with the pardonable pride which springs from long experience. 7 Dinner—in which they consumed all their re- maining provisions—and then on onee more. | _ _At about heavy dusk they saw a faint light twink- ling through the trees, about a mile away. 5 “It’s my humble opinion that we’ve nearly treed our coons,” said Boone. “Slowly and silently now, till we make sure, lads,” The shadows that were drifting through the forest with the coming on of night moved scarcely less noiselessly than the figures of the hunters as they approached the glimmering flame, which grew larger and larger every instant. At length they were assured that it was nothing less than a camp- fire; and presently, to their unspeakable joy, they saw the five Indians cooking their evening meal, and there, too, were the captive girls alive, and ap- parently unharmed. But the conditions of their captivity were vastly different. Mollie Callaway was standing upright, with her back to a tree, to which she was tightly bound. It had eviderttly been determined to mur- der her, as a useless incumbrance to the party. She had apparently fainted. Her lovely head, with its masses of bright blonde hair falling loosely around her form, was drooping on her breast, and her face was as white as snow. Harry Boone gnashed his teeth so fiercely at the harrowing sight that his father turned to him with astern and warning glance. Bettie was sitting upon the ground, with her face buried in her hands; she must have exhausted all entreaties and prayers for the life of her doomed companion, and now looked the picture of despair. _ The Indians themselyes were roasting their ven- ison unconcernedly, with the exception of now and then casting looks of fiendish malice at the bound captive, like those of vultures gloating over the prospect of a bloody feast. i , “Listen, lads,’ whispered Boone, just above his breath; “not one must be spared, or suffered to escape. They are five to our three; we must attack them triangularly. Harry, you see the thick-set fiend with the red leggings?” A nod was the reply. “Remember, he is your target. Tom, you see him, with the blanket tied about-his waist, after the fashion of a woman’s petticoat—the one that’s got his meat on the end of the thick stick?” Another nod. : “Well, he’s your man. I willtake care of mine. One of you creep around to the right, and the other to the left, till each fancies he’s about one-third the way around thecamp. I'll give you five minutes to take your positions, and draw your beads, The erack of my rifle will signal you to blaze away. Then don’t wait to see the effect of your shots. Drop your guns, and rushin with your hatchets, Understand?” Two nods in reply. “Then be off with you.” . 4 The young men glided away on either side, and were swallowed up by the darkness. As Boone counted the minutes, he watched the Indians with the utmost anxiety, in apprehension lest they should shift their positions in such a way as torender it impossible for the young men to choose their victims as he had instructed them, and thus perchance lose one of the precious shots. But, to his great relief, the sayages made no ma- terial change in their positions about the fire. He gave the young men what he: considered about one minute’s grace, and then, choosing his man, fired. Two shots followed his as_ swiftly as thought flies, and the three hunters, dropping their guns, dashed toward the fire amid the whoops of the In- dians and the shrieks of Bettie Boone. 3 Boone had drawn his bead true, as he never fail- ed to do, butthe intended victims of the younger hunters were only wounded. The surprise of all, however, was complete; the shots coming from three direct opposite points completing the confu- sion. One of the uninjured Indians fell dead at once, with Boone’s hatchet buried in his skull. Tom Cal- laway only wounded the other one—a tall and pow- erful brave—and the twain rolled over and over on the ground, writhing and twining in the death struggle. Harry Boone was equally unfortunate. He stumbled as-he rushed upon the least wounded Indian, and was also locked in his arms before he could use his tomahawk. Boone soon relieved Tom of his assailant by thrusting his knife between the redskin’s ribs, and then, wheeling like lightning, performed the same good office for his son. The young men staggered to their feet, faint and breathless, when suddenly young Callaway uttered a feeble cry, and pointed his hand, with starting eyeballs, “Too late! too late!” he gasped. The fight had drawn the hunters some fifty yards from the vicinity ofthe captives. Now,to their hor- ror, they saw that the remaining savage, thaueh sorely wounded, had dragged himself, under the impulse of reyengeful ferocity, to the tree against which the insensible form of Mollie Callaway was bound, and now had his hunting-knife raised to bur it in the white throat of the unconscious girl. oo late! too late!” repeated poor Tom, as all three rushed forward. The knife was quivering in the last straining effort of reyengeful strength.. In another instant— are atom of time—it would drink the captive’s ife. But no. At that precious morsel of time, a rifie cracked. The knife fell, indeed; but it only severed one of the captive’s thongs, and the Indian plunged forward, shot through the temple. (TO BE CONTINUED.) CAPTAIN Danton’s Daughters. By May Agnes Fleming. [Captain Danton’s Daughters” was commengéed last week. Ask your News Agent for No, 16, and you will recetye the opening chapters. ] CHAPTER IV ROSE DANTON, Next morning, when the family assembled at breakfast, Captain Danton found a letter on his plate, summoning him in haste to Montreal. ‘“*Business, my dear,’ he said, answering his eldest daughter’s inquiring look; ‘‘business of mo- ment.” ‘Nothing concerning—” She paused, looking startled. ‘Nothing relating to—” ‘To Mr. Richards, No, my dear. ladies purpose spending the day ?” He looked at Grace, who smiled. ‘My duties are all arranged,” she said. ‘‘There is no fear of the day hanging heavily on my hands.” “And you two ?” “T don’t know, papa,” said Kate, listlessly. ‘‘I can practice, and read, and write letters, and visit Mr. Richards. I dare say I will manage.” “Letus have a drive,” said Heny. ‘We can drive with papa to the station, and then get Thomas to take us everywhere. It’s a lovely day, and you haye seen nothing of St. Croix and our country roads yet.” , Beny’s idea was applauded, and immediately atter breakfast the barouche was ordered out, and Thomas was in attendance. Mr. Ogden packed his master’s valise, and the trio entered the carriage and were driven off. ‘Attend to Mr. Richards as usual, Ogden,” said the captain, as Ogden helped him into his overcoat, “*T will be back to-morrow.” Grace stood in the door-way and watched the ba- rouche until the winding drive hid it, from view. Then she went back to attend to her housekeeper’s duties—to give the necessary orders for dinner, see that the rooms were being properly arranged, and so forth. Everything was going on well; the house was in exquisite order from attic to cellar. Ogden shut up with Mr. Richards, the servants quietly busy, and Danton Hall as still as a church on a week-day.’ Grace, humming a little tune, took her sewing into the dining-room, where she liked best to sit, and began stitching away industriously. The ticking of a clock on the mantel making its way to twelve, the rattling of the stripped trees in the fresh morning wind, were, for a time, the only sounds outdoor orin. Then wheels rattled rapidly over the graveled drive, coming to the house ing hurry. and Grace looked up in surprise. ‘*Back so soon,” she thought? ‘They cannot have driven far.” 3ut it was not the handsome new barouche—it was only a shabby little buggy from the station, in which a young lady sat with a pile of trunks and bandboxes. “Rose! exclaimed | was coming to-day.” A moment later and the front door opened and How do you Grace. ‘I quite forgot she is a = we Seo oe pia cass ——_—___—. - shut with a bang, flying feet came along the hall, a silk dress rustled stormily, the dining-room door was fling open, and a young lady bounced in and caught Grace in a rapturous hug, “You darling old thing!” crieda fresh young voice, *‘] knew I should find you here, even if I hadn’t seen you sitting at the window. Aren’t you glad to have me home again? And have you got anything to eat? i declare I’m famished!” Pouring all this out in a breath, with kisses for commas, the young lady released Grace, and flung herself into. an arm-chair. ; “Ring the bell, Grace, and let us have something to eat. You don’t know how hungryIlam. Are you alone? Where are the rest?” f Grace, taking this shower of questions with con- stitutional phlegm, arose, rang the bell, and ordered cakes and cold chicken; the young lady meantime taking off her pretty black velvet turban, with its long feather, flung it in a corner, and sent her shawl, gloves, and fur collar flying after it. “Now, Rose,” expostulated Grace, picking them up, “how often must [tell you the floor is not the proper place to hang your things? I suppose you will be having the whole house in a litter, as usual, now that you have got home,” “‘Why did you send for me, then?” demanded Rose. “T was very well off. I didn’t want to come. Never got scolded once since I went away, and I pitched my clothes everywhere! Say; Grace, how do you get on with the new comers?” “Very well.” Here Babette appeared with the young lady’s ‘lunch, and Miss Rose sat down to it promptly. ‘What is she like, Kate—handsome?” “Very!” with emphasis. ‘“‘“Handsomer than I am?” . “A thousand times handsomer!” “Bah! I don’t believe it! Talland fair, with light hair and blue eyes, Am I right?” ‘*Yeg.” “Then she is as insipid as milk.and water—as in- sipid as you are, old Madame Grumpy. And papa— he’s big and loud-voiced, and red-faced and jolly, I SODDORGI ee gt “Miss Rose Danton, be a little more respectful if you want me to answer your questions,” “Well, but isn’t he? And Mr. Richards—who’s Mr. -Riehards?” ., . anor 93 “T don’t know.” £9 81 “Isn't he here?” sat i “Yes, certainly.” © “Then why don’t you know?” ~ ‘Because [haye not, like Rose Danton, a bump of inquisitiveness as large as a turnip.” “Now, Grace, don’t be hateful. know about Mr. Richards.” “And that is nothing. I have never even seen him. He is an invalid; he keeps his rooms night ‘and day. His meals are carried up, and no one sees him but your father, and sister, and Ogden.” **Mon Dieu!” cried Rose, opening her eyes very wide. ‘‘A-mystery under our very noses! What can it mean? There’s something wrong somewhere, isn’t there?”:.o9...4, ‘TI don’t know anything about. it: i¢ ic nono o. my business, and I never ‘2tur-eve .2 otner people's.” “Yourlogs ua granny Grumpy! And now that I’ve aaa enough to’eat, why don’t you ask me about my visit to Ottawa, and what kind of time I had?” ‘Because I really don’t care anything about it. However, I trust you enjoyed yourself.” ds “Enjoyed myself?” shrilly cried Rose. ‘It, was like ‘being in paradise!. I, meyer had. such a» splendid, charming, delightful time:since I was born! I never was So sorry for‘anything as for leaving.” “Really a mi amoiiang ine} “Oh, Grace! it! was beautiful—so gay, so much company; and E do love. pany! A ball to-night, a concert to-morrow, a sociable next evening, the theater, dinner- eS,..2matinees, morning. calls, shopping and rec ens! Oh,” cried Rose, raptur- ously, ‘it was glorious!” .c “Dear me !"ysaid Grace, stitching away like a sewing-machine; “it must. have been a great trial to leave.” “Tt was. Tell me all you But I'am going back. Dear Ottawa!| Charming Ottawa! fr was exc Sively happy he Ot | towa! ik od? Bvt; We ETA She laid hold of a, kitten siumbering peacefully on arug as she spoke, and went waltzing round the room, whistling a lively tune. Grace looked at_her; tried to repress'a’ smile, failed, and continued her work. She was very, very pretty, this second daughter of Captain Danton, and quite unlike the other two. She was of medium height, but so plump d rounded as to look less tall than she really y er profuse hair, of dark chestnut-brown, thick curls to her, waist; her complexion was dark, cheeks round and red asapples, her forehead Jow, her nose perfection, hér teeth like pearls, her eyes small, bright, and hazel... /Very pretty, very spark- ling, very piquant, and.a flirt-from her cradle, ‘Did you learn that new accomplishment in Otta- wa, pray ?” asked Grace,’ “What new accomplishment ? “Whistling.” Pate Ne nea a ee ee ly was.{in that? Rs gi ean mg in} “There’s @ mystery somewhere,” said Rose, sa-| gaciously. . “Who is Mr. Richards ?” ———— ‘Are you Kunice ?” ‘*Yes, miss.” **Are you busy 2?” **No, miss.” “Then come into my room, please, and comb my hair.” Eunice followed the young lady, and Ogden re- turned to the mysterious regions occupied by Mr. Richards, Once more the house was still; its one disturbing element was having her hair curled; and Grace and her brother talked in peace below stairs. It was past luncheon-hour when the barouche rolled up to the door, Kate, all aglow from her drive in the frosty air, stopped her laughing chat with pale Eeny at the sight which met her eyes. Standing onthe portico steps, playing with a large dog Kate had ‘reason to know, and _ flirting—it looked like flirting—with the dog’s master, stood a radiant vision, a rounded girlish figure, arrayed in bright maize-colored merino, elaborately trimmed with black lace and velvet, the perfect shoulders and arms bare, the cheeks like blush-roses, the eyes sparkling: as stars, and the golden brown hair, freshly curled, falling to her waist. “Oh, how beautiful!’ Kate cried, under her breath. The next moment, Eeny ranup the steps, and favored this vision of youthtul bloom witha kiss, while Kate followed more decorously. ‘‘How do, Heny ?” said. Rose. ‘Kate!’ She held out both her hands. Kate caught her in asort of rapture in her arms. ‘My sister !” she cried, ‘‘My darling Rose!” And then she stopped, for Doctor Danton was looking on with a preternatural gravity that provoked her. ‘‘-When did you come, Rose ?” asked Eeny. ‘Two hours..ago..Have- you had a pleasant drive, Kate ?” “Very; and I am hungry after it. We have kept Miss Grace waiting, lam afraid; isn’t it past luncheon-time ? Come to my room with me, Rose. Are you going, doctor. Won’t you stay to lun- cheon ?” ie ‘Some other time. Good morning, ladies Come Ryser. 4% He sauntered down the avenue, whistling, and the three sisters turned into the house. ‘Very agreeable !” said Rose. ‘‘Grace’s brother; and rather handsome.” ; ‘‘“Handsome !” exclaimed Kate. He is not hand- some, my pretty sister.”’ She took herin her arms again, and kissed her fondly. ‘‘My pretty sister ! hew much I am going to love you ?” Rose submitted to be kissed with a good grace, but with a little envious pang at her vain, coquet- tish heart, to see how much more beautiful her su- perb sister was than herself. She nestled luxuri- ously in an arm-chair, while Eunice dressed her young mistress, chattering awayin French like a magpie. © They descended together to luncheon; pale Eeny was totally eclipsed by brilliant Rose, and all the afternoon they snent together over ine yniano, wd sauncermg carough the grounds, “Retribution, Heny,” said Grace, kissing Heny’s pale cheek. ‘You forgot me for this dazzling Kate, and now you are nowhere. You must come back to Grace again.” 4. a ‘There is nobody like Grace,” said ony nestling close. ‘But Kate and Rose won’t be always like this. ‘Love me little, love me long.’ Wait until Kate finds out what Rose is made of. k But despite Eeny’s prophecy, the two sisters got on remarkably well together. ing to promise, so they were thrown entirely upon Captain Danton did not return next day, accord- | one another. Instead, there came a note from Montreal, which told them that business would de- tain himin that city for nearly a fortnight longer. ‘‘When [do return,” ended the note, ‘I will fetct an old friend to see Kate, S ‘ ie ‘“‘Who.-can it be?” wondered » Kai is no old.friend of mine-thatI am Montreal» Papa likes to bé mysteri “Yes,” said Rose; **B should’ thi have a my, in the very house,” “Wh Ja. $ SOOT Eee “M rds, of course. He's a mystery, worse than 1g in the ‘iysteries of Udolpho.” Why can nob to see him but that soft-stepping, oilly-tong little weasel, Ogden ?” the pretty sister she loved so well, lances she had ever given her. — ards is an invalid, he is unable to see quit his room. What mysteryis there at ‘‘A friend of papa’s—and poor. Don’t ask so many questions, Rose. I have nothing more to say on the subject.” © P “Then I must find out for myself—that is all,” thought Rose; ‘tand I will, too, before long, in spite of half a dozen Ogdens.” Rose tried with a zeal and perseverance worthy a better cause, and most signally failed. Mr. Richards Yes. Jules taught me,”.- “Who is Jules ? ‘ “Jules La Touche—the’son of the house—hand- some as an angel, and my devoted slave.” “Indeed! Has he taught you anything else 2?” ‘Only to love him and to smoke cigarettes.” ‘“‘Smoke !” exclaimed Grace, horrified. “Yes, m’amour! I have a whole package in my trunk. If you mend my stockings I willlet you have some. I could not exist without cigarettes now.” _*I shall have to mend your stockings in any case. As:to the cigarettes, po me to decline. What will your papa say to such goings on?” “He will be charmed, no doubt; if he isn’t, he ought to. Just fancy when.he is sitting alone of an evening over his meerschaum, what nice sociable smokes we can have together. Jules and I used to smoke together by the hour. My darling Jules! how I long to go back to Ottawa and you once more! Grace !” dropping the cat and whirling up to her; *“‘would you like to hear a secret ?” “Not particularly; what is it 2” “You won’t tell—will you ?” “*T don’t know; I must hear it first.” “It's a great secret; I wouldn’t tell anybody but you, and not you, unless you promise profoundest silénce.” ‘ *‘T make no 2 blindly. Tell me or not, just as you please. 4I don’t think much of your secrets anyhow.” . “Don’t you ?” said Rose. nettled,“‘look here then.” She held out her left hand. On the third finger shone a shimmering opal ring. **Well ?” said Grace. _. _ “Well!” said Rose, triumphantly. that; that is my Saree ring?* Grace sat and looked at her aghast. ‘No !” she said. ‘You don’t mean it, Rose ?” “T'do mean it. Tam engaged to Jules La Touche, and we are going to be married inayear. That is my secret, and if you betray me I will never forgive you. r “‘And you are quite serious ?” ‘Perfectly serious, chere grogneuse.” “Does Monsieur and Madame La Touche know ?” “Certainly not, Mon Dieu! We are too young. Jules is only twenty, and I eighteen. We must wait, but [love him to distraction and he adores me! Tra-la-la !” She seized the cat once more and went whirling round the room. Her waltz was suddenly interrupted. A gentleman, young, tall, and stately, stood, hat in hand, in the door-way, regarding her. ‘Don’t let me intrude,” said the gentleman, po- litely advancing. ‘Don’t let me interrupt anybody, I beg.” . Grace arose, smiling. “Rose, let me present my brother, Doctor Danton! Frank, Miss*Rose Danton!” Miss Rose dropped the kitten and her eyes, and made an elaborate courtesy. ‘““My entrance spoiled avery pretty tableau.” said the doctor, “and disappointed pussy, I am afraid. Pray continue your waltz, Miss Rose, and don’t mind me.” 13.2909 SD Aili ’ “I. don’t,” said Rose, carelessly,'“my waltz was done, and I have to dress,” G1 AO! She ran out of the room, but put her head in again directly. “*Grace !” “Yes 1” ‘*Will you come and curl my hair by-and-by ?” “No, I haven’t time.” “What shall I do then? Babette tears it out by the roots.” rat “Tam not busy,” said the doctor, blandly. “I haven’t much experience in curiing young ladies’ hair, but I am very willing to learn.” ‘You are very kind,” said his sister, ‘‘but we can d.spense with your services. You might get Eunice, I dare say, Rose; she has nothing else to do.” ‘*Who’s Eunice ?” ‘Your sister’s maid; you can ring for her; she un- derstands hair-dressing better than Babette,” Rose ran up stairs. At the front window of the upper hall stood Ogden and Eunice. Rose nodded ‘familiarly to the valet, and turned-to ‘Jules gave me wasinvisible. His meals went up daily. Ogden and Kate visited him daily, but the baize door was always locked, and Ogden and Kate, on the sub- ject, were dumb. Kate visited the invalid at all hours, by night and by day. Ogden rarely left him except when Miss Danton was there, and then he took a little airing in the garden. Rose’s room was near the corridor leading to the green bazie room; and often awaking in the ‘dead waste and middle of the night,” she would steal to that mysterious room to listen. But nothing was ever to be heard, noth- ing ever to be seen—the mystery was fathomless. She would wander outside at all hours, under Mr. Richard’s window; and looking up, wonder how ‘he endured his prison or what he could possibly be about—if these dark curtains were never raised and he never looked at the outer world. Once or twice a face had appeared, but it was always the keen, thin face of Mr, Ogden; and Rose’s curiosity, grow- ing by what it fed on, began to get insurportable. “What can it mean, Grace ?” she would say to the housekeeper, to whom she had a fashion, despite no end of snubbing, of confiding her secret troubles. ~There’s something wrong; where there’s secrecy, there’s guilt—I’ve always heard that.” ‘Don’t jump at conclusions, Miss Rose, and don’t trouble yourself about Mr. Richards; it is no affair of yours,” ‘‘But I can’t help troubling myself. What business have papa, and Kate, and that nasty Ogden, to have a secret between them and [not know it? TI feel in- sulted, and I'll have revenge. I never mean to stop tilll ferret out the mystery. Ihavethe strongest con- viction I was born to be a member of the detective police, and one of these days the mystery of Mr. Richards will be a mystery no more,” Grace had her own suspicions, but Grace was fa- mous for minding her own business, and kept her suspicions to herself. Rose’s maneuvering amused her, and she let her goon. Every strategy the young lady could conceive was brought to bear, and every stratagem was skillfully baffled. “Why don’t you have Doctor Danton to see Mr. Richards, Kate ?” she said to her sister, one evening, meeting her coming out of Mr. Richard’s rooms. “I should think he was skillful.” ‘Very likely,” said Kate, with an air of reserve, ‘*but Mr. Richards does not require medical care.” “Oh, he is not very bad then? You should bring him down stairs in that case; a little lively society— mine, for instance—might do him good.” Kate’s dark eyes flashed impatiently. ‘‘Rose,” she said, sharply, “how often must I tell you Mr. Richard’s is hypochondriacal and will not quit his room. Cease to talk on the subject. Mr. Richards will not come down stairs.” She swept past—majestic anda little displeased. Rose shrugged her plump shoulders and ran down stairs, for Doctor Danton was coming up the avenue, and Rose, of late, had divided her attention pretty equally between playing detective amateur and fiirt- ing with Doctor Danton. Butthere was a visitor for Rose in the drawing-room: and the young doctor, entering the dining-room, found. his. sister alone, looking dreamily out at the starry twilight. “Grace,” he said, ‘I come ‘to say good-by; I am going to.Montreal.’ “Grace looked round at him with a sudden air of relief. “Oh, Frank! Iam glad. When are you going ?” Doctor Frank stared at her an instant in silence, and then hooked a footstool toward him with his cane, ‘Well, upon my word, for a ‘sister who has not seen me for six years, that is affectionate. You're glad I’m going, are you ” say “You know what I mean; it is about Rose Danton.” ‘Well, what about Miss Rose ?” ait ‘Lam glad you are going to get out of her way.. I am glad she will have no chance to make a fool of you. Iam glad you will have no time to fall in love with her.” “My pretty Rose! My dark-eyed darling! Grace, you are heartless.” Grace looked at him, but his face was in shadow, and the tone of his voice told nothing. “I don’t know whether you are Serious or not,” she said. ‘For your own sake, I hope you are not. the girl. Rose has been flirting with you, but I thought you THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. —— oe had penetration enough to see throughher. I hope, I trust, Frank, you have not. allowed yourself to: think seriously of her.” ‘‘Why not,” said Doctor Danton, ‘‘she is very pret- ty, she has charming ways, we are of the same blood, I should like to be married. It is very nice to be married, I think.. Why should I not think seriously of her ?” ‘*‘Because you might ag well fall in love with the moon, and hope to win it.” ‘Do you mean she would not have me ?” “Y¥ Ree ' “Trying, that. But why? Herconduct is encour- aging’ Ithought she was in love with me.” _ Again Grace looked at him, puzzled; again his face was in shadow, and his inscrutable voice baffled her. “IT do not believe you ever thought any such thing. The girlis a coquette born; she would flirt with Ogden for the mere pleasure of flirting. She flirts with you because there is no one else.” “Trying!” repeated the doctor. “Very! And you really think there is no use in my proposing—you really think she will not marry me!” ‘*T really think so.” ‘And why? Don’t break my heant without a rea- son. Is it because I am poor?” **Because you are poor, and not handsome enough, or dashing enough, for the vainest, shallowest little flirt that ever made fools ef men. Is that plain enough?” ‘-That’s remarkably plain; and I am very much ob- liged to you. My darling Rose! But hush! A silk dress rustles—here she comes!” The door opened; it was Rose, but notalone; both sisters were with her, and Doctor Danton arose at once to make his adieus. *‘T depart to-morrow for Montreal,” he said, ‘'Fare- wells Miss Danton.” ‘tGood-by,” letting the tips of her fingers touch his, ‘‘Bon voyage.” : She walked away to the window, cold indifference in every line of her proud face. j He held out his hand to Rose, glancing sideways at his sister, ‘Adieu, Miss Rose,” he said; ‘‘1 shall never forget the pleasant hours I have passed at Danton Hall. He pressed the little plump hand, and Rose’s rosy cheeks took a deeper dye; but she only said ‘*Good- by,” and walked away to the piano, and played a waltz. ; Eeny was the only one who expressed regret, and gave his hand a friendly shake. ‘ “JT am sorry you are going,” she said. ‘Come back soon, Doctor Frank.” | : Doctor Frank looked as if he would like to kiss her; but Kate was there, queenly and majestic, and such an impropriety was not to be thought of. It was Kate, however, who spoke to him last, as he left the room. | “Take poe from me to Tiger,” she said. “I shall be glad when Tiger comes back to St. Croix.” ** ‘Love me, love my dog,’” quoted Rose. about Tiger’s master, Kate?” ‘ *< shall aiways be pleased to see Doctor Danton,” said Kate, with supreme indifference. ‘Sing me a twilight song, Rose.” = Rose sang “Kathleen Mavourneen” in a contralto voice. — is Kate stood listening to the exquisite w air, watching Doctor Danton’s full figure fe U in the November gloom, and thinking of some one “How n we must sever; e must part? r mor rm ; ,a D y ar “heart?” + three days by only one hon the house was.as 1o! Frank.lad gone away. ‘One would think you had fallen in love ; s . « x t i. » “No,”-retorted Eeny; ‘I leave that for you. But he a nice; I liked him, and I wish he would come back. Don’t you, Kate?” ' j “I don’t care, particularly,” said Kate. papa would come.” *And bring that unknown friend of. yours. I say, Kate,” said Rose, mischievously, *‘they say you're engagéd—perhaps it’s your fiance.” p over Kate’s pearly face the hot blood flew, and she turned hastily to the nearest window. ‘Too late, ma sceur,” said Rose, her eyes dancing. “You blush beautifully. Won't I have a look at him when he comes, the conquering hero, who can win our queenly Kate’s heart.” **Rose, hush!” cried Kate, yet not displeased, and with that roseate light in her face still. Rose came over, and put put her arm around her waist, coaxingly. j ‘‘Tell me about him, Kate. Is he handsome?” ‘Who? Reginald? Of course he is handsome.” “IT want to see him dreadfully! Have you his pic- ture? Won’t you show it me?” he There was a slender gia chain round Kate’s neck, which she wore night and day. A locket was at- tached, and her hand pressed it now, but she did not take it out. ‘‘Some other time, my pet,” she said, kissing Rose. “Come, let us go for a ride.” Rose was an accomplished horsewoman, and never looked so well as in a side-saddle. She owned a spirited black mare, which she called Regina, and she had ridden out every day with Doctor Frank while that gentleman was in at, Greix. » Kate. rode | well, too, A fleet-footed little pony, named Arab, had been trained for her use, fag the ‘sisters*gal- loped over the country together dailyy 8 93 99.) EKeny and Grace, both mortally atraid ‘of horse® flesh, never rode. VERE BOETTOS 20% Between music, books, and riding, the three days’ interval passed pleasantly enough. Sr ate ; Rose was an inveterate novel readér, and. the hours Kate spent shut up with that unfathomable mystery, Mr. Richards, her younger sister passed obsorbed in the last new novel. ri They had visitors, too—the Ponsonbys, the Lan- dreys, the La Favres, and everybody of ‘note in the neighborhood called. Father Francis, M. le - Cure, the Reverend Augustus Clare, the Episcopal -in- cumbent of St. Croix, an aristocratic young Eng- lishman, came to s¢e them in the evening to hear Miss Danton sing, and to play backgammon. The Reverend Augustus, who was slim, and fair, and had face and hande ‘like apretty girl, was very much impressed with the majestic daughter of Cap- tain Danton, who sang.8o magnificently, and looked at him with eyes like blue stars, The day that brought her father home had been long and dull. There had been no callers, and they had not gone out. Acold north wind had shrieked around the house all day, rattling the windows, aad tearing franticallythrough the gaunt arms of the stripped trees. The sky was like lead, the river black and turbid. As the afternoon wore on, great flakes of snow came finttering through the opaque air, slowly at first, then faster, tillall was blind, ae whiteness, and the black earth was hid- en. Kate stood by the dining-room window watching the fast-falling snow. It had beena long day to her—a long, weary, aimless day. She had tried to read, to play, to sing. to work; and failed in all. She had visited Mr. Richards; she had wandered, in a lost sort of way, from room to room; she had lain listlessly on sofas, and tried to sleep, all in vain. The demon of ennui had taken: possession of her; and now, at the end of every resource, she stood looking drearily out at the wintry scene. She was dressed for the evening, and looked like a_ picture, buttoned up in that blaek velvet jacket, its rich darkness such a foil to her fair face and shining olden hair, Grace was her only companion— race sitting serenely a apron for herself. Rose was. fathoms deepin “Les Miserables,” and Eeny was drumming onthe piano an GRE drawing- room, There had been a long silence, but present- ly Grace looked up from her work, and spoke. ' _..'This wintry scene is new to you, Miss Dope n: You don’t have such wild snow storms in England ?” Kate glanced round, a little surprised. } v ae ' “T wish It was very rarely indeed her father’s house-'| keeper voluntarily addressed_her. ay ae “No,” she said, ‘not like this; but I like it. " We ought to have sleighing to-morrow, if it continues.” ‘Probably. We do not often have sleighing, though, in November.” | "enh tianad Fah *There was another Bay Kate yawned behind her white hand. “I wish Father Francis would come up,she said, nn eee = =n nnn nnn mwmwmE wearily. ‘‘Heis the only person in St. Croix worth talking to.” The dark, short November afternoon was deepen- ing with snowy night, when through the ghostly twilight, the buggy from the station whirled up to the door, and two gentlemen alighted. Greatcoats, with upturned collars, and hats pulled down, dis- guised both, but Kate recognized her father, the taller and stouter, with a cry of delight, ‘Papa!’ she exclaimed; and ran out of the room to meet him, He was just entering, his jovial laugh ringing through the house as he shook the snow off, and caught her in his wet arms. “Glad tobe home again, Kate! You don’t mind a cold kiss, do you? Let me present an old friend whom you don’t expect, I'll wager.” The gentleman behind him. came forward. A gentleman neither very young, nor very hand- some, nor very tall; at once plain-looking and proud-looking. The pale twilight was bright enough for Kate to recognize him as he took off his hat. “Sir Ronald Keith!’ she cried, intense surprise in every line of her face; ‘‘why. who would have thought 01 seeing you in Canada ?” She held out her hand frankly, but there was a marked air of restraint in Sir Ronald’s manner as he touched it and dropped it again, ‘IT thought it would be an astonisher,” said her father; *‘how are Grace and Eeny ?” ‘*Very well.” ‘‘And Rose ? “Yes, papa.” At this juncture Ogden appeared, and his master turned to him. “Ogden, see that Sir Ronald’s luggage is taken to his room, and then hold yourself in readiness to at- tend him. This way, Sir Ronald, there is just time to dress for dinner, and no more.” He led his visitor to the bedroom regions, and Kate returned to the drawing-room. Rose was there dressed beautifully, and with flowers in her hair, and all curiosity to hear who their visitor was. There was a heightened color in Kate’s face and an altered expression in her eyes that puzzled Grace. “He is Sir Ronald Keith,” she said, in reply to Rose. “I have known him for years.” ‘‘Sir Ronald; knight or baronet ?” “Baronet, of course,” Kate said, coldly; “and Scotch. Don’t get into a gale, Rose; you won’t care about him. he is neither young nor handsome,” “Ts he unmarried ?” “Yes.” : ‘And rich ?” ; . ‘‘His income is eight thousand a year.” ‘“Mon Dieu! A baronet and eight thousand a year ! Kate, Iam going to make a dead set at him. Lady Keith—-Lady Rose Keith; that sounds remarkably well, doesn’t it? I always thought I should like to be ‘my lady.’ Grace, how do I look ?” Kate sat down to the piano, and drowned Rose’s words in a storm of music. Rose looked at her with pursed-up lips. : ; _ “Kate is in one of her high and mighty moods,” she thought. If she is engaged in England, what difference can it make to her whether I flirt with this Scotch baronet or not? What dol care for her airs? I'll flirt if I ase.” She sat still, twisting her glossy ringlets round her fingers, while Kate played on with that unsmiling face. Halfan hour, and the dinner-bell rang. ‘Ten minutes after, Captain Danton and his guest stood before them. Has Rose got home ?” (TO BK CONTINUED.] "HE DOG DETECTIVE AND HIs YOUNG MASTER. ! By Lieutenant Murray, ate ——— {*The-Dog Detective” was commenced in No10. Back Nos. -| can be obtained of any News Agent.) - CHAPTER XXIV. THE PLOT THICKENS, m Mr. Cooper joined Morton, he found the side the bed in'the chair with his great paws ng in the.sick man’s hand. - Brindle’s eyes ab- Lu swam with happiness. Then Morton was told how he had ‘been first diseovered through the stinct and sagacity of his dumb friend. h, Brindle, old fellow,” said’ the -convales- cent in a low loving voice, ‘‘you have ever been my mowAY. no ne ee ex ener si e uu @ low whine of pleasure at. the words. “tt he did not understand their exact mean- ing. he knewtheir import, and nestled still nearer to,his master... c.g 4 “3 GO 4's , Mr. Worthington, in the mean timé, did not go immediately back to the store; he was too muc! excited at what he had just heard, to attend to busi- ness. Indeed he found it almost impossible to re- alize that the poor boy whom he had not long’ since taken: into his. employment from pure charity, should have been the means of saving his commer- cial credit insuch an extraordinary manner. The noble reticence of. the youth under these circumstances struck the merchant with admira- tion, he was surprised at the good judgment and the strength of character Geplay ed by one so inex- perienced. “To think that Morton Merrill should so unhesitatingly haye advanced me nearly thirty thousand dollars seems a miracle. His fortune in ventures with Cooper was of the same nature. Ah, would Cooper, my old and trusted clerk have made eygh a sacrifice for me? Indeed, no.” . hus the merchant mused with himself as he walked far over the Mill Dam Road. He desired to be by himself. He wanted to think of thé matter. Could he blame Minnie for loving such a noble- souled young fellow? In his heart he said no. “It I were at liberty to follow my own inclinations, I would give her to him without the least hesita- tion,” said the merchant to himself. : But.he knew the strong will and prejudices of his wife, that for years she had set her heart upon Minnie’s making a “suitable” marriage, and he knew that though she might seem to yield fora time, still she would never willingly abandon a plan once formed, and so long and consistently ad- hered to. The admitting of Morton onee more to the house had been done under protest, as it were, and.was only atemporary measure on the wife’s partto pacity her daughter’s disappointment. “When Mr. Worthington returned from his long walk he came directly home to his house in Beaeon street, as it was near the hour of dinner. He called his wife into his library and closing the door, sat down. He saw that something very much disturb- ed her also, and immediately asked: “What is the matter, my dear ?” “T think you know, Albert.” “To what do you refer ?”’ “You met Minnie to-day down town?” “Yos, but how did you know ?” | “She told me.” . “Ah, Isee.” ' { “She told me all. That she wrote _a note to Mr. Cooper and that he took her to see Morton Mer- r ill. j “Did she tell you how sick and poor Morton had beem?” ».L.clicited everything from, her.” “Everything that she knew,” replied her husband, thoughtfully. oe “To think that. she should so humble herself as to go to that house, and to that garret!” a am almost too indignant to speak upon the subject.”’ “itis but natural that you should feel so.” “Natural?” said his wife. “I only wonder to see you so calm under these mortifying circumstan- ces.” “The truth is Lam dazed at what I have seen and heard,” replied Mr. Worthington. “To think that Morton Merrill, without a dollar, and searcely a bed to lie upon, should aspire to our Minnie!” ’ “Ah! he has heen at death’s door, poor fellow.” “Poor fellow; you will drive me mad, Albert, by your sympathy for that person.” — “Stay, my dear, say nothing against Morton. You do not realize our indebtedness to him.” “Oh, I have heard enough of this.” But you do not know all, even yet.” os “IT know he saved Minnie one evening, and I know he was braye and manly, backed by his dog, when the store was broken into.” “Very true.” Py Si ‘L wish we could pay him in money for it all, and send him away forever.” oe BA “Such services cannot be paid in money,” said Mr. Worthington, who was considerably in awe of his wife. j | “The more’s the pity,” she replied. “Do you. remember, my dear, when we sat here on a certain occasion expecting the official notifi- cation that my paper had been dishonored, and my credit ruined ?” asked the husband, earnestly. “Of course I do.” : “Do you remember that in place of the legal pro- tes earn my own note back for $15,000 which some good angel had canceled in my behalf?” __ Yes, yes, but what has that to do with the sub- ject of which we were speaking ?” “Who do you think paid that note ?” “T know not. It has always been a mystery.” “Tt was Morton Merrill.” “What do you mean ?” < “Tsay it was Morton Merrill who advanced the necessary money, unknown to any one except Mr. Cooper, and paid my note.” “‘TIm possible!” ‘ “Tt is true.” “I don’t pretend to understand her. | “Do you remember my second and later embar- rassment, when it was impossible for me to realize $12,000 ?” **Yes.” “And that my relief came by an ineclosure of that sum of money from. an anonymous hand ?” BS. “That, Morton also sent to me.” eu Albert, are you in your sober senses ?” asked Mrs. Worthington, in amazement, “Perfectly.” ‘Yet Morton Merrill _is so poor as to lie half- starved in a garret, in Hanover street.” “He impoverished himself to save the credit of one who had befriended him in his necessity,” re- plied her husband. ‘ Andthen he explained, as Mr. Cooper had told him, that with the thousand dollars capital Morton had laid by, he speculated in various ventures, and that Heaven prospered eyery plan they united arms to South America had made for them a fabu- lous profit, and thus by degrees Morton had amass- ed some $30,000. Still Mrs. Worthington, though utterly confound- ed by the intelligence, and seeing that her husband owed everything, as it were, to Morton Merrill, did not have a word to say inthe convalescent’s be- half. She was of a very stubborn nature, yery proud, and if we except her husband and daugh- ter, a woman who had little heart or tenderness to bestow on anyone. Fine dresses and show were her delight. She thought more of what her neighbors would say about her than of whether this or that were right and just. That her daughter should marry an unknown adyenturer was a terribly unpalatable thought, and she had never for one moment recon- ciled herself to any such idea, believing that some- thing would inevitably happen to prevent such an occurrence, “This visit of Minnie’s argues that their intima- ey had progressed further than Iwas aware of,’ said Mrs. Worthington. ~~ “T thought of that.” “Can Morton have told her of his services to FOUR? Norag xi “By no means,” i ‘‘Are you sure?” “I am sure he has told no one. His native deli- cacy is of the most refined character. It was only by accident, as it were, that Cooper betrayed his secret to me to-day,” answered Mr. Worthington. Minnie was surprised when she met her father that evening, not to receive the expected reproaches for her seeming indiscretion in visiting Morton Merrill. She was quite inthe dark as to what could have changed hermother,also; for Mrs. Worthing- ton, all un Yinksiang as. she was, could: not imme- diately ignore the | isclosuzag | ich had just been made to her sufficiently to p uy her to reproach op phen errr) 5 r +. r i r. Cooper was 0! ed to tell:Morton that dur- ing his excitement pied to Men Me ape gar ton as towhom he was indebted to for the pecu- niary aid which had saved his commercial credit. ‘Tam sorry,” said Morton, »» - “‘Leould not A OM Ae. L do! tee inten to tell him.” — oe menace nt. “I cannot, the idea of purchasing his fayor by any Bok heme the jee. oF oa Gee Lknow, Ik Morton.” He certain oes think that I authorized you to inform him.” +29 “«*4 = 4.4 “No, by no means. I explained all.” “Well, Cooper, don’t let it go any further.” “I promise.” ‘ ‘Are you going now?” eS “Please take Brindle with’ you for ashort run. Poor fellow, he pines for the open air,” said Mor- on. “Come, Brindle,” said Mr. Cooper, putting his hand on the door, “come.” But the dog only drew still nearer to his master. The faithful creature could not be induced to quit him for more than five minutes during the day. He was perfectly content so thathe gota kind word from Morton now and then. “Tt’s no use,” said remain with you.” This same evening Austin Gray called at the Worthington’s. Minnie met him as usual, though he could detect a shade of distance in her manner, a little more pronounced than heretofore. ing a headache, she asked to be excused, and re- tired to, her own room, leaying young Gray with her mother. By some chance the conversation led to the mén- Mr. Cooper; “ho had far rather tion of Morton’s name. “By the by,” said the visitor, “I have not seen him for some time.” j “T learned to-day that he has been seriously ill,’’ replied Mrs. Worthington. : “Fortunate that he has a good friend in your hus- band. To be poor and sick both is hard indeed,” said young Gray, with a covert significance, “True,” said Mrs. Worthington. “Tt must be quite a burden; nevertheless, to Mr. Worthington to support him.” “Not so badas that,” wasthe reply. Minnie’s mother had some sense of justice, and as she remembered that Morton had saved them all from, pecuniary ruin, she could not help uttering a word in his favor. 5 ‘I know you do not consider such kindness to be a burden,” added Austin Gray. ee ...You are slightly mistaken,” added the lady. Morton Merrill had considerable means of his own, and made, I believe, very judicious use of the same. “Ah, thatis news tome. Ihad always supposed that he was a dependent of your husband.” “Not entirely,” was all the reply she made. Young Gray soon after retired, and as he walked ower. he said to himself: “Hang it, [thought that Morton Merrill came to town a beggar, and now it seems that he had means,’ according to Mrs. Worthington. Well, it’s alla mystery.. Idon’t see through it at all, but I did see that Minnie wanted to getrid of me_this eyening. That headache was all asham. So Mer- rill has been sick, but such fellows neverdie. He’ll liye just to bother me, if for nothing else. | “Ihave never forgiven him for repulsing us so savagely that night when we undertook to haze him. We’d have fixed him finally if he hadn’t brought out the dog. Nobody dared to attack that Brindle. Hang me if I believe it’sa dog at all. ie some eyil spirit thathas taken the shape ofa og.” Thus young Gray talked to himself during all the walk homeward. CHAPTER XXYV. THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK. Arthur Bailey was tried in due coursé of time for his attempt to aid his fellow-culprits to escape from prison, and soon found himself incarcerated with them in the same institution at Charlestown. Itso happened that Bailey, with Bob Hurley and Jack Norris, were all-placed at work in the. shoe-shop of the prison, and it was very easy for them gradually 2 Ne aria a asystem of communication with each other. They agreed that the first duty they owed to them- selyes was to be avenged upon Morton Merrill, to whom they really owed their conviction and pres- ent well-deserved punishment. It will be remem- bered that they had tried to revenge themselves through Bill Bracket, who shot Brindle upon the bridge, but who himself finally fell a victim to his owntemerity. | E Revenge isa universal passion, but itrages strong- est in the breasts of the uninstructed, and just in proportion as a person is low and groveling in na- ture, and ill-cultivated in intellect, is he liable to its control, While the savage considers revenge to be one of the noblest of instincts, the Christian’s relig- ion teaches the exact opposite. Revenge,is the in- stinct of abject minds. 3) Sih : ; _ It is singular how naturally criminals will affil- iate and sympathize with each other, And there is another trait among them almost aly observ- able, which is that they are ever faithful to each other. While they consider themselves,at war with the world at large,and haye no regard for truth, honor, or any 0 e Sern obling sentiments of hu- manity, still toward each other they are often faith- ful to the last degree, ‘ The three convicts, already so well known to the reader of these chapters, found among the prison- ers one Dick Burrage, whose termof imprison- ment was now drawing to aclose. He was a rascal of the worst stamp,and ready to enter into any scheme which promised him money and the indul- gence of the satisfaction which he felt in being at war with society, B Re Hatley. and Norris found a ready agent in this Dick Burrage, just the tool they wanted. dh Sart Arthur Bailey, especially, had not only confede- rates outside the prison on whom he could depend, but he had also some pecuniary means. Asis often the case with this class of men, he had a small sum. of money deposited in two.er three different say- ings banks, as aresort in time of extreme need. So he now agreed with Dick Burrage that he would make over to him a bank-book of one hundred dol- lars deposit, which was so left in trusty hands that it could be transferred, if he would agree to his terms. his dog Brindle. Kill the dog sure, and, if nee¢ sary, kill his -master. But, at_any rate, to sobe him as to maign him for life. This vile, revengeful plot was arranged in due form, and under many difficult cireumstances, as no open communication was permitted between the prisoners. Dick Burrage, who was serving out a five years’ term, had peculiar advantages, however, acting just then as a sortof half foreman of the shoe-shop. First, because he understood the business, and se- cond because he was entitled to more trust from the fact that he was so soon to be discharged, and had always managed toseeure the confidence of the officers of the prison. It was not, therefore, very difficult for him to conspire with the three rogues. upon, until one fortunate shipment of repeating. Plead- - These terme ire to seek out Morton Merrill and _ = = Serre EE RRenReaenenenEEEt eres sioner \ pagmmemerne: We — sereon his throat, Pe ad - ll off—your ' thrust in, the lineaments of ha. > % agg pe ene you are,” said Morton. friend to transfer the bank-book for a hundred dol- _lars to Dick Burrage, who, on his part, undertook to perform the act of revenge required of him by the convicts. It was quite in his line of business. He was a rough and desperate man, of some thirty- — pears of age, lacking in’every element of prin- ciple. : This expianation is necessary to the proper un- derstanding ofa startling event which we are now about to relate. Ar ‘ : €t was but a-few days after the discoveries which have been explained in the last chapters. The time was evening, or rather night. “Morton Merrill was considered now to be well enough to be left to him- self, except in the day time, during which the nurse remained at her post. He lay with a shaded jae upon the table, and Brindle sleeping near the head of the bed upon the floor. Morton was a little wakeful. His mind was yery busy reviewing his lateexperiences, He had heard the neighboring Clock strike nine, ten, and eleven, and he knewthat it must be nearly midnight, when he saw Brindle suddenly arouse from his reclining position, and with eyes wide open watch the door. He also listened, and thought he heard footsteps upon the stairs leading to the garret. e cast his eyes once more at Brindle, and saw that the hair upon his back was bristling. *“What is it, old fellow?” asked Morton. The dog only wagged his tail in response to Mor- ton’s words, but atthesame time began to draw back his lips significantly from his teeth, a motion which'‘his master knew very weil evinced that he was deeply roused. ‘There was no lock onthe door. It was held by a simple latch. Morton had no praverty valuable enough to.tempt robbers, for he had gradually dis- posed even of his books in eking out asupport for months past, up to the time of his sickness. He now heard thesteps drawing nearer and near- er.and presently a hand was Jaid- upon the door, and the latch was lifted, a4 ph as opened slowiy and cautiously. ‘Phe head of a rough, eee man was k whose countenance it ras difficult for Morton to’ make out by the dim tht of the single shaded lamp upon the table. — deep growl came from Brindle, but he did not move from beside his master. “Anh, said the stranger; “I have found’ you at wr “Who are you?” asked Morton, half raising him- self upon his elbow.. wb if be “‘Never mind that,” replied the man. Don’t you make any noise or I will kill you outright.” _ By this time he had come fully into the room, He _fvas tall and thick-set. A sturdy villainjand in his he held a stout, club-like stick. “Not exactly,’ said the man,” shifting his stick from the left to the right hand as he spoke. . “At him} Brindle,” ie mts This was all the dog was Waiting for. and the next minute he was hanging at the throat of Dick Bur- rage, forit was that accomplished villain who was attempting to carry out his contract. His club was of no use at such close quarters as - Brindle aneienily assumed, and in his mad efforts to release his throat, the ruffian let his club fall. Morton was hardly able to stand alone, but he slid out of the bed and secured the club in an instant, while Brindle had already got ‘his enemy upon the floor. “Call off—” “Give it to him, Brindle,” said Morton. | The dog wrenched and tore at the man’s throat in a terrible manner, the ruffian being totally una- ble to uSe his hands except in a frantic effort to asping again: og.” ' Had the room below been occupied, the noise . must have aroused the people, but it was a half-de- serted house. ; Ff ; The man managed to roll in his fight with the dog toward the open door, and by an almost su- perhuman effort, he threw himself with the dog still hanging to him into the entry at the head of the stairs. The villain was nearly exhausted and choked to death. Morton had reached thespot and was supporting himself by holding on to the banis- ters. Putting his foot in the small of Dick Bur- rage’s back, he said: “Let go, Brindle.” The dog obeyed his master just as Morton gave a push with all his strength, aided by bracing him- self by the hold on the banisters, and the big form of the ruffian went head long, rolling over and over down the steep staircase, making terrible bruises at everybound. They were spiral stairs and reach- ed to the very first or bottom floor of the house, nor did the half insensible body of Dick Burrage stop until it reached the street floor. : The dog would haye bravely and furiously follow- ed, but Morton called him back. Fs “He. has. been punished enough, Brindle. let him go._ He won’t trouble us any more to-night.” Then Morton brought his lamp and saw the blood stains, for the ruffian’s throat had been fearfully wounded by Brindle’s savage tearing at it. No wonder the villain had become nearly insensible from having lost so much blood in so short a time, andin so painful a manner. The house of course was now aroused. All we have deseribed of the conflict took place in afew moments of time. Such contests are of brief dura- tion. Dick Burrage was found lying insensible upon the lower floor, and the police were sent for. At first it was believed that he was dead, and when the officers came, they were obliged to carry him away upon astretcher, still insensible. ' Morton had crept back to his bed quitefexhausted. His story was quickly told to the officers who came to his room. ; Brindle, always the most undemonstrative of dogs, when not aroused, lay quietly by his master’s bed with one eye open. | “Do you mean to say that he threw the fellow down & asked an officer pointing to Brindle. es. “Why he doesn’t look as though he’d worry a kitten,” said the officer. “Nor would he,” added Morton. “A baby might lay with him in safety, but burglars and thieves better give him a wide berth.” - : id that scoundrel bled like an ox,” said the of- ficer, €Xamining the floor. _ Did you know this man ?” ‘ “Any idea why he attacked you?” i ‘ “Thave been thinking,” said Morton, “‘that he snay have been set on to doit by others whom I have been the means of bringing to justice.” “Ah, I see, that’s not unusual,” said the officer, “and one of our men thought he recognized him for a chap lately graduated at Charlestown prison.” “Then, doubtless, [am right in my conjecture,” said Morton, “for there are three fellows in there _ who know Brindle.and me to their heayy cost.” “He is. a subject for the hospital now, and for many along day to come, orl am mistaken. He is awfully bruised, and his throat is torn to pieces. Our captain thinks his right shoulder is also dislo- cated.’ i “Thanks ‘to Brindle,” said Morton. “I was too weak to be of much use, though I did launch him down those steep stairs.” Great was the astonishment of Mr. Cooper, when he came the next morning, as usual, to learn what had Papen Ga, patting the dog upon the head. : Brindle looked up lazily at his master’s friend, uttered a long whine, accompanied by agape show- ling his mouth wide open, stretehed himself, and curled up to have out acomfortable nap near the head of the bed, aothough nothing had happened during the night. ee _ “We must have you out of this vile neighborhood aS Soon as you feel able to ride,” said Mr. Cooper. ‘I didn’t know I had strength enough to stand,” said Morton, ‘but I got my footinthe raseal’s back and somehow over he went down the stairs.” 1e Officer was right about Dick Burrage. Whe he was carried the next morning to th» bcapitai, it was found that his right shoulder was dislocated, and his right wrist broken. His head was fright- fully bruised, and his throat nearly torn to pieces. He had come very near losing his life on the spot where he committed the assault. Of course he was humanely treated by the surgeons, but he was also carefully watched by an officer. it was about a week subsequent to this adventure that Morton was removed to comfortable lodgings in a_pleasant neighborhood, arranged for him by Mr. Cooper, who was neyerso happy as when serv- ing his interest. : orton’s recuperation was as rapid as his illness had been sudden and severe. Three weeks of gen- erous care and good living made him quite himself ain, a (TO BE CONTINUED. ] > @-< A Man Killed by a Mouse. ,An extraordinary occurrence was brought to light Apu inquest held on the body of a man in South London. Inaworkroom where many youns girls were at work a mouse suddenly made its ap- pearance on a table, causing. of course. consider- able commotion and a general stampede. The in- truder was-seized, however. by a young man who happones to be preeeny but the mouse slipped out of his hand, and running up his sleeve, came out between his waistcoat and shirt at the neck. The unfortunate man had his mouth open, and the mouse, on his lookout for some convenient place of concealment, entered the man’s mouth, and he, in his fright and surprise, swallowed it. That a mouse can exist for a considerable time without much air has long been a popular belief, and was unfortu- i, proved tobe a fact in the present instance, for the mouse began to tear and bite inside the man’s thraat and chest, and the result was that the unfortunate fellow died after a little time in horri- ble ny, Several witnesses corroborated tne ans , and medical testimony as to the cause of death having been given, a verdict of “acciden- al death” was returned. ~~ an Arthur Bailey gave him an order upon his outside WHO WILL HAVS EIM TQ-NIGHT? BY MRS. M A. KIDDER, [Who will set to his seal that God 1s true ?” Ascarcely audible J] will,” having broke the silence, Mr. Moody said, “That’s a very faint ’un, though.” After a pause, he added, “Speak out— who will?” “I will,’ shouted aman, at the top of his voice. “That’s right,” said Mr. Moody; “that’s got to Heaven before this.’ Many in the building were moved to tears as he repeated the story of Dr. Wallace’s little daughter, as told by the doctor at the noon prayer-meeting the same day, remarking, as he did so, “T don’t know whether Dr. Wallace is here,”> which he was. At the finish he said, ““Who will have him to-night?” Many were the “I wills,” and one poor old woman, evidently fearing that her feeble voice could not be heard, rose to her feet. }—Ar.-Moody’s London Sermon. It is Jesus, our dear Lord, Our Redeemer and King! He hath come in our midst Free salvation to bring; He hath offered Himself, In His glory.and might, As aransom for sin— ~ Who will have Him to-night ? Who will have Him to-night ? Who will have Him to-night? As a ransom for sin, é Who will have Him to-night ? You are seeking for rest, You are sorry for sin, You have heard His sweet voice, Sinner, pray let Him in; He will cleanse you from guilt, He will clothe you in white, He will give you a crown— Who will have Him to-night? Who will have Him,to-night ? Who will have Him to-night ? As a ransom for sin, Who will have Him to-night / ee or SILVER-SWORD ; ea, ee . THE BEAST-TAMER OF SEGNA. By Prof. Wm. H. Peck, Author of “WILD REDBURN,” “FIFTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD,” ete. [“Silver-Sword” was commenced in No. lf, Back numbers can be obtained of any News Agent.] CHAPTER YVI.—(Continued.) Castra, stunned:to complete insensibility. by the crushing stroke of the headless lance, felt not then a single pang of the tremendous scourging he was receiving. sa ieee “Cease! To your spears!” ¢ as the blare of a trumpet rosesudden above the hideous clamor of* flying populaee. “Nis old Captain Sibeck’s trumpet calling a_rally of all our force to the Austrian standard, and that I pitched and displayed hefore this pavilion as I came in! aay to the standard of the double- heated CHETO!? oS hi se a hewelie’ of Conrad rushed from the pavilanas ne spoke, and his four comrades let fall their scourge, and in- stantly followed him, Se hie; ha “Ha!” exciaimed Conrad, on botnding from the pavilion, and as his quick glance swept over the tumultuous but rapidly being deserted plateau. “The lions of the: beast-tamer are. loose!—ha the soldiers at the death-block break. and flee towar the beach! Cowards! they should .haye_ received the beasts on the points of their lances! Why this general rush toward this pavilion!, Is it general fright, or a cunning attack! Stand firm, men! Present points! Keep back the mob! This may be | apiotto massacre the Austrian garrison—as_ has chanced ere now! Receivethe mobon your points! Prick them smartly; and, if they crow too closely, charge ten pacesiand thrust te kill!” se The force of ad, in number over forty men, fell instantly into line of battle, their spears con- fronting the masses of terrified people now rush- ing blindly upon them. ~ oe : Of the result of this furiows rushing I haye spoken. The people, speared and wounded_ by those to whom they looked for reseue, retreated in wild confusion and headlong speed from the pla- teau, while the separate companies of the Austrian» soldiers, obedient to the trumpet of their com- mander, Carl Sibeck, hurriedat a double-quick to form as one squadron or battalion at the pavilion. Castra regained his consciousness just as Conrad and thé four other Austrians rushed from the in- terior of the pavilion. : Exeruciating agony from the smarting of his seores of hurts greeted his returning senses. The four scourges had not been plied long, but they had fallen rapidly and with fury. he naked arms and legs of the African were ! what do we not owe to Brindle?” he said, |, ee with welts, bruises, cuts, slashes and ood, The snow-white tunic that had eovered-his baek, breast, shoulders and hips had been shredded into bloody and ragged ribbons and tatters by that quadruple tempest of twisted bullshide, thor terrific storm of scourging had not eontinued three minutes. Sik But four active and strong men can strike, com- bined, more than a thousand blows with four scourges in less than three minutes. f : Castra had received in-less than three minutes at least three hundred blows—perhaps_ more, for the rapidity as well as in the force of their strokes. o terrific a flogging would assuredly have slain outright any man less tough than Castra. Fortunately for his life the whips of the Austrians in falling often met each other, and so deadened the intended force of their blows. Castra regained his senses with the howls and roars of beasts and the shrieks and yells of terrifi- ed. men, women and children pealing in his ears. For an instant he stared and glared about him unable to comprehend anything. ne He saw that all the Africans in the pavilion, male and female, had crowded toward and grouped erouchingly around the steps of the platform, while Orbetta stood upon that part of it near the window she had cut, gazing eagerly toward the death-block. ‘ ‘ - Near ‘him lay the four great whips which the scourgers had cast down in going to seize their arms, which they had stacked outside before com- ing in. The sight of the whips, rather than the pain of his body, told Castra what calamity had befallen him while he had lain insensible. 4 : With a howl of rage he sprang to his feet. His wrath and despair bid defiance to the smarts and bruises of his numberless hurts. “Great mistress,” he shouted, as he snatched up his cimeter and creese, ““what_ means the clamor of ae pages: Me screaming and the roaring of the easts?” “The lions of Ercole are loose. Thesoldiers had arrested him at the death-block; but he has called for the help of his lions, and the soldiers have fled from the death-block. My brother is pointing out some one as a DEC to his leopard. I cannot see at whom he points, for the slope of the,plateau hides much from my view. Ha! he has hurled the leop- ard from him—the leopard leaps forward and adown the slope—I see the leopard no longer¢the guards of Sibeck—all the Arsenal troops are hurry- ing thither!’ The spears of Conrad engirt our pa- vilion and force the terrified people back! The four lions are at the death-block! Ha! the Africans‘of Er- sole are rushing from the circus-tent, and with them the elephant, Mahmoud, my mother, and the white slaye, Thyra!” exclaimed Orbetta, but not in reply to Castra, whom she did not deign to notice at the time, if indeed she thought of him, or so much as heard his voice. Her eyes, sweeping here and there over such range of view as wasin her power, were dilated with eagerness and anxiety, and flashed from scene to scene over the plateau as she continued speak- ing aloud, though not to those near her: “The people fly in eyery direction! They dread the lions! They crush, and trample upon each other! Ha! one lion dashes toward the beach! An- other bounds awayin pursuit of—whom? Ah! it is the Greek wine merchant, Yaccopo—I think,. from the blue and white mantle! Ah! and another lion darts swiftly after Belgoli, the Croat—I think ‘tis Belgoli by the scarlet. cap and yellow mantle! But the fourth lion—the black lion—Satana! He crouches rear the death-block—why?” Meanwhile, as Orbetta was ejaculating, the ab ove. and me more which I do not quote, Castra, i tating the late act of his mistress, had rushed to the side of the oan opposite to the : through which she was gazing, and with 8 sweep of his cimeter_ slash through the silken and linen wall. . The cimeters of the disarmed Africans were the first objects that met his outward glance. 4 The Austrians had piled the cimeters and jave- lins of, Orbetta’s guards ina heap about ten feet from the pavilion, and as Conrad had ordered all his men _ to the other side of pt tine F to meet the terrific rush of the fear-m populace, this heap of cimeters, javelins, creeses, and small, cir- eular shields of the disarmed Africans was at the moment unguarded. ; | The plateau on this side and near the pavilion was being deserted, or all of the yee upon it were fleeing. The great feast-tent of which I have spoken was on this side of. the pavilion, but those who had charge of it, both sentinels and servitors, cooks, stewards, waiters, seullions, butlers, and other domestics of Segna Rose duty it was -to make ready the intended feast Tor the expected Saracene and his warriors of the galleys, had fled - “Way for. the: ponphiase h the | four scourgers had emulated each other in the. Ve es a'sinate | an enormous hole: or were fiying, the paniecof the populace being as great in one place as in afother. { the many booths which studded the vast grassy plateau, were deserted, save by the pros- trate bodies of the hundreds of men who had drunk too deeply of the drugged wine sold to the booth-masters during the preceding night by the agents of Lazzaro, or some one whose purposes were deep and dark. Yet two companies of the Austrian garrison which had-been stationed near the rampart gate, were, as Castra glanced through his opening, moving rapidly toward the pavilion in obedience to the trumpet signal to rally around the imperial standard. z : These two companies charging across the great plateau crushed and otherwise hurt many of the fleeing people. ; ollowing one of these companies, rushed all the oar-slaves of the anchored galleys. These unfortunats men, nearly all of whom were oar-slaves when they had fallen into the power of the pirates of Segna, and unable to procure ransom from their slavery, were compelled by the Uscocchi ‘to tug at the oars ef the galleys when the latter were in use; but when such vessels werein port these slaves, who were of all colors, races and na- tions, had assigned for their residing place a cer- tain quarter of the town near the Arsenal and commanded by the guns of that fortress. Castra now saw them following one of the Aus- trian companies, keeping well together in long and deep files, fully a thousand men in number. Castra took.no time to think upon the presencé of these galley slaves, who, by the laws and customs of Segna, had no right to be absent from the: walls of that quarter. appropriated to: ‘them; ‘yet the thought struck him that they were acting in unison with the company of Austrians which they follow- ed, and which had, in fact, just issued from the town through. the part-gate; A glance also told hin that the oar-slaves were armed at least with spears, as the burnished points of such weapons glistened in the Boy) eams. In truth a premature explosion of a great plot had taken, or more ae was taking place, though of this fact Cast ew nothing; a great plot i ons, and far ri aching: Cae nown to but one man in al na,-and that man to he secretary L plot more hereafter. | . ‘ F All this which [have just particularly described was seen by ‘a at asingle sweeping glance, which fiashed but 4 single instant from the heap of weapons nearthe pavilion. “9 Instantly slashing again’ with lightning-quick valls, and there- he exclaimed in bibys of his cimeter y hewing out Arabic tok S = nal Top es, “and defend your mistresst} "7 5. : —s a , peers to’ "4 ‘by bth Kes and Senos tha ricans rush hrough the o ing he had made and in a mome ¢ rubs. med as they had been a few minutes before, = Yer “Bly, great. mistress!” now exclaimed Castra to Orbetta. “We may escape in the general confu- sion.’ a oo “Escape what, Castra?’ demanded Orbetta, as she sprang from the platform to his side, |. allah alone knows from what great mishap—for the world seems suddenly gone wild!” replied Cas- tra,as his Africans swept in acircle around him and his mistress. “Worse than the lions of parlor Ss whose mB, rar poses were fully seg- ro—of which Ercole are loose—for the oar-slaves are ar f and bearing hitherward!” ae ““And whither go we ?” oe “That I know not—” “Ha! you know not! Of course you know not!” exclaimed Orbetta, after a swift glance oyer the plateau. “Let us to the town, andthen to the Arse- nal, which must be quite deserted, since it seems all the Austrians are without the walls. Forward!” The Africans of Castra forming their ranks into the shape of a wedge or triangle, moved forward from the vicinity of the payilion, at first with speed. Castra himself was the point of this wedge of glit- tering cimeters and leveled jayelins. Despite the dous excitement. ‘ 3 rbetta moved as the guarded center of this liv- ing triangle, which had advanced but afew paces .|from.the pavilion before hundreds of fleeing peo- ces of Conrad on the other le repulsed by the 7 p it at the side of the pavilion, ad rushing, around right and left, and uniting in a disor mass on that side from which the Africans were hastening —as a torrent divided by a rock separates with great roaring and foaming to reunite ho ne and flow on as impetuously as before—rolled on af- ter and around Orbetta’s band. ; of Segna!’” cried Castra, in the midst of eonfused mass of fugitives which had sos lily encircled histroop. _ ; “Way for the Pcheas of Segna!” echoed his Afri- cans, encouraged by the presence of their leader, and made ferocious by the blind efforts of the ter- rified and panic-smitten mob to trample upon all that lnpeaee their escape from the lions, “The curse of Eblis on thee!” roared a Turk, as he turned fiercely upon Castra, the point of whose cimeter had pricked his shoulder. ; “The curse of Eblis upon thee, black devil!” re- peated the Turk, and drawing his dagger on Castra continued to press upon him. “Can I move faster than those upon whose heels I am treading ?” “Way for the Duchess of Segna!” shouted Castra, slashing the keen edge of his cimeter across the inflamed face of the enraged Turk, as the latter moved slowly because of the confusion of the ‘erowd, “Dog of an African dog!’ howled the wounded ‘Turk, springing at Castra’s throat. Way for the Duchess of Segna!” cried Castra, arrying with his creese the dagger-thrust of the Turk, and slicing off the head of the latter with a single sweep of his broad-bladed cimeter. ay for the Duchess of Segna!’’ echoed Castra’s Africans, as they trampled upon the headless corpse and slashed their keen and merciless blades upon the crowd on their right and on their left. “Way for the Duchess of Segna!” howled the eight Africans who formed the base or rear of the armed triangle, as they faced the pressing multi- tude and thrust at the people with their javelins. But I must leave this scene, for a time, and return to the secretary and other characters of this story. CHAPTER VII. FOUR TERRIBLE COMBATS: The third chapter of this story left five persons in very critical situations, thus: __ Ercole, the beast-tamer, standing upon the death- block, was menaced with an immediate attack from the black lion, Satana. Af : ; Omicida, the Headsman, awaited with uplifted ax the charge of the Abyssinian lion, Moloch. Yaccopo, the Greek wine merchant, fleeing north- ward, and screaming likea woman, was pursued by the African lion, Abaddon. Belgoli, the Croatian armorer, pale as death and gasping for breath at every leap, was fleeing south- ward from the young lion, Lucifer, the most swift- footed of all the lions. And Lazzaro, the secretary and governor, was straining every muscle and sinew of his lean and nervous frame to gain the wateras asafe refuge from the teeth and‘claws of the trained leopard, Se- lim. I will speak first of Omicida, who was the first to be in actual conflict with his ferocious foe, though all that Iam about to narrate as regards the separ- ate attacks and their results happened almost si- multaneously, though at different points. BoE The combat between the great red Abyssinian lion, Moloch, and the massively framed, though short-statured, Omicida, was of brief duration. The beast sprang high in the air as he neared the Headsman, measuring the distance between them with the intentto come squarely down upon the manto bear him the earth -instantly, and tear open his throat as he fell. Ad and eek the round blue eyes of the Englishman watched the final leap of the beast, measuring the distance as keenly as the lion, and knowing too that the lion had guaged his leap just for that distance. ; Sind enly, and even as the. huge body of the fear- ful beast was inthe air, and descending with red ae wide open, great fore-paws outstretched, cat- ike, and bristling with mighty claws unsheathed, Omicida sprang backward two paces at a single bound, and sank upon his knees with his double- edged ax poised over his head, the long helve grasp- both of his powerfulhands. | oloch struck the earth the same instant, at ex- actly the same spot where Omicida had been, as the pedst was hurtling through the air, and in the wink of an eye, andere the beast could gather his mus- cles for another spring the bord + razor-edged ax ofthe executioner, wielded by hands practiced to strike off heads of men, descended upon the skull f the lion, cutting, and crashing, and Spins h de and bone till the blade was buried to the helye- cket in blood, flesh, bone, ard brain. ; Moloch shuddered from tip of eee nostril ‘to tip of tufted tail; but save to stiffen in the throes of sudden death, the great beast never again moved a muscle or uttered acry. — : The dull, terrific thud of the heavy ax was heard again and again in rend blows, andthe red Moloch of the Abyssinian deserts was but a headless lion at the blood-stained feet of Omicida. “Now that thy head is off Iam safe from thee— beast that did tear me twice when I served in thy master’s accursed menagerie!” exclaimed Omicida, as he spurned the massive and bleeding head with his foot. “Thou wert an old enemy of mine, beast!” And while Omicida thus beheaded, Moloch, Yac- copo, the Greek, was in the jaws of the Arabian lion, the tawny and grizzled Abaddon. The wretch- ed Greek had fled northward from the vicinity of the death-block, after regaining his own feet from under the trampling feet ofhundreds. — Abaddon had singled him out as a victim, and bounded after him. Much bruised and crippled by the hurts he had terrible flagellation he had received he felt no loss” of vigor or of activity at this momentof tremen- received while under the feet of the panic-stricken mob, the Greek was deprived of his usual activity, and staggered rather than ran, casting glances of horror over his shoulder at every labored step. Nearer and nearer to him leaped the furious Abaddon, whose tongue was aflame with the taste of the coagulated human gore it had licked up from the cracks that scarred the surface.of the death-block. Over prostrate body after body of swooned wo- men, stunned men, and children that had been trampled down, leaped this savage but royal beast, who deigned not to touch any prey his own talons had not struck down as his own. The fleeing Greek hoped and prayed, as he fled, staggering, and stumbling, and shrieking, that the lion might halt to devour some one of those pros- trate ones; and he would have hoped and prayed the same had his own mother or any of kin to him been one of the prostrate on that plateau—for there was little that was not mean, evil, vile, and coward- ly in the soul and body of this miserable Greek. He hoped and prayed in yain. The fiat of destiny had decreed that Yaccopo, the Greek, should die gn this day by the fangs of Abaddon, the lion of rabia, earer and nearer came the lion, until the fated man, roused to the awful courage of despair, and hopeless of escape, drew that slender stiletto which he carried only to use as an assassin, or to wound some of the cringing and helpless slaves of his wine-yaults, and turned to do what battle he could against his determined foe, the terrific beast. Abaddon ‘halted as the eyes of the man, awful in their stare of despair and hate, suddenly confront- ed his own glaring orbs. Twice the beast circled around the man, his huge head held low, his ROBEUFS crouching so that his belly nearly touched the ground, as a cat circles around a mouse, his long tail drooping and drag- ging. his shaggy mane sweeping over the grass, his Jaws open and turned toward the man, from whose ghastly face his glaring orbs neyer once moved, while from his menacing mouth dropped the foam and saliva his intense thirst for fresh human blood had excited. - 7 The bayed Greek turned as the lion circled about him, holding his gaze of horror and despair on that.of the beast till the latter had twice made the swift circle around the wretched man. Then dizzy, exhausted, appalled, unable longer to hold his gaze upon that of the lion because of a reeling in his brain, the Greek uttered a loud wail of madness—utter and sudden insanity—and charg- ed at the ferocious beast. Abaddon reared upon his hind legs to receive this penaer. and unexpected attack, roaring hid- eously. The Greek, now a lunatic from his late terror, no longer was capable of fear. He had become raying mad in an instant. He would have charged upon a thouvand lions, | e bounded into the very embrace of the beast, and thrusting his left hand into the red and cay- ernous jaws, grappled with furious clutch in the throat of the brute. The teeth and jaws of the lion crunched and crushed instantly the flesh, sinews. and bones of this desperate hand and’ arm, which were buried even to the elbow in his may. ‘With a single stroke of one huge paw he tore off the close-fitting cap of the Greek, and literally scalped” and blinded him, for the euryed and ‘cliz claws,as théy slashed downward over the face gpa scooped d lacerated his face horribly. ? ny Sigh ot or rooted out bothof his ‘eyes; The mad Greek, no longer ‘capable f knowing ‘pain or fear, phi mth Nate long, of ied with lightning rz 5 pecs of his stiletto into the chest and sides east. ; The lion grasped the man with both fore paws, rolled over upon his back, munching and mangling the crushed arm in his jaws, and aus he Berard pgeinse the man’s body and thighs with t & claws of his hind feet. Ma teitin cou | All this terrific struggle passed in a moment, and then the Greek was dead, and the lion ban to de- she the body. lying ad it, and pithy é throat of e corpse between his great’ jaws, his fore paws pressing their claws deep frtatdepesast ana shoul- oe of the body. | eae cai ean ; “Thus but for an instant, and then thé lion rolled off from his prey, kicked and pawed convulsively, uttered a stifled roar of pain, vomited a torrent ‘of blood, and. stiffened: out his massive limbs in the deat epaen ; sud es he Greek died not unavenged. The deep and | rapid thrusts of his poisoned stiletto were speedily fatal to the beast that had slain him. Thus died two of the lions of Ercole del Zoccole ; and while these two, Moloch and Abaddon, were meeting their fate; Lucifer, the swift-footed, the youngest of the four lions, had pursued and oyer- taken Belgoli, the Croat. i The Croat had, after recover: from the tempo- rary insensibility caused by the pressure of the mob that had passed over him, directed his flight to the southward, while the Greek had fled to the northward. : j The Croat had received slighter injuries than his} late companion, and far from limping, or stagger- ing, or stumbling in his flight, ran with the speed of a apeten hound, even while he gasped to regain some of That breath of which the feetof the multi- tude had for a time deprived him. : He glanced but once over his shoulder after he resumed his flight, and that single glance told him that the lion Lucifer had selected him as a prey. Assured of this fact, as if by instinct, the Croat’ turned his course abruptly from the southward to" the westward, inspired with a hope based upona certain fact. . This fact was that all animals dreaded fire. The point at which Belgoli aimed his course was asmall booth or tent, from which the owner had fled. This booth was full of all kinds of fireworks known at that day—Turkish, Grecian, Venetian, and those of other nations. ’ These rockets, serpents, wheels, bombards, crack- ers, Roman candles, and the like, had been stored in this tent both to be sold to the people and for the grand public exhibition it had been designed to give on the night following the return of Saraceno. The keeper of this tent had fled for the town at the instant the four lions were seen leaping from the.circus-tent, and he was still fleeing far in the distance among the multitude flying in the same direction. : , The quick-witted Croat, knowing well that he must soon be overtaken by the swift-footed Lucifer, which beast was well known to him, exerted all his powers to reach the firework-tent ere the claws of the lion should tear him to pieces. é Lucifer, though a young lion three years of age, was inferior in size only to the great black lion Sa- tana, and his speed of foot was like that of a deer. The Croat, originally & goat-hunter, was also ex- eeedingly swift and light, having not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his hardened muscles; and terror now lent him wonderful speed and strength. To increase his lightness he cast off his tall scar- let cap, his yellow mantle, his cimeter and silken sash, but retained his pistols, which weapons. at that day were funished with flint and steel. Lean‘and long-limbed, the Croat bounded into the deserted booth, and prefering to:be blown to atoms rather than to. be deyoured, discharged both of his istols into a great stack of rockets, bombards and Roman candles, leaping over the heap’ and shoot- oe at the same instant. n explosion of the fireworks did not instantly take place, and the Croat was out of and behind the booth just as Lucifer sprang squately upon the hissing, sees heap, unable to check that bound with which he had sprung into the open front of the tent. _ Then, in the portion of a second Lucifer was sur- rounded by fire, smoke and sulphurous flame and smell—us his great namesake is supposed to be. Rockets crashed and hissed, bombs burst and roared, fiery serpents and grasshoppers and double-headers whizzed, and_fizzed, and leaped, thousands of crackers rattled their shrill, sharp detonations, and a quantity of loose powder ex- ploded and hurled the lion and a mass of half-ig- nited and unignited fireworks from the booth. The canvas of the booth was instantly aflame. The lion was badly burnt, his eyes were blown out, his hair,burnt off, his hide and flesh lacerated, ‘split and torn, his jaws, and tongue, and throat seared and scorched, and the sticks of several rockets were blown deep into his breast, belly, and sides like darts. Blind and in awful agony the miserable beast in his rushing to escape he knew not what leaped suddenly into the blazing booth, which now roared like a voleano of smoke and flame and incessantly exploding flreworks, and there died and was roast- ed. . Thus strangely perished the third of the four ions of Ercole; and this explosion of fireworks egan at the moment when the headsman was smit- ing off the head of the lion Moloch, and as the lion Abaddon drew his last breath near the dead Greek, wena’: : I now return to the trained leopard, Selim. The leopard having seized the black robe of the secretary, tore and bit it into shreds and tatters, and then sprang on after the fleeing man. Lazzaro, straining every nerve to reach the water flew rather than ran down the plateau slope toward the beach. ; The leopard had lost sometime over the robe, and Lazzaro was therefore able to reach the strip or belt of sand and shell which lay between the water and the base of the slope. | This belt was fifty feet wide, flat and sandy. When Lazzaro had nearly crossed it, and when the water was not more than twenty feet from him, he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer. The leopard was rushing toward him with enor- mous leaps, and was at the moment not more than fifty feet from him, The secretary knew then that if he continued his flight the spotted beast would certainly be upon his back before he could plunge into the water. “Here, then, I conquer or die!” muttered Lazza- ro,as he wheeled, knelt upon one knee, half-ad- radia Nomi vanced his long -slender rapier, and heroically awaited the leopard’s death-léap. Motionless as if cast in solid iron, remained Laz- zaro during the brief time that passed ere the leo- pard sprang upon him. ‘Rigid and strong as steel were the muscles of his:right arm, handeand wrist. Stern as the glare of death were his flashing eyes, in which no token of fear could be seen; no sign of fear or despair, but only the sparkling fire of a soul that erly felt fear.” * ; His left hand grasped tightly the hilt of his dag- ger; and it was easy to see that this half-kneeling antagonist of the spotted beast was neither a cow- ard nor a madman. j ; Yaccapo as he rushed madly upon Moloch had no thought of saving his own life; but thought madly only of slaying the lion. aro,as he awaited the leap of the leopard had no thought of losing his own Vite: but purpos- ed only to slay the beast, The leopard, without abating in the least that fu- rious speed with which he had renewed the chase after tearing the robe, bounded high in the air the instant his instinct told him that a single great leap would carry him to the seeretary. At the sameinstant the point of the gecretary’s rapier rosequickly and darted upward. impelled by a handas strong as brass and a wrist as firm and true as steel; and upward-also’ flashed the secretary’s dagger. tied Do raeciG Man and beast were together, oriiat collision but for an instant; the man but for,that;instant beaten flat upon the sand by the weight gupne of the fall- ing beast; for ere the claws of he ‘Teopard could araoeS ahold upon the secretary pier had pierced the heart’and his dagger ripped open the belly of the beast, £ But both man and beast rolled. over in os sand several times, because of the violence with which the latter had hurled himself upon the former. The man alone arose'to his feet. The beast was dead; the rapier had pierced his heart, the dagger had ripped a hugh geen longthwiae in his belly, and his entrails fell outand wrapped him like cords as he rolled upon the Sind agony. ' As the secretary'sprang to his feet, he still held in his iron grasp his rapier and dagger, the elastie steel of which had not been broken by the shock of collision. , He flashed a single glance upon the leopard. He saw that the spotted beast was dead. Lazzaro smil- ed grimly poe threwa glance seaward. 4 The craft of which so much has been said was headed straight for the beach, the strong breeze blowing stiffiy shoreward. , ; It was so near that Lazzaro could see that the top of its tall and tapering mast bore not the flag or pennant he had hoped to recognize. ‘ The secretary knew now that it was not the craft he had been hoping to.see for several days, for the mark was a stat, and ot a cross, on its sail. He could not see that: there was more than one perce in the boat—if, indeed, more were in it—and ne tinguish‘the features of that-person. s nq.messenger from secretary, frowning. “I fear Saraceno has not fall- en into Moncenigo’s hands, as both I and the Zoc- coli plotted; though ‘the Zoecoli knew not that I, too, as well as they, sent seeret information to the Council’ of ‘Ten. I have acted hastily—I should have waited—either till I saw the galleys of Sarace- no, or till the expected tidings from Venice had come.” moll. I may state here that Lazzaro’s plot—toward which I have sometimes hinted—wwas three-fold in its purpose; for it ineluded the utter destruction of Segna, the recovery of ajewelof immense value which had been stolen from the Venetian treasury by some adroit thief, and the possession of the beauteous maiden, Thyra. The first design of this great plot of the secretary, that is the utter destruction of Segna, had sprung up inthe Council of Ten of Venice, more than a year before the opening of this story. AsI have already stated, Venice assumed to be the protector of all lawful:commerce within the shores: of the Adriatic Seas; and her navy had been eyer prompt and powerful to punish piracy upon the waters of that sea, when her fleets could catch the pirate. But as the pirates of Segna were protected by the Aus- trian flag, and Segna upon Austrian territory, Venice could not: attack the town in foree without) making war upon that great power; and as Venice already had her hands well filled with wars with other Italian States, disputes with France and Spain, and internal discords of.her own great: nobles, she could not afford to break her friendly relations with Austria, simply to destroy the pirat- icaltown of the Uscocchi, or pirates of the nations. Thereforea plot was’ formed in Venice by that famous body of her rulers called The Council of Ten, to bring about the utter-destruction of Segna without the house of Venice being suspected in the matter by the Austrian court, To him whom I have so far called Paolo Lazzaro was the conducting of this Venetian plot given by the Council of Ten. : ~ Of this plot, and of the-movements @f Lazzaro prior to his gaining the confidence of Saraceno, I will speak hereafter. : The second purpose of the Venetian plot was for the recovery of the jewel of which I mows above. ut S in the character of a fugutive malefac- tor’from Venice, the most precious jewel in the Venetian treasury had suddenly vanished. This jewel was a diamond of remarkable size and luster, valued at no less than what would be a hun- dred millions of dollars in our money. It was the chief gem in the “Horned Cap,” or ducal bonnet of the Doges of Venice. It belonged to the State. It had sparkled over the brows of a score of succes- sive dukes or doges of mighty Venice. The honor of the State was menaced byits loss, for foreign money-lenders had unsettled claims upon it to an immense amount inthe aggregate; for diamonds at that day, and till a later day, were held at values which seem to our age fabulous.* The loss of this jewel had been traced bythe de- tectives of the Council of Ten to a thief who had fled immediately after committing the theft, to Segna, and, as it was believed, with the diamond. This diamond was called “Il Tesoro”—that is, “The Treasure”’—a noble title, which it well de- served, though it was far less yaluable in golden worth than it was supposed to be. “Tl Tesoro” was valued at what would bein our money one hundred millions of dollars. Its true value in our money was nearly two millions of dol- lars; but of course, as ithad been pledged before its loss to various money-lenders of Europe, to the aggregate sum of over fifty millions, by the Vene- tian government, and was universally accepted as me worth double that sum, “Il Tesoro” was no small loss to the Venetian State. BP GORE The attempt to recover this magnificent diamond was confided to Paolo Lazzaro, also. * Bop The third purpose of Paolo Lazzaro—that is, the desire to gain possession of the ee and beauteous Thyra—was not known to the Venetian Council of Ten, but was a secret purpose or desire in the heart of the secretary. Not only was he infatuated with her peerless beauty, but in seeking to find the lost diamond, he had, singe his arrival at Segna, discovered that se- cret which the beast-tamer imagined he alone knew—thesecret that Thyra was of royal birth, and, by right of legitimate descent, QUEEN OF CYPRESS! * NorE—Diamonds were first brought to Europe from the East, and in the East the diamond mine of Sumbulpour was the first one known. The mines of famous Golconda Were discovered in 1584. The mines of Brazil, many years after the date of our story—that is, in 1728. But evénso many years later than the days of the Uscocchi, the estimate put upon diamonds was enor- mous. For instance, from the mines of Brazil a diamond weigh- ing 1,680 carats, or fourteen ounces, was sent to thecourt of Por- tugal, and was there valued by the great lapidary, Romeo de VIsle, at the extravagant sum of 224 millions of pounds sterling. It was valued by others at 56 millions of pounds. Later it was valued at 3 1-2 millions of pounds. Its true value now is £400,000, or two millions of dollars. The State gems of Venice, and of other nations, were often in pawn to money-lenders without the fact being known to the people in general. (TO BE CONTINUED.) o~« Love. This seems the ageto cavil atthe existence of such athing. Many go so far as to deny its exist- ence. “A morbid fancy,” they will say, “which exists only in the minds of school-girls, and silly, unoccupied persons.” Such is the verdict of some notables of this fast century. They are people of occupation; indeed they are so constantly employ- ed they have not time to unfold the pages of the Book of books and learn what more than eighteen hundred years ago love effected for a doomed and fallen race. Think of doubting one of the sad struggles in the garden of Gethsemane, when the Saviour of mankind, for the love of man, made in His image, suffered such untold anguish as earth never witnessed, and the sufferer the only sinless onethis world ever contained. Even with man now, the power, the endurance, and the intensity of this feeling is equaled by nothing else. Every day gives us illustrations of this, but at this day, when thought and reflection are decidedly out of fash- ion, and eyen observation does not seem of much use, it is of little use to call attention to these things. *Tis true, there are many weak, cold natures, such as inspire distrust almost at a glance, incapable of loving, but such arethe exceptions, not the rule. At the risk of being considered one of the silly, idle persons, I assert, and ever shall, that in ion the love of the Oreator for his poor eart tures can only in ts faintest degree be r those who have both giyen and_ receive love. JULIA FRANKLIN. —.-}--G 9<______ ROMANCE OF BATTLES IN ’76. FOR OUR CENTENNIAL YEAR. BY NED BUNTLINE. No. 4—SLATER’S RUN. Onthe north fork of the Catawba, not a great way from the old battle-field, where Morgan whipped Tarleton at the Cowpens, there is a small, but very bright stream running over a broad, rocky bottom in a deep ravine, known to “‘everybody” as Slater’s Run. But “everybody” does not know the romanee eon- nected with it. In 1780 the British held almost all of South Carolina and Georgia, and a part of North Carolina, and the country was full of blood-thirsty tories who were worse than the British invaders. But on this little stream, residing in a log block- House, dwelt one Nick Slater, who had six sons—the youngest sixteen and the oldest but twenty-six years of age—eyery one like himself a patriot to the heart’s core. When all were at home, the only other inmates of the house were his only, daughter, ‘Coraline, eighteen months older than his youngest son, and his noble wife, a matron of only a little over forty years, a worthy mother to such a noble family. For a long time the British and tories, in ‘their excursions, gaye this house a wide berth, for the fame of the Slater’s as riflemen extended far and wide. But, at last, Tarleton himself heard of the beauty of Coraline, and in a drunken reyel boasted that he would see it for himself, and if she pleased him he would bring her away. Of this boast the Slaters had not heard, else four of the sons and the father had not been away on a hunt when the British colonel, with thirty of his dragoons dashed up to the house, entering it be- fore Mrs. Slater andthe two youngest sons could close the doors and barricade them, as they would have done had time permited. “Soho! this is the rebel nest I’ye heard so much about!” said Tarleton, coolly, as he faced Mrs. Sla- ter, Coraline, and the two boys. “Who are you that dares thus intrude upon an American home?” eried the brave matron, de- fiantly. “A king’s officer, madame, who has heard so much of the beauty of that girl that he thought he’d have a look for himself—so much, too, of the disloy- alty of your husband and sons, that he thought he’d give them acheck. Your daughter can prepare to go with me, for intend to hold her asa hostage for the good conduct of the rest of the family.” p about, Patsey knew that Beelzebub had - 0-Gi To Correspondents. To BUYERS.—All communications in regard to the prices or the urchasing 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. Owing 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. NoTIcE.—With every mail we receive a number of letters on various subjects, in which the writers request an answer by mail instead of through the various departments. To dothis 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- cure an answer by mail, persons desiring it must inclose a FIFTY CENT STAMP, to pay us for our trouble and expense. £@- GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.— Robert Bruce writes: “Knowing how much wisdom and ex- erience you have I come to you toimplore your candid advice. tseems to me there never was another case like mine in all the world. Have you ever known anything like it? Most of roper oer think I am a very bad young man, and I suppose am. But ifthey only knew what I’m going to tell you, I think they would pity and help me more than condemn and abuse me. Anal hope you will publish my letter (even if it.is long) as a warning to indulgent parents, and a warning, too, to boys who are going the road I have traveled. I was born in an Eastern city, and my father died when I was only tive years old, and lett only a little property. I was the only son, and I have one sister. My mother always made a pet of me, and let me do pretty much as I wanted. Two of my uncles (her brothers), who were bachel- ors, took on themselves our support, as they werein a good business, and making a great deal of money. By their liberality my mother was able to keep up the style in which we lived while father was alive. Mother was so easy and good-natured with me that she never denied me anything, never punished me in any way; would let me lie abed all’ morning, and send my breakfast up tome. I soon got to going with very bad boys, got hold of vile books, took to chewing tobacco, went to the lowest of theaters, where all kinds of villainy were represented. I thought I was having a good, gay time, andI couldn’t bear the idea of going to school, or studying, or reading any good or instructive book. My mother and my uncles became alarmed about me, and tried to get me into better ways and better company, but I wouldn’t be controlled. My uncles said I must be sent away to school. I was sent to a boarding school, and I took the money that Was sent me to pay my quarter’s board and teaching and ran away. A man who knew me at home happened to see me, and telegraphed to my uncles, and I waS caught and taken home. My mother had friends very high in government and society, and she got them to try to influence me. Congressman V—— sen for me, and gave me a lecture, and made me promise to give up tobacco, and to amend generally. I made him a solemn promise, but it seems as if I was actually possessed, for as I went out from his inner office I spied a box of cigarsin aside room as I was passing the door, and Islipped in and stole about twenty ofthem, and went home smoking. Through the influence of my uncles a rofessor in a Virginia institution consented to take me in his family and do his best with me. I was to be guarded and watched and have little spending money. But I got into all sorts of tricks and troubles, and I was put under ban. This made me so furious that one night I stole away into the attic of the main building and setiton fire. The janitor caught me slipping out of the build- ing, and happening to go up to the belfry, he saw the kindling of the fire, raised the alarm, and it was put out before much dam- age was done. I was, of course, suspected and charged with it, but I denied it, and through the influence of my uncles and friends I got off. I began to think now that they could get me off from anything. ut the president wrote my uncles if they did not take me away I would certainly be expelled, and that would shut me outof all other colleges. Ilearned very fast whenever I chose to apply myself, and I was especially good in speaking and composition. My uncles had to bring me home. Then they sent me with several sons of some of their friends who were going to a distant college where there was a famous teach- er and manager of young men. There I determined to amend, but it seemed as if the whole tide of my nature was set toward evil. It would take a whole volume totell you whatIdid. I became a ringleader in mischief; I got to drinking, and every other word I spoke was an oath. The faculty wrote to my un- cles that I was a hopeless case, and they must take me away, and they did. But they soon found they could not keep me in a large city. Iwas induced to go to sea. The hard discipline thefe made me desperate, and I ran away the first chance 1 got, and after great privations I reached my home, determined to do better. I made all sorts of promises to my almost broken-heart- ed mother and to my uncles. They fitted me out again, and offered me a place in their business if I would only do better. I tried to reform. They sent me out to do some trayeling for them. One place whereI stopped over Sunday I hired a fine pair of horses and light wagon and tookalong drive. And I seemed possessed to drive and drive on. Three days afterward I was ar- rested and lodged in jail. One of my uncles has come to see me, and he says they would have given me up long ago if it had not been tor my mother. They love her with real brotherly love, and he tells me she is almost heart-broken over my conduct: even now he says they would do all they could to get me off, if they thought it would do any good. Nowl want your advice. If I thought that going to prison would make me any better I would be will- ing to go, and I would tell my uneles to do nothing for me. Here in this jail I see more of the awfulmess of the life I have led: but Im afraid if L get out I will be carried away again by my eyil na- ture. What shall Ido? I will owe you a debt of infinite grati- tude if you can only help me. I am allowed to get your paper, and I beg of you to print my letter as a warning to indulgent parents; for, being allowed to have my own way when I was young has brought me to where I am now.” Yours is certain- y one of the most extraordinary cases we ever heard of, and we are almost at a loss to know what to advise. We do not think that going to prison will improve your character much. f you are really resolved to reform, we should say by all means get out of jail, if your friends can get you out. Then, we would Tecommend you to get your uncles to use their influence to in- duce some good, strong, Christian man to take you into his home and help you in every way to strengthen your pur- poses of good. And that home would be best in the country, away from city temptations. Help, all-sufficient, is near you, if you only call for it with all your heart. Read Jer. xxix : 11-14, and act on it atonce. Bea “Robert Bruce” in your heroism to resist evil. A Reader.—In the Presidential elections of 1824 and 1828, New York State had 36 electoral votes; 1832, 1836 and 1840, 42 votes; 1844 and 1848, 36 votes; 1852, 1856, 1860 and 1864, 35 votes; 1858, 33 votes; 1872, 35 votes. In. 1804 and 1808 Vermont had 6 elector- al votes; 1812, 1816 and 1820, 8 votes; 1824, 1828, 1832, 1836 and 1840, 7 votes; in 1844 and 1848, 6 votes; 1852, 1856, 1860, 1864, 1868 and 1872, 5 votes. Archias.—All hair dyes are more or less injurious. Annette R.—Queen Victoria is the daughter of Edward Augus- tus, fourth son of George III. Her immediate predecessors were George IV. and William IV., her father’s elder brothers, who died childless. Her father being dead, she succeeded her uncle, William IV. : C. E. J. L.—We know nothing of the descendants of Marshal Turenne, if he left any. ¢. I. Judson.—ist. See reply to “Gilbert Scofield,” in No. 15. 2d. Two-cent pieces were first coined’ in 1864, three-cent pieces i \ (nickels) in 1865, and five-cent pieces (nickels) in 1866. 3d. Write to J. W. Scott & Co., 77 Nassau street. H. E. D.—See si A to “Carrie P.” A. B., Ottawa.—We know nothing of the lottery scheme. Itis safer to leave them all alone. ; Edward Duckworth.—ist. The ulation of New York city, b: the census of 1875, is 1,046,037. 2d. Types should be washed wit lye or benzine. 3d. See “Knowledge Box.” 4th. We cannot tell until you try. Purd.—ist.—Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, was born, according to most authorities, near the site of Kilpatrick, at the mouth of the Clyde, in Scotland, in 372, and died at Down Ulster, Ireland, about 464. At the age of sixteen he was carried a captive to Ireland, by a band of marauders, but made his es- cape after six months, and returned to Scotland. He was carn ried off a second time, and r his escape resolved to become a missionary to Ireland, was ordained in Scotland, and aftera long vroparation was consecrated bishop. Having Perum visited Gaul and Italy, he went to Ireland in 432, and preach with such effect that Biongh not the first to introduce Chris- tianity into that country, he has always received the credit of its general conversion. He baptized the kings of Dublin and Munster, and the sons of the king of Connaught, with the greater part of their subjects, appointed bishops and held councils, and so extended the church that before his death nearly the whole country was converted. 2d. The “Heiress of Clanronald” will cost $1.20. 3d. We know nothing of the agents of lottery schemes. Randolph.—We are unable to give the number ot miles owned and leased by the two companies. The main line ofthe Erie, New York to Dunkirk, is 459 miles long, while the main line of oe Pennsylvania Central, Philadelphia to Pittsburg is 354 miles. J. N. P.—See answer to ‘‘G. H. C.,” last week. Mrs. Annie W.—We know nothing of the physician referred to, but suggest that you treat with local practitioners in preference to placing your case in his hands. " 4. A. X.—I\st. The coins are worth but a few cents in addition to their face value. 2d. See ‘Medical Department.” ‘ary.—‘‘What is the reason that the planets, if like our earth, appear bright to us?” _We make the following extract trom Prof. Rudolph’s article, entitled “What are the Stars ?” publish- ed in No. 37, Vol. XXX. of the New YoRK WEEKLY. Referring to the fact that the stars are all suns, he says: ‘‘Now let us see if there is any satisfactory proof of this startling assertion, that the stars are all suns, and, in some instances thousands of times larger than ourown sun. And first, we have this proofin the fact that they are visible to us, notwithstanding their immense distance. Rejlected light—i, e. light like that of the moon—has, comparatively, but little power to penetrate space, Forinstance, the planet Neptune—the outermost planet of our family of Worlds—is about 2,750,000,000 miles distant; but, although more than a hundred times larger than our world, and having a diam- eter of 375,000 miles, yet not one ray of its light reaches our wn- aided eye, because that light is the borrowed or reflected light of the sun, like the moon’s. Now let it be borne in mind, that the nearest star is many millions of times more distant than the planet Neptune, and yet, while by the naked eye no trace of Nep- tune can be seen, the star is distinctly visible without a meee because it shines, not by reflected, but by its own native light.’ A perusal of the whole article will explain the matter more fully. B. B.—An adopted son is entitled to no share of the property left by the pans who adopted him, except such as devised to him by will. No matter what might have been said by the foster- father about intending to have the boy share equally with his own sons, if the father died without making a will the boy has no claims on the estate. W. C. R.—ist. The most direct route to Texas from Omaha, Neb., is by way of Kansas City and Fort Scott, thence by Mis- sourl, Kansas and Texas Railway. The fare is about $30. 2d. The best location is along the line of the newly opened railroads. Write to the State Land Agent, at Austin. Carrie P.—list. The lines are meaningless, so far as we can judge. 2d. Michel is pronounced me-shel. orton Merrill.—The following item, which we clip from a re- cent number of the Hartford Times, will answer your question: ‘A Hartford firm sent a message to a business establishment in London last Saturday. The last word was sent from the Hart- ford office at 9.20 in the forenoon, and at 10:47 the answering message was complete in the office. On Monday a message was sent at 4:09 P. M., and at 5:20 P. M., the answer was delivered. If we consider the number of hands through which the dispatch passed, both in transit between the different offices and delivery in London and Hartford, the extraordinary features of the ex- ploit will be the more readily appreciated.” Typo.—The best way to break a child of pilfering is to talk to it kindly, but firmly, pointing out the evils of such a course if per- sisted in, and the inevitable result it will lead to when it grows older. Appeal to its sense ot honor, not to bring shame and grief to its parents, and tell it how it will be shunned and pointed at by its companions, until it willin time be deserted alike by playmates and friends. Don’t scold and threaten, as such meas- rae are apt to rouse a spirit of rebellion without remedying the ault. William Allison.—The coin described is a New Jersey cent. The act authorizing the coinage was passed by the Legislature in 1786, and two mints were established, one near Morristown and the other at Elizabeth. The coins are usually called “horse- heads.” They are of little value as specimens, being by no means rare. Hoboken Reader.—“I wish to know if you can inform me how to keep worms out of flower-pots of plants housed over winter ? The earth invariably fills with worms of a small size, which de- stroy the plants.’? The trouble probably arises from using sta- ble manure which is not thoroughly rotted in the soil in which you potted your plants, and the most effectual way to remedy the matter is to take the plants from the pots and wash the soil clean from the roots, and transplant them in fresh soil. By washing them, instead of shaking the earth loose, the roots and fibres are preserved intact, while by shaking the soil off, many of the roots are broken or injured. The best soil for plants is that mixed with leaf mold from the woods. or decayed refuse hops. Liquid animal manures or liquid guano may be.used oc- casionally, but the latter should be used very carefully, as it will burn the roots if too strong. Morton Merrill.—We do not know the addresses of any such es- tablishments. H. T.—As the Government has prohibited settlers and miners from entering the Black Hills country, the information would be of no value. To Chi.—The largest eee State in the country is Ohio. The returns for 1869, were 4,580, New York comes next with 3,750,960. Among the leading States in this branch of stock-rais- ing are California, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Iowa, and Kentucky. The wages of sheep herders are about the same as farm laborers. M. A. Horton.—Molyneux is usually pronounced motl-i-noo, al- though Webster gives the pronunciation of the last syllable as nooks. Biographical encyclopedias—and individuals bearing the name—give the former as correct. Vic.—After the defeat of Mark Antony and the subsequent capture of Alexandria, by Octavius, Cleopatra, the queen, retired with two of her women to a mausoleum, where Antony was afterward conveyed, dying from a wound inflicted by his own hand. He died in Cleopatra’s arms. Soon afterward she was brought before Octavius, who assured her that no harm ‘should pefall her, but beyond this she could obtain no intimation in re- gard to her future fate. Notwithstanding she was carefully watched, she succeeded in eluding the vigilance of her guards by having one of her couutrymen bring in an asp ina basket of figs. She then caused her women to array her in her most splendid royal robes and in her crown, and placing the asp in her bosom, she died from the poison of its bite. Her women im- itated her, and the three were found dead. Jennie M.—ist. The graining on the window frames should con- form with the door-jams. The base-boards and stairs should also be the same. 2d. The surname is all that is used on the door- plate. 3d. The ceiling is too low for a chandelier in the center ofthe room. 4th. The lock of hair is what is called a “beautiful dark auburn.’ 5th. We cannot suggest a companion picture. 6th. We do not know. 7th. By referring to later authorities we find you are correct. R. W. P.—The story is out of print. L. C. R.—We returned a MS. to your address a few weeks since. The title nas slipped our mind. J, E. B.—You are rather young to act as a traveling salesman. Better remain in your present position until you gain a more thorough knowledge of your business. American.—Your letter arrived too late for the information we could impart to be available. Mac.—We do not know the salaries of the officials named. Wes.—The “‘fiendish compositor” in correcting an error in the reply to you in No. 15, made it read that the Alabama did not take the necessary precautions to prevent the British Govyern- ment leaving England. It is needless to say that he got.the cart before the horse. He has not been seen since this last exploit in “mixing things.” B. B.—We do not know. ; M. M. Steele.—The subscription price of the Mammoth Monthly Reader is 75 cents per year. t Student.—We do not know whether the work has been issued or not. William J. A. M.—\st. A two or three days’ trip to Philadelphia, including fare and board, will cost from $12 to $15. 2d. You may send the young lady a present, accompanied by a note asking her acceptance of it. 3d. See ‘“Knowledge Box.” J. W. R.—We have heard nothing of the proposed Mexican colonization scheme. A, J.—\st. See reply to “G. H. C.,” last week. 2d. The Roths- childs are the richest firm in the world. The united wealth of the family is said to be about $3,400,000,000. 3d. Ole Bull is con- sidered the best living violinist. 4th. We are not over-fond of listening to the music of an accordion. 5th. Much reading at night will injuriously affect the eyesight. Expressman.—A twin is one of two born at a birth, the two Be- ing called a pair of twins. We fail to see by what process of reasoning your triend makes a pair off twins four. An Old Subscriber.—ist. Cheque is the old method of spelting check, an order for money on the cashier of a bank. It is sel- dom used nowadays, except in English publications. 2d. The item was taken from a Southern exchange. Biz.—\st. ‘“‘Max Adeler’s” proper name is Charles Heber Clark. 2d. See ‘Medical Department.” 3d. We do not wish to purchase any MSS. H. White.—lst. There is no school in this city where males are taught drawing free of charge, during the day. The classes at Cooper Institute are taught during the evening. 2d. Apply in person at the Academy. . A. W.—Applicants for positionsin the post-office must obtain political influence, and have good recommendations for honesty, integrity, sobriety, etc. P. J. Casey.—‘Were you ever on London Bridge ?” is correct. The following MS. has been accepted: “The Indian Mother's Lament.” The following will appear in the Mammoth Monthly Reader: “Luck.” The following are respectfully declined: “Dis- appointment,” “We Watch for his Appearing,” “To Hylas,” “Waiting,” “At Evening,” “The True-hearted Man,” ‘A Dream,” “The Wages of Sin,” ‘The Lost Handkerchief,” ‘To Step-child- ren,” “Alone,” “Cookery and Tailoring,” “Shadows,” “A Fare- well,” “The Snow,” ‘‘Hard Times,” “Rainy Days,” “Valentine's Wish,” “‘A Parting Thought,” “Fairy Story,” ““My Adventures,” “Scraps on my Log,” ‘The March of Mind,” “Viola’s Romance.” TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS. In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no address, we give the pri¢es atawhich the following articles may be procured through the NEW ¥ORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agen- cy: Brown’s Grammar, $1; spelling-book, 25 cents: Universal History, $1.56; History of the United Stat School Geography, $1.75; Burnham’s Poultry ‘‘Hand-book for Locomotive Engineers,” $2. ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT. £. M. G.—\st. Whatever objections may be raised to the teach- ings of works upon etiquette, there can be no sound argument against a series of simple and brief hints, which shall operate as precautions against mistakes in personal ¢onduct. 2d. e “Manual of Etiquette” is instructive, and will aid those who are striving to improve themselves in exterior polish. Price 75 cents. Bashful.—ist. The art of conversation is essential to every one who wishes to mingle in society, and can only be perfected by frequent intercourse with the polite, yet great assistance may be derived by an intelligent person from observation. To be a skill- ful conversationalist, one’s eyes and ears should be busy. Noth- ing should escape his observation. His memory should be a good one, and he should have a good natural Willingness to please and be pleased. 2d. All matter of offense in conversation should be avoided... The self-love of others is to be respected. Therefore, no one is tolerated who makes himself the subject of his own commendation, nor who disregards the feelings of those whom he addresses. 3d. There isas much demand for polite- ness and civility in conversation asin any other department of social intercourse. Henry.—Never get_into a dispute. State your opinions, but do not argue them. Do not contradict, and above all never of- fend by correcting mistakes or inaccuracies of fact or expression. Agnes.—A tattler is a most contemptible character, uniting in person either excessive ignorance, folly, and vanity, or the ex- Book,” $2; | tremes of meanness, mischief, and malignity. Women ordina- rily slander more from vanity than vice—men, from jealousy | than malignity. Brindle.—Write to the young lady, address her as Miss (whatever her name may be), and ask her to correspond with you, and, if agreeable to her, we have no doubt she will reply to your letter. Sam.—When being introduced it isthe lady’s privilege to offer to shake hands. If she should fail to do so, you should pass the usual salutations, and if she should show any inclination to en- ter into conversation, you may with propriety converse upon any casual topic. ates, $1.50; Grammar: