Fintered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1882, bu Street & Smith.in the Office of the Librarian of Conoress. Washinoton. D. C ———Entered at the Post Office New York. N. Y.. as Second Class Matter. Francis S. Street. Vol. 38. ‘oa 31 Rose St. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. THE WIDOW’S SMITE. BY INO. A widow lived close by the water, Lived with her loved Agnes, her daughter ; They lived all alone, (This fact is well known,) They lived by the edge of the water. Young Hans was a plowboy so bold, Went courting this girl, I am told; But her mother averse To this courting—the curse That ever a mother should scold. But the plowboy undaunted went to her, To meet the fond mother to sue her, Though not by the law, But merely to draw Consent to wed Agnes through her. But the widow was out for a fight, Was watching for him every night, So he came, got a spat, Then she says “there, take that,” So she gave him to feel of her might ! oe “OLD SLEUTH’S” NEW STORY. BRANT ADAMS, THE Emperor of Detectives. By “OLD SLEUTH.” (“BRANT ADAMS” was commenced last week.] CHAPTER VI. FACE TO FACE. Able metaphysicians have discovered that singu- lar results can be obtained by sudden revelations flashed upon the mind. The most cautious and accomplished reticents are frequently by such tools betrayed into astonishinginvoluntarily admissions. Without a special knowledge of the mysteries of metaphysies, detectives, by the most practical pro- cesses, have come to avail themselves of this ad- mitted*‘open sesame” to the secrets of criminals. We remember an incident related to the author by Louis De Angelis, a once famous detective, who died some years since in possession of merit medals from Louis Napoleon and the Russian Emperor Nicholas. An English clerk had proved a defaulter to a large amount, and had absconded to the United States, At the time there was no cable, and the notifl- eation to the American police came by steamers. It was stated from Scotland Yard that the man would probably be under disguise, with whiskers removed and hair colored, and the like. It was also stated that the fugitive had a peculiar habit of ex- claiming, when hearing a remarkable statement, “You dov't say so!” Weeks passed, and the American police had fail- edin tracking the forge 1en one afternoon Louis Angelis was standing upou the Astor House steps, in those days even a great resort for loiterers. The usual crowd was surging by, and the detective was idly gazing upon the faces of the passers-by, when suddenly his eyes fell upon a man who possessed a decidedly English countenance. Like a fish-hawk darting down through the wave’s eres‘ for its pray, the detective, so famousin those days darted fromthe Astor House steps, and was soon shadowing the man with the English face. At the proper moment he stepped beside the man and said, suddenly: : “The Bank of England building has been blown dD: The information was conveyed in tones of the most positive assurance, and the Englishman, taken off his guard, and atthe moment not repose to consider whys or wherefores, possibibilities or probabilities, instantly rejoined: ** You don’t say so!” The next moment the criminal was clutehed by the representative of the polica department, and subsequently extradited and punished. | The man’s disguise was pronounced perfect, and his detection would never have oecurred had it not been for the cunning device that caused him to utter the ejaculation. We beg our reader’s pardon for the digression from the main points of our story, but the above actual incident will serve to illustrate the principle upon which Brant Adams acted when seeking to identify the woman with the occupant of the state- — despite her remarkable general transforma- on. The fog had lifted, and the steamer had started once more upon its way. The great city of New York was in sight, and the passengers were gather- ed upon the fore and atter-decks in groups. gazing upon the great metropolis from over which the fog was majestically rising. The beautiful girl with the abundant dark hair did not mingle with the other passengers. but pass- ed around upon the portion of the deck beside the wheel-house, where she stood alone gazing upon the scene, The detective stole round and managed to gain a position just beside, without being observed, when in a low tone he said: “Your enemy is dead!” The woman uttered a low ery. fixed a wild look of terror upon the man beside her, and then suddenly made a plunge toward the edge of the boat, which was not protected at that place by any rail. A strong arm, however, seized her, and a firm voice said: “Hold! You cannot thus escape!” In a tone of heart-thrilling pathos the beautiful girl exclaimed: “Oh, sir, in Heaven’s name, let me go! anticipate the murderer. no longer.” The word “murderer” was 4 revelation to our uick-witted, observant detective. Its use betrayed the possibility that, after. all, the heroine of the pre- vious night’s tragic incident was not a criminal. The detective had released his hold upon the fair girl’s arm, but stood directly between her and the edge of the deck. He fixed his eyes,so honest in their glance and so expressive of the man’s power, both mental and physical, upon the girl, and said: “You need fear nothing. I will stand between you and peril.” “Oh, sir, you cannot aid me.” “Will vou answer me one question fairly and hon- estly? Tell me, are you a criminal fugitive? Are you fleeing from the officers of justice?” Upon hearing this abrupt and startlingly pointed question, the girl gazed at the questioner in a dazed sort of way. The question had evidently absolutely stunned her senses for the instant, It was not necessary for her to speak; it was not necessary for herto make anydenials, Her beauti- ful and expressive face, by its look of intense sur- prise, answered for her. The detective read his answer there, and he hastily exclaimed: I will only Lean stand this pursuit Hi A Brant slipped down the shed to the ground. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. Francis S. Smith. No. 14, New York, February 12, 1883. i _——— YYVy a ; Z LH ZZ mT i iN One of the men was the false James Twyford. **Excuse me; I only asked the question onthe im- pulse of the moment. I know you are a wronged and innocent woman, but let me tell yousomething. No matter what your peril, I will stand between you and it; youare safe, though a thousand assassins were lying in wait for you.” Our hero was one of those magnetic natures, eapable of unconsciously impressing a feeling of confidence and respect. The fair girl, who was evidently the victim of some terrible conspiracy, was subject to this strange magnetic power, As she gazed upon the detective’s strongly marked face, and looked into his eyes, she felt assured that her rescuer was a man of honor. a being far above the common herd of every-day men. The girl herself was a marked character. The coolness and self-control she had displayed indi- cated her superiority also to an ordinarily weak and timid woman. “You are a stranger to me, sir; why should you thus volunteer in my behalf?” “IT am professionally bound to stand between crime and innocence. Iam Brant Adams, the de- tective.” A convulsion passed over the girl’s face upon hearing the detective’s avowal, and at that moment she also realized how this strange man had come to interfere between her and the assassin. While the above conversation was in progress the steamer had continued on its way, and having rounded the Battery, had arrived abreast its dock. “My dear miss,” said the detective, in his usual blunt, straightforward manner. “will you confide in me? You will find mea valuable friend.” “Did I consider myself alone I should seek death, a voluntary death; but I should live for another. I will confide in you.” ee? will tell me why that man sought your e? “Twill tell you a wonderful story.” CHAPTER VII. A GIRL’S STRANGE STORY. and all the passengers had departed save two. Brant Adams, the detective, and the strange, beau- tiful girl whom he had met under such remarkable circumstances, still lingered on the boat. Our hero had been the cause of the delay. He had not yet listened to the wonderful story, but for rea- sons of his own he wished to wait until all the pas- sengers had gone ashore. “Have you a place in view where you can take re- fuge for a few days ?” “Tam going to the housefof a friend.” “Who is your friend ?” A blush came to the face of the girl, when the de- tective hastened to say: “Excuse me, but you must remember that ques- tions that may appear impertinent are merely pro- fessional queries. Ihave prevailed upon you to be- come my Client, and all inquiries are in your inter- “The lady with whom I propose to seek a home was once a teacher in a school that I attended. She was married, and has since become a widow. Her name is Mrs. Sewell, and she resides in——” “And your name ?” The fair girl hesitated a moment, but at length an- swered: *“My name is Helen Twyford.” Upon hearing the name the detective gave a start. He recognized the name, peculisr as it was, as be- ing associated with a most startling and wonderful The great steamer had been made fast to the dock, family history that had been revealed about a year previous to his meeting with the heroine of the strange ae A multitude of thoughts flashed through the de- tective’s active brain, and within a few moments he had weighed a hundred probabilities. The result of a thoughts will be revealed as our narrative pro- ceeds. That cool-headed, iron-nerved man did not be- tray by look or gesture that the name was familiar tohim. He wished to wait and hear the girl tell her remarkable story before he let her know that a part of that wonderful tale was already known to him, That same evening Brant Adams and Miss Helen Twyford were seated together in the parlor of a rather humble house, situated in the extreme upper section of the city of New York. The young lady was unfolding the wonderful story she had promised to relate. “My father and mother,” she said, ““‘were married in Franee. My mother was a French lady, my father a native of the north of Ireland. When I was three years old my father and mother, who had settled in America, separated. The cause of their separation I never learned. All I remember was living alone with my mother in an humble cottage. “IT was thirteen years old before I learned that my father stilllived. I would not have known it then only for an accidental meeting. A gentleman over- took me one day when returning from school, asked my name, and upon learning it, exclaimed, ‘I thought so,’ and he thereupon informed me that I was his daughter, and he gave me his photograph. I was greatly frightened. and although he was a noble-looking old man, I did not believe his story. “Upon relating the incident to my mother, and showing her the picture. she became greatly ex- cited, and told me it was my father, but that I must never speak to him again. * When I became a year or two older, I urged my mother to relate to me the story of her early life, and tell me why she and my father had become strangers to each other. She promised to do so, but before that promise was fulfilled, my kind, beautiful mother died, leaving me to the care of an aunt, my mother’s elder sister. “About a year ago I received a letter from a lawer, stating that my father had died, and that I was his sole heir, and that his estate was valued at over a million dollars. As you know, this all oc- curred in an Eastern State. I appeared at the lawyer’s in the city, in obedience to a letter sum- moning me to do so. “Upon reaching the office, a most remarkable story was related to me. “The lawyer told me that the supposed death of my parent was all a mistake—that my father still lived. As Ihad never seen my father to know him but onee, this information did not cause me either pleasure or disappointment, and I was prepared to return to the country village where I had passed so many years, “Upon leaving the lawyer’s office, I was on my vay to the depot, when a hand was laid upon my shoulder. I turned about, and my glance rested upon the face of an intelligent and beautiful boy. “*Can I see you alone ?? demanded this bright- faced vouth. ***Why do you wish to see me alone ?’ I asked. “The lad looked around furtively a moment, and then said, in a low tone: “*You are the victim of as foul a conspiracy as was ever concocted. You are being swindled out of over a million dollars.’ “What do you mean ?’ I asked, in amazement. “Come with me,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you all.’ “T followed the lad to the depot rooms, where we sat down in one corner, when the lad abruptly made the statement: ‘***Your father is dead. and you are his heir. The man who has taken possession of the estate, and who claims to be your father, is an impostor. It is the most gigantic scheme of robbery ever conceived on this earth.’ ; “I was amazed upon listening to this extraor- cinALy declaration, and questioned the lad more closely. “He told me that his name was Clarence Osborn. He was an orphan,and had been adopted by Mr. Grigg, the lawyer who had done my father’s busi- ness. and the same man whohad written to me concerning my father’s death, and had summoned me to come to take possession of the estate as sole heir under the will. i “I asked the lad how he came to know that it was a conspiracy, and he said that he had overheard his employer and the man who represented himself as James Twyford arranging the plan to carry out the dire scheme. He also said that he had seen my father a thousand times, and that the man who re- presented himself as my father was a villain who was enacting a fraud. “T talked some time longer with this boy, who stated that the impostor resembled my father in personal appearance to a remarkable degree, but that he knew he was a fraud.” “This all occurred a year age ?” interrupted the detective. “Yes.” “T wish I had met you a year ago, and you would not be a fugitive flying from assassins,” | “If you had met mea year ago, you might have saved one valuable life.” “Aha! Has this terrible conspiracy already been sealed with human blood ?” The beautiful Helen was silent a moment, but at length, in a hushed voice, she said: “TI fear it has! CHAPTER VIII. THE STRANGE TALE CONTINUED. Continuing her narrative. Helen Twyford said: “With the aid of the youth. Clarence Osborn, I managed to have asight of the man who claimed to be my father, and I was *onyvineod that the man who held the estates was pt the man whom J had met in the village where I had resided with my mother.” “You would remember your father so long a time: ' asked the detective. , “Yes, sir; you know, achild willreceive more deep and lasting impressions than an older person, and the circumstances attending tho meeting with my father were such as to leave an indelible impres- sion upon me. I can remember his appearance as vividly as thoughI1 were gazing upon him at this moment.” “Did you adopt no measures to unmask the fraud ?” “Tt is a remarkable circumstance that my father’s habits of life were such as to make such a fraud possible. He, as I learned from the boy Osborn, was an eccentric recluse, and was in the habit of absenting himself for months at atime, He had no associate during the latter years of his life, but the lawyer, Griggs.” ‘How about his death ?” “He died in a remote village in New York State, and no one was with him but the lawyer Griggs, who notified me of my father’s death, who _subse- quently entered into the conspriracy to defraud me.” “You are right.” said Brant Adams. “It is evi- | dent that the scheme to defraud you was an after } . | Sarouent ; but could notsome of your neighbors iden- | tity the impostor?” : ; °No, sir. I employed a very intelligent man, a | young lawyer, to make certain inquiries; and, | Strange as it may seem, not a single person has de- | nounced the man, but all those who were acquaint- ed with my father and had business with him have accepted the false James Twyford as the real.” “This is a strange story, indeed!” “All that I tell you is true.” “Where is the boy, Clarence Osborn ?” ‘‘He has most mysteriously disappeared.” ‘His is the life you think has been sacrifived ?” “Yes, sir. I cnused the young lawyer with whom I had consulted to advertise for the missing lad, ang from that moment my own life has been in peril. “Then the conspirators know that you suspect a | fraud ?” “Yes, sir. I denounced the whole scheme to the lawyer Griggs.” ‘And since that time you have learned that your ! life was in constant peril ?” “I have been fired at twice bya concealed as- | sassin, and you know how my life was attempted on the boat ?” “What led you to come to New York ?” “Il feared for my life, and fled here to avoid the assassins.” ““And you assumed a disguise as a matter of pro- | tection ?” “Yes, sir.” “It was evident that your enemies learned your intentions.” + cee been conscious of being watched day and night.” _ The detective returned to his own lodgings, and |in the privacy of his own home calmly thought over the details of the remarkable story he had listened to that night. He knew well that there was no improbability of its truth; this personation in life of the dead was not a new dodge of-wicked conspirators. Remark- jable instances of such personations are upon record. ; Recently,in the city of Brooklyn, a father long supposed to be dead, appeared on the scene when his wife’s will was offered, and it is a matter of rec- ord that there were as many witnesses who swore Hs a recognition as there were who swore to the con- | trary. Still more astounding incidents of like character are upon record. Brothers supposed to be long ' dead have appeared to sisters, and it is a fact of legal history that dead husbands—that is, dead to law—have suddenly reappeared, and claimed from their former wives property that had long been en- joyed under their own last wills and testaments; | and in one of our cities a case of the latter class is still before the courts. | In the instance alluded to above, the wife and the child positively testify that the pretended husband | and father is afraud, an impostor, and many men | who knewthe parties when living together as man | and wife swear to the same effect; while, upon the | other hand, the man's brother and a large number | of disinterested parties as positively swore; to the ‘identity of the supposed resurrected husband. So faras analogous cases ate concerned, Brant | Adams had no reason to doubt the possibility of the truth of the wonderful story related to him by | the beautiful young girl who represented herself as Helen Twyford, the daughter of James Twyford. | Before parting from the young lady, the detective had been accepted as her friend in the matter of un- | raveling the strange mystery, and she had prom- ised to place herself absolutely under his’¢ontrol | and guidance, | Our hero resolved to devote himself to_an inves- tigation of the complicated conspiracy. It chanced | that he had no great case on hand, and as he was ; connected with a well-known private detective bu- ; reau, he was at perfect liberty to undertake any job | he chose. |_ Upon the following day Brant Adams called upon | Helen Twyford, and instructed her as to how she | Should remain in concealment until she heard from him once more: and securing from her certain let- ters and directions, he departed, determined to trail down one of the greatest conspiracies of modern times. CHAPTER IX. THE DETECTIVE UNDER A STRANGE MASK. Brant Adams was a medium sized man. His great ersonal strength did not exist in his height and readth, but in the education of his muscles and sinews. He wasa perfect giant when it came to muscular development. A week succeeding the events detailed above, an odd sort of old-fashioned-looking woman arrived early in the evening at the hotel, or, rather, tavern, in a Massachusetts town, situated less than twenty miles from the city of Boston. d The old lady had not been half an hour in the tav- ern when it was conceded on all sides that she was a character. The servants were compelled to upset her bed a dozen times before it was fitted to suit her, and in a pumber of ways she betrayed her singular eccen- tricities, together with a faculty for talking and making inquiries that was perfectly bewildering to those who came under the fire of her tongue. The funny old woman had insisted upon having a certain room, and consoled the landlord with the assurance that she wanted things just so, but when it came to paying, he would find that if he was par- ticular about her comfort, she was perfectly willing to pay for all extra trouble. As the landlord was struggling under the burden of athree-quarter mortgage, he was perfectly wil- ling to take any amount of trouble in behalfofa guest who would pay well. It was a singular fact that the room the old lady had selected opened out upon a slanting shed, by which a robber might readily ascend to the room of the lodger. ‘By the same token,” however, as the Irishman said, it would serve very nicely for the lodger to slip out in a nocturnal ramble if so in- clined, without being compelled to disturb every one in the room by a passage through the halls. The old lady siroved herself possessed of as ex- cellent an appetite as a voluble tongue, but as she decided to pay the landlord a week’s board in ad- vance, her way was smoothed for attention and re- spect from the inmates of the tavern. : ; The curious old woman spent the evenings with the tavern keeper’s family, and while with them the way she slammed questions around concerning everybody in the town was a caution. At length came the question: : “Who is the man that lives in that gloomy look ie stone house, that is located way back from the roa just on the line of woods ?” “Mr. James Twyford lives there.” **Who is he ?” “Ah, he is aretired manufacturer, the man who owns about half the town.” “Twyford, Twyford,” repeated the old lady, ‘‘is he a relative of the Twyford who died recently ?” ‘We do not know around here of any Twyford who died. Mr. James Twyford who lives inthe great stone house has resided there for a great many years; he is an eccentric man, never comes out and associates with his neighbors, but always keeps locked in his own house, except when he goes away onee in awhile on a journey.” ‘He tives all alone, eh ?” ‘‘He did live all alone until about six weeks ago, when he brought his daughter to live with him.” The old lady did not give a start upon hearing about this changein the Twyford household, but could the tavern keeper’s wife have peeped under the spectacles that hid the inquisitive old lady’s eyes, she would have seen a curious expression shoot into them. : “Didn’t his daughter always live with him ?” “No, not until lately.” ‘‘Where has she been? Away to school?” “There is a story that Mr. Twyford separated from his wife a great. many years ago, and that the daughter lived with the mother until the latter’s death. They do say that it was because of the sepa- ration from his wife as has made Mr. Twyford so queer.” & h : 2 ‘Have you seen him lately ?” “Yes, [saw him yesterday when he came to see my husband on business.” “Does he lookany different to avhatyhe used to before his daughter came*to live withyhim?” “Why, no; he looks about the same as /he always did, only his health appears to be better, as he moves around more young-like than he used; it seems to haye cheered him up. They do say he’s ten ueaes younger even in looks during. the last few months.’ Woy ‘ ‘Have you seen the daughter ?” ‘ “Yes; she rides about town im the pony carriage now and then.”’ : **How old is she ?” : “About twenty should think.” The odd old guest at length appeared to have gratified her inquisitive propensity to the full, and retired to her room. : Once in her room, a most singular transformation scene followed. As the fabled phoenix is supposed to rise from its ashes, s0 a sturdy, strong-limbed, keen-eyed man emerged from amid the petticoats, long skirts, bodices, etc. of the. inquisitive old woman who had spent such a pleasant evening with the tavern-keeper’s family. The fact is. Brant Adams from the start had real- ized the full difficulty of the job he had undertaken. He realized how futile would be any attempt to pro- ceed through the winding way of the law. There was ro question in his mind but that the conspirators had fully fortified) themselves om all points in ‘order to meet any legal attacks ;-and, to win, it was necessary to catch the schemers and orgben robbers by a counter game. played. against them, ' The detective may have taken a very roundabout way apparently to accomplish his purpose, but such a course was necessary. Every move was to be made under amask. e pie His great point was to gather ieformation from people who related what they knew under no pres- sure or excitement, : People who are answering important questions color their statements and interject their own ideas. Our hero was determined to gain his information by becoming one of the people, so as to catch their stories when they were off their guard. He wanted unadulterated facts, and he was bound to have them; and he was just. the man, to go the right. way to work to secure what he desired. After the change of garments above related, he raised the window and slipped down along the shed to the ground. CHAPTER X. THE FLASH OF LIGHT ON A SLAB. Brant Adams had done a little preliminary scout- ing, and was at length determined to slip out ona regular Jetective tour. It was not strange that our hero should proceed direct to the old stone mansion, where the villain- ous usurper dwelt who was personating in life the occupant of a grave. j It was a most singular incident that his short eut across country to the stone mansion led him through a grave-yard; and it proved still more wonderful that his chance passage through the dead plot should result in a thrilling adventure, bearing in a phenomenal manner on the object of his errand that night. ; The detective, before showing up at the tavern as the eccentric old woman, had taken a strict survey of the surrounding country, and was as well ac- quainted with the route to the old stone house as | though he had resided under its, shadow ail his ife. He had leaped the cemetery fence, and was pro- ceeding along without any thought as to the char- | On the morning set for the weddin | Lieb—for she is not to ' now—who spent the summer up there.” |ACROSTIC IN MEMORY OF LEON GAMBBITa. BY A. N. OLDFELL. Laid low, the hero sleeps in coldness now, Embalmed by love, the dust is on his brow; On all her banners France shall blaze his fame, Nor speak unawed her savior’s deathless name. Go teach the millions what the State should be— All that he lived for—that it should be free t _ Mete justice to his valor—prudence—worth ; Boast of the Patriot, and his humble birth. Engrave his deeds on fadeless works of art, Then shrine forever in his country’s heart. The grandeur of the man was this: he gave All that he had his native land to save, Elsie’s Estate. (‘‘Elsie’s Estate” was commenced in No, 4.’ Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents. } CHAPTER XVII. THE OLD LOVE. “She has not suffered the worst personal injury, you s¢em to think, yet allude to sdme crime perpe- trated to destroy her life,” remarked Elsie, “ What was it? Tell me the worst. Was it slow, easy poison? Why do you not tell me quickly? Ican bear a shock better than suspense ;” and she wrung her hands in an agony of impatience. “Tought not to have spoken as if she had died, or even suffered in any way. I was putting my con- jectures as if they were facts. No; we believe her | to be dead because we cannot hear of her. If she i lived, we should get some clew. But no efforts | have availed us to get a trace of her since the night | she disappeared from Mr. Woodworth’s. Mr. Wood- | worth and .his wife were extremely fond of her. They sent her to Boston to school. I have the let- ters she wrote me during her school-days, which you will delight to read. After she was graduated, she returned to Springville to prepare for her mar- riage with the farmer’s son, Colonel Woodworth, who was an old army friend of Philip’s. You know Marcus’ land is in the neighborhood of Springville, and that his summer residence is in that-village. f she was gone. She had left in the night—how or why we knew not, unless we trust to appearances entirely opposed to every instinct of her pure and noble nature. My husband made inquiries immediately on our re- turn, and learned what I haye told you. Mrs. Wood- worth’s letter is up stairs. The story, from their | standpoint, excuses them for neglecting to search for her, for they claim that she eloped with a stranger! You and I know it could not have been. It was, in all possibility, the tale set afloat by Mrs, be called by any other name “She may be dead,then. Ifso. by asubtle poison ‘has she died; andIam morally sure I know the hand that gave it—that murderess, Mrs, Lieb!” rs. Houston had rung for her maid, who now acter of the ground through which he was passing, when suddenly his eye caught the transient flicker | of a light on.a white marble slab; Brant Adams was not a coward, nor at all super- | stitious, but he was a poor mortal, to whom had not | yet been revealed the great mystery of death, He could not repel a cold chill that crept over him upon | thus suddenly beholding a, mysterious flicker of light in such a place, ‘ : Theman stood stock-still.. The light had flickered | but an instant and had.vanished. j He, listened but.heard noLbing and asmile came over his face as he realized how he had instinctively relied upon his ear fora solution of the mystery of the singular appearance. oer To himself he muttered; ‘Ghosts do walk with noiseless tread.” He came to depend upon his eye for an explana- tion. First he looked around in every direetion to ; learn if he could discover any natural. cause of the. strange flicker of lurid light. Paka There was no question in his mind as to having: beheld the light; his imagination was. tantalizing him, He knew that the question was, whence | came it? } Seeing nothing near him, he glanced .oyer toward. the chureh, nearly three hundred, yards distant. | The sacred edifice stood shrouded in gloom. He looked upward ; the stars were vailed, and yet he had sven the flicker of light upon. the tomb. Again came the auestion, where came the light ? Despite his self-assurance that he had not been deceived by his fevered senses. eireumstanees ap- | peared .to point toward the fact that. the glancing , light was an illusion. It is.an established fact that the eye will fall upon | some object. and carry an impression to the brain, | which the latter at the moment does not distinct- ively acknowledge, but will subsequently present | and consider. | The detective. as he stood there, was assured by | his aroused memory that his eye had rested upon | the name Rebecea, as revealed under the shadow of light on the marble slab, He glanced toward the marble, and so dark was | the night that he could not have discovered letters | upon. itra foot in length; indeed, the slab itself was only visible in dim outline. By the above mode of reasoning our hero was enabled to make an absolute text as to whether he | hal been deceived or had really seen that flicker of | lurid light. | He gazed steadfastly at the slab, and could not! discern asingls line of letteriug upon it. He had | been no nearer, having come to a stop upon the in- stant of beholding the strange flash. He drew his own masked lantern, and slipping the mask, flashed the little sharp ray of light upon | the white slab, and there, plainly revealed, was the | name Rebecea. That settled it; he had seen the evanescent glare, and it had struck just exactly where the flash from his own lantern was trembling at that moment. | The next deduction was, that where there was | light there must be flame, and a glare that appeared | ignis fatuus like. and disappeared, must either be a. supernatural glare or else a-moyable light in the | hands of a mortal. The detective determined to settle upon the latter | conejusion. He was not alone in the cemetery. | Some one had been near, who for cause most prob- | ably, had seen fit to extinguish a light—honest)} people with honest purposes are not disposed to so | hastily seek to ayoid recognition. | Instantly the detective was on his guard. It was instinctive with him to investigate possible | crime wherever it might be suspected; and although | at the moment. he had no idea that the light andthe | bearer of it had any connection with the job he had | on hand, he determined to investigate the matter. | The detective’s move was to drop to the ground | and lay quiet. It is an immense adyantage to possess the faculty | of patience in the profession of a detective, as one | can so often permit the other side to show their’ hand and thus yield an advantage. | Brant Adams lay still for over ten minutes before | his dog-like patience was rewarded. He heard the murmur of voices, and slowly, care- fully, and cat-like he crept toward the point whence | the voices came. He had erawled over a hundred yards when he saiy_a circle of light rising from a certain point, and | cutting a half globe from out surrounding darkness forming a luminous ball. He crept nearer, and soon cameto a point whence his eye scanned a group of men. There were three of them, and they were standing | beside a grave. They each carried a lantern, and | the illumined halo was explained. The detective listened attentively, straining his ears to overhear the subject of their talk, but the men spoke in too low a tone. Our hero’s conclusion was that he had acciden- tally fallen upon a gang of grave robbers, and a moment later his conclusion was confirmed when he made the astounding discovery that one of the three men was the pretended owner of the stone mansion, the false James Twyford. Accident had put the keen detective upon a most wonderful and extraordinary trail. [TO BE CONTINUED.] ® Recent Publications. THE ART OF MONEY-GETTING: OR, HINTS AND HELPS TO MAKE A FORTUNE. By P.T, Barnum. Publishers, J. S. Ogilvie & Co., 31 Rose street, New York. This little book contains some very sound advice, and we heartilycommend it to all young men who are ambitious of achieving finan- cialindependence. Be sure to read it. Price 10 cents. HLEPPENHEIMER & MAURER’S Calendar for 1883 is one of the most beautifal of the season. For fine engraving, lithography, and printing, Heppenheimer & Maurer, 22— 24 North William street, enjoy a high reputation. THE CALENDAR of the New York Continental Insurance ange! eed for 1883 is one of the most attractive and artis- tic of the season. It will be gladly welcomed in every counting-house. NEW Music.—“Oscar Mazurka,” composed by Charlie Baker. “Transcription Brillante.” Transcribed for the piano by Charles Gimbel, Jr. ‘Publisher, F. W. Helmick, Cincinnati, HIRAM SIBLEY & CO’S SEED CATALOGUE for 1883, pub- lished in Rochester, N. Y., and Chicago, Ill, is an attractive as well as useful work. No farmer or gardener should be /ment, and never Something talize m M appears with an album. She opened it silently, oF pointed to a picture of Carlia, taken while in oston. After studying it long and intently, the glow of motherly love and pride giving place to an expres- i of vigid sternness, she looked up, earnestly asking: oD “Do you believe the wicked are punished in this world for their great sins ?” . “Often, but not always,” replied Mrs. Houston, Wpadertne at her object. he ; *Well, then,” exclaimed Elsie, rising to her feet and raising a hand solemnly toward heaven, “lest he should not receive his deserts hereafter, I will trouble the soul of Mareus Rosenthal till remorse /equal to his dreadful guilt awakes him to a full sense of the power of justice in this life.” ‘Can you moye a heart so hardened?” | “The guilty are alwavs cowards. I wi him of his wickedness day and night. He has pros- pered unrebuked too long,” replied Elsie. ; Doctor Houston arrived. at his mother’s house a few momenis after Elsie had left it to leave at Judge Rosenthal’s house the letter which so affected him. |. The singularly hap sil py look in Mrs. Houston’s face at onee attracted his notice and excited his curi- osity. He saw that she had something in her mind | which she was trying to conceal until a proper mo- aving seen her high-bred placid- precipitated the revelation by é Oe od fortune has happened to you lately? 2¢ rare, lam sure.” Sheet ould think so!” to cover the feeling her v rarest event ] ee How are the strong you car ° by refusing to say at ; Would t startle you to- ve 2” iat 13 “IT sh Rete ; hear that the. dead is The doctor smiled a half-sad, half-glad smile. “Not greatly,” he replied. “So our poor little Carlia is found!” : oe a See “Alas, uo!” softly answered his mother. “‘Her fate is involved in as dark a mystery as ever. But oyace peer you are not far from the wonderful ruth.” The doctor looked slowly up, fixing his grave eyes soberly on hers. “No,” he said, shaking his head decidedly. “I am all inthe dark again. Who has been so sick that you regard his recovery in the light of a resur- rection?” * Her recovery, my dear. Anda second resurrec- tion she has had, too, many years after the first, which was-some seventeen years ago. The last was ‘ ee since—a restoration to perfect mental ealth.” A troubled, incredulous smile came into the doc- tor’s eyes. “You don’t mean—you cannot mean her mother?” “Our own Elsie! She lives—more sweet and beau- tiful than ever. I dared not hint her existence to you, for fear the surprise would be injurious.” Mrs. Houston then gave him a minute account of all that had occurred, explaining the cause of Elsie’s absence that evening. When Elsie returned from Vaughn House he was in the parlor, counting the moments till they met. 1t required all his strength to repress the old mas- tering passion, which time had not weakened, and to keep in mind the fact that she was yet the wife of his rival. At the sound of her musical voice in the hall, his emotion caused him to reel and grasp the edge of the mantel by which he stood. : Soon Elsie came into the parlor. She was self- possessed and cheerful, regarding their past as dead, and counting only onthe enjoyment of the pure friendship which their congenial natures mutuaHy inspired. “Philip!” she said, advancing to greet him with her old ingenuous smile, scanning his pale face with sympathy.. “My dear friend, lam so happy to see you, though far from well yet, I fear.” “Elsie!” And he took her hand in both of his, holding it with silent eestasy, gazing into her face {as if he could not realize that she actually stood before him. ' Elsie thought of her husband, and felt convinced that his swoon was the result of his recognition of ' her, not of his terror at'the sight of a spiritual visi- tant. But the doctor could not speak another word, ee broke the spell by saying, in answer to his OOK? “Tam really no: angel, but substantial flesh and blood, and very much in need of your aid just now. Your mother has acquainted you with the situation of my affairs, I believe?” “She has, andI have already resolved upon the course to be pursued,” replied the doctor, in his natural manner, glad to be diverted from the thoughts her presenee forced upon him, seating her and resuming his chair beside the fire. “Will not immediate action be advisable ?” she asked. ‘‘He is in haste to put the property into the hands of the two women, as I discovered by the deeds to-night.” “T will see him to-morrow,” replied the doctor, “and learn what degree of opposition, if any, we shall meet. I should think the knowledge that you are alive would be sufficient to make him relinquish his hold upon your inheritance.” “I, too, if I did not know his inveterate avarice, which will impel him to any villainy by which he can rob me,” replied Elsie. “Have you seen Alvin Gessler?” asked the doc- tor, “‘or do you know anything of him ?” “He isin the city.” “Tt is well. I may have occasion to see him also.” ‘‘He was concerned in the loss of my daughter.” “He has committed crimes that will endanger his liberty. if not his life,” replied the doctor, sternly. “And lam not one of those who would assist the guilty tothe rewards of yirtue by withholding the evidences necessary to his punishment.” “Thave always believed he was an accomplice of “Mrs. Lieb’s, as well as her counselor in the trials which took place in St. Louis,” remarked Elsie. “No doubt of it,” responded the doctor. *“But that was not his only crime. I put a genius on his track before I went to Europe, and have received some very interesting information. in which you will be interested for the sake of Carlia. But let us not speak of him farther now. I would as lief talk of Beelzebub!” he exclaimed, with an expression of loathing contempt. Philip Houston’s aversion to the lawyer arose without it. from other knowledge than that of his sins against Il remind | ¢ a wae = = measure, was due his separation from Elsie Vaughn after their betrothal. In his boyhood Philip had daughter of his mother’s frien ciated as schoolmates, and ft between two natures alike in drew them together, forming harmonious that neither ¥ strength of his regard for th mer went abroad to complete |fore going he obtained from heart and hand. They corres until about the time of his return, w tunate misunderstanding oceurred. — Mareus Rosenthal was the Qn of chant of Philadelphia, where Philip fo is. quaintance. He was a brilliant, handsome, dash- ing young fellow, distinguished among his com- panions for his keen though sarcastic wit and talents, cultivated by travel and association with men of superior intellect. He was without vicious habits, though never known to participate in the discussion of purely moral questions. Philip respected him for what he professed to be, and when the subject of his engagement toa beau- tiful heiress came up by chance once in their cirele, did not resent the familiarity. But the young. doc- tor’s ae pride spoke volumes to the reticent, deep-thinking law student. A lady of whom such a Man was proud must be a rare treasure. He took a sudden notion to see her, andy not long after, was presented to her in Mrs. Houston’s house. Elsie Vaughn treated the friend of her betrothed with special consideration, aA e to..regard him in a fayorable light because of Philip’s esteem. And Marcus was far too subtle to let the advantage thus given go unimproved. His first view of her, a queen among women, gracious, elegant, winning, inspired him with a wish to possess her, He was pe confident of his ability to do so; but if he could not, he would fail for the first time in any undertaking upon which he resolved. He valued himself at his full worth, and knew that in all respects he was her equal, except in exalted purity of character. A little art anda good deal of caution would enable h ° his place in her esteem, and perhaps the point of love. ake And then came well-authenticated rumors of Philip Houston’s remarkable tuation | young lady in Philadelphia. ea topi the gossips of his set in Philade Isie’s pride was deeply wounde the woman to expose her feelin colduess, increasing as the increased, until he proposed a engagement. That was proof thought. * . ; Soon after, Marcus Rosenthal besought her hand. | She refused it, mu w ite ee change her love though she believed its object had proved undeserving. But he persevered, until he made 3 rejection would destroy his ambition and ness for life.. He was particularly winning when h chose, and really desiring her love, won upon he heart, until, et romantic fancies and loc ing at the practical realities of life, she thought could make her as happy as she had a right pect to be. And she accepted and married hi When Philip returne found her act gaged to him, he would J oF haar explanations. another, he must res being clay, it was most be After her marriage he le the mischief. Lillia Ray, the were saidto have won fron han acquaintance with whem he bec associated by chance circums known to Elsie, woul le satisfactorily. She was a piquant beauty ed quite a furore, but, as he she was: ancedto a young Englishman, he neit thous of dearer to himself ner of exciting the jealous: his noble-minded fiancee at home. He la the idleremarks made, because they were often seen m of the impression Marcus n Elsie. He refused to be- ne of her letters convinced nd to release her, though gle to give her up. : he discovered tHat his unscrupulous young law- \lvin Gessler, a man honor, and capable of engag- his refined employer ing lies and ex ating y and so well, th spite of Elsie’s et trust-in bh tr ae but M confirmed, came Rosenthal had ma informed ct lied she, half-laughing | fi de betrayed, "One of the ae veloped, Elsie hb she had been vie sense of duty — until .endura ’ ‘ame no jonger she fled with her child. ‘To return. The next day Doctor Houston yisited Judge Rosenth ce. He was surprised at the change : pe last saw him. T it curliz im Yet with a w ‘deed -herself to lalf gray aud ver amples, i a TOWD W! , thin, a hageard. an rm _and eyes were sullenly resolute, ose of a savage animal at bay. wee reported death he had heard with positive pleasure. S : 2 aa ae . Asingular, sneering expression passed over his reticent face, but whether he thought of him in connection with his late visitation at Vaughn House, as a coadjutor of Elsie’s, did not appear. But Philip thought there was. a gleam of malicious triumph in his eye. and remembered that the reappearance of himself and Elsie at the same time could have sug- gested an See. to his fertile mind, though as vet he had seen Elsie only in the character of a phantom. hog oe “Where had Elsie been all this time?” he would naturally.ask, “‘Aud why had the doctor gone to Berlin? Perhaps they had been together there.” “Be seated, sir,” said the judge. with formai cour- tesy, disinclined to acknowledge former acquaint- ance by the slightest cordiality. Philip’ sat «down, and withont_ circumlocution made known his business. me padae s face under- went various changes while he listened to his con- cise statement of the case. But he was not particu- larly surprised to be told that Elsie lived. “Elsie Kosenthal,’? said Philip, in conclusion, “requires the immediate yacation of Vaughn House. As to the accumulated income since her supposed death, she will place the business in the hands of a competent attorney, but is not disposed to press matters hard if a settlement between you can be ar- ranged.” Thejudge hemmed, his lips working nervously, and hemmed again, his hand trembling. visibly. He was daring yet cowardly, resolved upon a high- handed course that would result either in triumph or ruin. “The case is clear,” remarked Philip, rather sur- prised by his hesitation. “Perfectly clear. Elsie lives, and her estates must be restored to her.” “She liv , yousay. Iknowit. But she has been an invalid.” Philip had not named the malady. “That fact sufficiently accounts for your astonish- ing errand. She must bo non compos mentis, or she would know that what was once her property is all mine by legal conveyance, which I will prove, with the various transactions by which it came into my hands,” said the judge, decisively. CHAPTER XVIII. THE LOST BOX. The judge’s cool statement took the doctor com- pletely by surprise. The probability of its truth was such that he could not dispute him. Elsie’s long insanity may indeed have caused her to forget the signing of papers which put her husband in possession of her estates. He was assured, if such was the ease, that there was villainy at the bottom, for he knew that at the time of her marriage they were clear of incumbrance. He took leave politely, though the quiet determination in his eye warned the judge that he would findin him an antagonist not to be despised. Returning immediately home, he sent for Elsie. “Have you any recollection of transactions with your husband leading to the transfer of Vaughn House, or any portion of your inheritance?” he asked, the grave anxiety betrayed in his face en- lightening her as to his fears, despite his quiet manner. “J haye not, because none such took place,” re- plied she, promptly and decidedly. ‘Does he tell you there were?” : “He claims there were, and signifies his intention of proving them.” ‘‘ITremember perfectly his constant, persevering efforts to induce me to engage in speculations which would necessitate the mortgaging of all my property. It was, in fact, my firm resistance to his schemes which made the first difficulty between us,” replied Elsie, calmly. “Have or had you any means of proving that fact?” asked the doctor, convinced by her clear eye and tone that her memory had suffered no injury. Elsie thought deeply a moment before replying. “T had, but in all probability they are lost. When I went to my. friend, Mrs. Wild, I took them with me, along with some other valuable articles. It is bara possible they would haye been preserved after her death.” “We can make inqniries,” said the doctor. ‘‘Were they contained in a small pearl-inlaid box?” “The papers 1 need were with it,” replied she, with brightening countenance. “The box was stolen,” began he. ‘Oh!? cried she, disappointedly. “Then they are gone, “But the box is nowin my possession,” he said. “T have never opened it, though I obtained it some four years ago. Perhaps the papers are init. I will bring it down.” And he went to his room, opened a secret drawer those to whom he referred. To him. in a great t:| the means of effecting his ends,” said deserving. de her believe his useful- | together, but grew very grave when stories, well- | the Gaels, and startled on seeing his visitor, of cian establishes an : “ ; Office in New York EPILEPTIC FITS From Am. Journal of Medicine Dr. Ab. 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Back numbers can be had of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XYI. AN UNWELCOME APPEARANCE. “ Good-evening, mamma!” said Stephen, airily, as he stepped over the threshold, und entered the room. > “*Good-evening, Stephen!” said Mrs. Palmer, so- berly, Stephen glanced hastily in all directions in search of Paul, and was glad to find no trace of him. ‘“Where’s sister Grace?” he inquired. “She has goue to bed, Stephen. She always goes to bed at eight o’clock.” “Has she spent that gold piece yet, that she was too selfish to lend to her poor brother?” ‘That isa matter you can have no interest in, Stephen.” “None of my business, eh?” “*T didn’t say that,” “You meant it all the same. Where’s Paul?” *“Do you know where he is? Have you come to tell me, Stephen?” ‘ ‘ This question was asked with some appearance of anxiety, and Stephen at once jumped to the con- elusion that all things had gone as he desired, and Paul liad fallen into the trap which had been pre- pared for him. es “Why, you don’t mean to say the kid isn’t at home?” said Stephen, an irrepressible smile light- ing up his face. “ Well, that’s a good one. Most likely he’s in the station-house.. Ho, ho!” ‘And you laugh at the thought!” said Mrs. Palmer, indignantly. ‘Oh, he ain’t any better than other boys. You think he can’t do anything wrong, but I'll bet you half a dollar he’s been eaught stealing or some- thing.” "Wherever Paul is, I am sure he is not in the station-house!” said Mrs. Palmer, positively. “Don’t be too sure of that,” chuckled Stephen. ““He’s a sly one, Paul is. You wouldn’t think Do melt in his mouth, but I know him better’n you do,” ‘ ‘ Paul is a good son and brother, and always has een.” “ And I suppose I am not, sneered Stephen.” ‘You must question your own conscience on that subject,’ said Mrs. Palmer. “You are only my step-mother. You don’t expect me to support you and the kids, do you?’ asked Stephen, coarsely. , ‘‘No; I only desire that you will let us alone. We can get on without your help,” returned the widow, with dignity. i “That is if Paul remains all right; but you can’t be sure of that. He may slip up any time, and be- come a boarder at the expense of the State.” “Tf you have come here to slander Paul, you can hardly expect that you will be welcome.” . ‘Oh, well, I. know that Paulis your idol. He ean’t do anything wrong. Ishouldn’t wonder if he was in ascrape now.” “What kind of a scrape? Don’t leave me in sus- | pense, Stephen!” Stephen Palmer was not over supplied with brains, and he was foolish enough to fall into the trap, and speak of what he could not be supposed to know. nds Hi “LT heard a report,” he said, “that Paul had been en for stealing in the Milwaukee train to-day,” e said. “Where did you get your informatien ?” asked Mrs. Palmer, : “She doesn’t believe it.” said Stephen to himself. “Never mind; she may have to before long.” “Ldon’t eare to mention where I heard it,” he an- swered. “It is not true!” “Perhaps it isn’t, but if that’s the case why doesn’t he,come home ?” ‘He may haye been detained by business,” “Oh, yes, very important. business!”, chuckled Piepoen. “T guess he’ll find it very important and pressing. patti ie what you have comé to tell me, Stephén almer . 2 “No, not exactly. The fact, is, Mrs. Palmer, I am ard up.’ Sf pdheve you always are.” ‘Right you are. The fact is, I am very unlucky. Nothing seems to go right with me. I have a hard struggle to get along.” . — j “There’s one remedy you might find. Stephen!” said the widow, calmly. vant is that ?” r. ; “Work!” repeated Stephen, angrily; “and where am Ito find work? Haven't I tried to get something York. P.O. Box 2724. 52-6teow t to do everywhere ?” p r ence: 11 packs and an Wonant Seal Ring for ‘| he was a “T don’t know. but from what I know of you, I presume not. A man who really wants to work won’t go so long without it as you have.” _ Much you know about it. I tell you everything is crowded. How much money do you thiuk I have sot left ?”’ “How should I know ?” “That’s all!” said. Stephen, drawing a quarter from his vest-poeket, and flipping it up in the air, “Mrs, Palmer, you must help me.” If you are hungry, Stephen, though it is a late hour. I will give you something to eat.” “Thank you! don’t want any of your cold victuals,” sneered the vagabond. then I can do nothing for you.” ‘Yes. you ean. Give me the little girl’s gold piece. You needn’t pretend that she has spent it, for I know better.” ‘Whether that is the case or not, I decline to let you have it.” “Look here, widow!’ said Stephen, his brow darkening, “I ain’t going to be trifled with or bluffed off; not this time. When down here before, Lwasn’t quite myself. and that young puppy, Paul, thought it safe to bullyme. Things are different now. Iam _ perfectly sober, and I know what I’m about. So I tell you once more, I want that money, and I advise you to get it for me, or else give me as much out of your own pocket.” “Surely you are notin earnest, Stephen Palmer, You won’t persist in this unmanly demand?” “Then you don’t know me. Paul is not hereto defend you, now, and [advise you not to make me angry. Stephen rose from his seat, and advanced toward his step-mother with an ugly look on his mean, evil- logprg dace, Mrs. Palmer started back, and uttered just one word: { “Paul !? At the call, Paul, who had found it difficult to re- strain himself from rushing into the room ‘sooner, sprang through the door, and, his young face flam- ing with just indignation, confronted. his step- brother, filed CHAPTER XVII. PAUL DEFENDS HIS MOTHER. To say that Stephen was astonished hardly ex- presses the truth. He stood with open mouth, star- ing at our hero, as if panic-stricken by his sudden appearance. “Where did you come from?” he asked, amaze- ment prevailing over every other sensation. ‘From the next room, where I heard your con- ena attempt to extort money from my mother.” iP Be At another time Stephen would have resented this speech, but now he was anxious to find out what had happened to his friend, and how Paul had managed to escape the snare that had been so care- fully laid for him." © |! ‘How long have you been at home?” he asked. nee home at the usual time. What makes you “Did anything happen to-day ?” asked Stephen. Foolishly he was petra ing himself, and Paul saw clearly that he knew ofthe plot, even if he were not concerned in if. He resolved that Stephen should netrey Dimselt Ash further, “What should happen ?” he asked. I heard you were arrested for theft,” said Stephon. “What kind of theft?” “Stealing a wallet.” - “Where did you hear it ?” : Never mind!’ answered Stephen, sullenly, “TI heard it, and that’s enough.” “It seems then you were misinformed.” ; ‘Didn’t you have any trouble at all?” asked Stephen, perplexed. “Yes, something pappsned. A man pretended that I had stolen hiS‘wallet.” “Didn’t I say so?” Stephen exclaimed, triumph- antly. “This Dutchman——” proceeded the train boy. “Dutchman!” repeated Stephen, hastily. “I thought it was a Quaker.” death think of it, it was a Quaker,” said Paul, qu et y, ; “What made you say Dutchman?” ‘I wanted to find out how much you knew about it. Did hg know this Quaker?” “Did know the Quaker? I don’t know any Quakers.” “T thought you might. In that case, you won’t feel any interest in knowing what became of him.” “Did—did anything happen to him?” asked Ste- phen,inalarm. : ‘You seem anxious,” said Paul, keenly. “Don’t trifle with me, boy. Tell me what hap- pened to him. .As you’ve told part of the story-you may as well tell the rest.” will have a chance to see him in court to-morrow.” “Arrested!” gasped Stephen, in dismay. “Yes, his plan didn’t succeed, tt is disappointment to him and to you, but it serves you both right for rep ingagainst a boy.” = seid said I had anything to do with it?” asked ephen. Fou have let it out yourself. I don’t want any further proof.” , “After this base conspiracy against your step- brother, Stephen Palmer,” said the widow, with dig- nity, ‘I hope you will haye the decency to stay wway. Had you behaved with any decent regard to re tie that exists between us, I would not say is——”’ “You'll repent this, Mrs. Palmer!” said Stephen, his face showing the malice he felt. “You treat me like a dog, you and your sonthere. I’ll be even with you yet.” e left, the room and the house, slamming the door behind him, but he did not renew his demand for monay. CHAPTER XVIII. GRACE DEARBORN’S PARTY. The evening of Grace’s birthday party arrived. i ee number of invitations had heen sent out, for Mrs. Sheldon had a large circle of acquaiut- ances and friends. The daily papers had already mentioned the forthcoming party as likely to be one of the most memorable of the season, “Mrs. Sheldon determined to spare noexpense to make itso, She was not vulgarly lavish, but there are occasions when she thought money‘should be spent freely. Moreover, she was determined to do what she could to secure a brilliant matrimonial alliance for her niece, of whose beauty she was justifiably proud. Indeed she was a natural mateh- maker, though she was compelled not to allow Grace to see her maneuvers too plainly, as nothing would have been more repugnant to the niece than tg think-she was set up as a prize ina matrimonial ottery. A professional confectioner was given carte blanche forthe supper, which was to be recherche, and the decorations were put into the hands of a man of taste, Whose taste was unimpeachabie. j “Aunt Caroline!” saiu Grace, “Iam afraid you are going to lurge expense on my party.” “Why should I not,.my dear?” we “It seems wasteful. How many poor families could be relieved by the money it will cost!” “What a quixotic idea, Grace! In my opinion the poor have quite enough done for them. Woul you have us giye up all amusements for their sake ?” “No, I won’t go so farasthat. Still it onght to check undue extravagance to reflect that we have so many that are desitute among us.” “They shall have their turn, Grace, {[ am sure you spend a great deal of money on the poor.” “Not half enough, aunt.# : : “Then spend more. but inthis matter don’t object to my spending what I like.” rey know, my dear aunt, it is all done for my sake.’ ‘And very properly, my dear. I have no danugh- ter, and all my interest centersin you. By the way, I met Major Ashton in the street yesterday.” “Indeed!” suid Grace, indifferently.__ ‘Poor fellow, he looks downeast. Your repulse has wounded him sorely. He loved you deeply.”’ Asilvery laugh from Grace greeted this announce- ent, made with due solemnity. | : “Really, my dear aunt,” she said, “TI can’t con- eeive of Major Ashton loving anybody as weil as himself.” : “You do him wrong, Grace.” a “Perhaps so, but I do not believe it.” ‘He is coming to the party.” ' : “T supposed he would,” said Grace, shrugging her shoulders. ; : 9 “And;I do hope, Grace. you will treat him kindly.’ “T shalltreat him politely, aunt Caroline, if that is what you mean. That is my duty, sinee lie is\to be our guest.” : “Major Ashton could marry brilliantly.” “Let him then!” “Everybody considers him an eligible parti.” , . “Then there is little cause for me,to pity him. There are plenty who will have compassion on him, and console him for my coldness.” “You must admit that he is a thorough gentle- man, Grace,” f : “My dear aunt, Iam rather tired of Major Ash- ton us atopic of conversation’ Suppose.we drop him, Jam ready to, admit everything you,desire— he is elegant, a good match, fascinating, if you will, but as ll need to carry his faseinations to another market. ; r 7 “She seams resolute,” thought Mrs, Sheldon, ‘but she may change her mind ae Who was it said it is always best to begin with a little aver- "Tn fact, Mts, Sheldon’ had ‘gone n fact, Mrs, Sheldon had gone s: courage Major Ashton, and Jed him to think that there was hope for him after all. p Wis yeryteady to accept this, assurance. because he desired to do so. There was no danger, however, of the major breaking his heart, for it was Grace’s fortune he was in loye with, not herself. *In fact, he was so far from romantic that the, idea érossed his mind that if the niece refused to have anything to do wit him, he might perhaps take up with the aunt. ; ) so'far as to en- J +o a a Oia to be no Quaker at all,” said Paul. “Tf. riend of yours, as I conclude, I think you the two pass robably.a EW YORK WEEKLY, =~ = 3 : = Seo , we . ee Sana “Mrs. Sheldon is a well-preserved woman,” he reflected, ‘‘fifteen years older than myself, perhaps, but her fortune is even greater than Miss Dear- born’s, and would set my affairs right at once, be- sides insuring my comfort for the balance of my life. She must be worth at least a quarter of a million.” ‘Thinking, then, of the widow as a dernier resort, he treated her with a flattering deference and court- ly politeness that prepossessed her still more in his favor, though she had not the faintest idea of the direction of his thoughts with regard to herself. At last the evening came, The house was a blaze of light and splendor. Carriage after carriage rolled up to the door and deposited its load at Mrs. Sheldon’s door, Presently, the rooms were well filled with elegantly dressed ladies and irreproach- ably attired young men, who, in turn, paid their respects to the givers of the party. Grace was tastefully and even richly dressed, but suffered herself, in the matter of dress, to be eclipsed by more than one of her guests. Her aunt insisted on her wearing a’superb diamond necklace belonging to herself, but she declined. “No, aunt; I don’t want to array myself in bor- rowed plumes,” she said. “The necklace is yours; wear it yourself.” Which Mrs, Sheldon did at last. She was ready to lend it to her niece, but was not insensible to the glances of admiration which it attracted when dis- played on her own neck. It must. be worth twenty thousand. dollars!” thought Major Ashton. “Really the old girl is radiant. If she ever becomes Mrs. Major Ashton, in place of her niece resigned, I shall slyly substi- tute a necklace of paste and convert the jewels to my own use. It is sinful that so much good money should be locked up. : It was well forthe major’s popularity with Mrs. Sheldon that she could not read his thoughts. Her necklace was her most yalued possession; ‘and nothing except actual need would have induced her to part with it. Grace looked about from time to time for the young artist. : Finally she saw him approaching to salute her. “I am glad to see you here, Mr. Vernon,” she said, with asmile of welcome, ‘You are late.” Yes, Miss Dearborn. I hope you will excuse it. As you are aware, I have few acquaintances here— indeed, I do not often stray into such fashionable surroundings—and only came for a brief, space, to show my appreciation of your kind courtesy in inviting me here, and to offer my congratulations on your birthday.” Thank you, Mr. Vernon, they are welcome. I hope your t other is well.” ; Very well, thank you, and Iam sure she will feel proud of yourinquiry.” - ‘I believe most of my guests have arrived, and I may venture to leave my duties as assistant hostess. If you will favor me with your aim, I will walk about a little. With a flush of gratification the artist tendered his arm, and the two promenaded through the ele- gant Ey cal attracting general attention. Why, I declare,” said Miss Framley to her es- cort; “do you see that ?” “See what ?” Miss Dearborn promenading with that ‘young _. Why shouldn’t she? He is quite distinguished in his appearance.” Distinguished!” repeated Miss Framley, with a sneer. “I guess you don’t know him.’ He isn’t a cook, is he—or a waiter?” No; but he is a poor portrait painter. ‘Why, he painted my picture for twenty dollars, and’ he was glad of the job,” said Miss Framley, who was in- nately vulgar. : “Poor devil! Then‘he must hive béen hurd up,” said the gentleman, to whom it o¢curred that this was an illustration of Miss Framley’s meanness. _..Oh, yes, he was poor enough; but I believe he is doing a little better now. Still, it is Singular that Miss Dearborn should single him out as’ ler es- cort, from so many. I wouldn’t promenade with him!” continued the young lady, tossing her head. I ought to feel flattered that you prefer me, Miss Framley.” “Oh, you are quite a different kind of’ person,” said the young lady, with a coquettish smile. There was another who saw the two pass him with.equal disgust, and more dissatisfaction. This was Major Ashton. “Upon my soul!” he said to himself. ‘What ean Grace Dearborn see in that beggar? I’ll soon sep- arate them!” : . He re up, with his tsual assurace, and, bow- ing, said: “May I venture to relieve this gentleman of ‘his pleasant duty, and substitute myself in his place ?” “Not at present, Major Ashton,” said Grace, cold- ly; “unless Mr. Vernon is weary of his charge.” “Far from it,” said the yoting artist. ik nie iy: muttered Major Ashton, as ed on. , CHAPTER XIX, THE ARTIST’S RECHPTION. Whether Frederic Vernon reail in Major Ashton’s face the disgust he felt at the compliment Grace bestowed upon him in singling him out as her com- panion, I am not sure. It is clear, however, that the young artist cared little for it. He was enjoy- ing the companionship of the only young lady who had ever had power to stir his heart. and for the moment did not allow himself to think of the dis- tance between them. : j Grace, on her part, was not. insensible to the fact that Vernon, though poor, was as noble in appear- anee as any of her guests. The young artist had been remarkably extravagant in providing himself with a dress-suit of fine quality, and no one would argue his poverty from his appearance. “Lhope, Mr. Vernon,” said the heiress, “that you have plenty of orders.” “Enough, at all events, to fill up my time,” an- swered Vernon, “thanks, I am very sure, to your friendly reeommendation.” **T feel entirely justified in recommending you,” ’ said Grace. : “It is friendly, nevertheless.” “T shall not dispute that, for I wish to be friendly.” “T am sincerely grateful for all your kindness, Miss Dearborn,” said the artist, earnestly. “It has done me more good than perhaps you dream “Tam sincerely glad to heur it, Mr. Vernon.” “Before painting your portrait I will confess that Iwas tempted at times to despair. I had been for along time struggling hard, and apparently with little hope of suecess. My sitters were unwilling to pay me even the paltry price I asked.” *T believe the young lady we have just passed was one of your sitters ?” said Grace, referring to Miss Framley, who had bestowed her attentions upon a eallow youth of eighteen, failing to'secure a more eligible partner. ‘Miss Framley? Yes, but I have small cause to desire such a patronage. She stared at me as Ii entered, as if surprised to meet m6 here.” “T trust it did not pain you much,” said Grace, arehly. “Vernon laughed. “T hope I shall have no worse troubles,” he said. “To that Iam resigned.” - ‘Then I shall be quite at ease about you on that seore. And now, Mr. Vernon, I fear I must ask you to hand me to a seat, as my other guests will be claiming my attention.” | “Thank you for favoring me so far, Miss Dear- born,” said Vernon, as he complied with the young lady’s request. The young artist caught sight of one of his late sitters, and presenting himself, was graciously re- Shes so that he was not compelled to be a wall- ower. “Tt would ‘be like his impudence,” thought Miss Framley, ‘for the penniless artist to make up to me. If he does I wiil soon send him about his business.” Miss Framley did not have the opportunity, how- ever, to give Vernon the rebuff she had in view, as he took no notice of her save by a slight bow. This annoyed her. and she straightway eharged him mentally with ingratitude in slighting one of his patrons: Consistency was not one of Miss Fram- ey’s strong points. Had she seen him leaning against the wall unnoticed, she would have been pleased, but Vernon, who was gifted with unusual external attractions, seemed to have no difficulty in making his way, and was kindly received by young ladies whom Miss Framley was compelled: to ac- knowledge. as her social superiors. She looked on diseontentedly from a corner where she was tem- porarily pining from need when Major Ashton approached. He was far from admiring Miss Fram- ley, but he knéw that her father was reputed rich, and he thought it best to keep in with her as a pos- sible resort in the event of his other plans failing. ‘‘Are you in a,reverie, Miss Framley ?”’ he asked, “Not precisely, Major Ashton,” responded the oung lady, smiling with pleasure at being noticed by so eligible a parti. “‘I was resting for a moment. Really fashionable life is so exhausting, parties and engagements nearly every night in the week. How- ever, you know al! about that.” E “T am not, so easlly fatigue. perhaps, as ifI be- longed to the fairer sex. Will, you accept my arm for a promenade, or are you too much fatigued ?” “Oh. I am quite rested, I assure you,” said tlfe young lady, joyfully. “T see the portrait painter is here.” remarked Major Ashton, with a carelessness he did not feel. “Yes; isn’tit strange Miss Dearborn should in- vite him ?” returned Miss Framley, eagerly. “Really almost a beggar, as you may say.” | “Is he poor then ?” asked the major. ‘He was miserably poor, but I believe he is doing | better now. Why, he used to paint portraits for twenty dollars!” “Hardly enough to pay for the materials,” said Ashton, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh. he was glad enough to get orders at that eet _ IT took pity on him myself, and gave him an order.” “Very considerate of you, upon my word!” said Major Ashton. If there was sarcasm in his words, Miss Framley, who was not over-sharp, except in money matters, did not perceive it. I always try to be considerate!” she responded. complacently. “But, as you were saying, it is very singular Miss Dearborn should pay so much atten- tion to a man in his sphere of life.” I think it was you who said it, Miss Framley; however, Tam disposed to agree with you.” And then she selects him as her first escort, and lowers herself, as one may say, to his level.” Pe she feels a special interest in him,” suggested Major Ashton. There was a suspicion of jealousy in his tone, as he said this. Oh, dear, no! That would be too ridiculous. She may feel a patronizing interest in him, and thinks it will do him good inthe way of business to pay. him attention. Grace is so quixotic, you know, ajor Ashton.” Grace would have been amazed had she heard herself spoken of so. familiarly by a young lady to pom she had hardly spoken a dozen words in her “I suppose you are quite intimate with her,” said Miss Framley’s escort, pointedly. hy, no; I can’t say we are intimate,” said Miss Framley, slowly; “although of course I know her very. well.” ., infer from what you. say, that I shall not be likely to meet the portrait-painter at your house, Miss Framley.” “Decidedly not!” said the young lady, tossing her head. “I hope I choose my company better—I am sure I don’t know what ma would ‘say if I should introduce such a person into the: house—ma is very particular!” fe And very properly, Iam sure.” Major Ashton politely refrained from laughing, though he happened to know. that Mrs. Framley, who was now so very particular, had been a very respectable saleswoman in a small dry-goods store up to the time of her marriage with Jeremiah Fram- ley, who was at that time a drummer in the employ of a second-class house in the city. Miss | fay is yery amusing,” thought the major, "though I fancy she would be a great bore to a matrimonial partner. “I hope it may never be my sad destiny.to marry her; though, as her father is rich, I may some day sacrifice myself to her.” How wedeceive ourselves! Miss Framley was under the impression that the stylish major, of whose attentions she was proud, was struck with her, and, she was already speculating as to. the orominent place she might take in society as Mrs, fajor Ashton, when a waltz struck up. Shall we dance, or are you too fatigued ?” asked the major. ’ Oh, not at all! It has quite passed off, D assure you,” said the delighted young lady, and they moved off to the inspiring strains of one of Strauss’s waltzes: Miss ramley didn’t appear to advantage as a dancer. Her figure was dumpy, and she had no ear for music, so that her pace wus somewhat heavy and elephantine.. The major wasa graceiul dancer, but it was all he could do to make up for his partner’ deficiencies. He soon tired of the attempt, and handed his unwilling partner to a seat. “I was not at all tived} major,” she said, insinu- atingly. “But I was!” he answered, rather abruptly. He took leave with a bow, ‘and five minutes later found the opportunity which she had been seeking all the evening to speak to Miss Dearborn. [TO BE CONTINUED, | e~< TEXAS GLEANINGS, Wy Alex. BE. Sweet, (OF THE TEXAS SIFTINGS.) THE MAN FROM KANSAS. A few days after the Galveston, Harrisburg and San Antonio railroad had. been completed to the latter city, a rather seedy-looking man entered the office of the company, and approaching the vice-president.of thé road;,Col..H. B: Andrews, requested a private in- terview on a matter of great importance. Col, An- drews adjusted his eye-glass, threw his head, back, and mustering the intruder from head to foot, asked: “You want a pass over the road? “Yes, colonel” “Are you a clergyman?’ “‘H—ll, no,” was the response. “Representative of the press?” “Because I wear shabby clothes and haven’t had.a Square meal for a week, that’s no reason why you should think the worst of me. No, sir, I’ve not got down to that yet, thank God.” “Weli,’’ replied’ Col. Andrews, with a bland smile, as he twirled his eye-glass, “if you are neither a clerical dead-beat nor a newspaper bore,I don’t see what obligation our company is under to the public to help get you out of town. Wedo give free passes to the two classes of frauds I have just mentioned, but never to ordinary tramps,” and turning to his desk assumed his labors on a 4th of July address he had been requested to deliver to the citizens of San Antonio on that occasion. «Colonel !”’ “What is it?’ asked Col. Andrews, angrily. “You and your company are interested in the growth and prosperity of Western Texas. Your com- pany offers inducements to immigrants to come to Western Texas to settle. Now, I have been instru- mentalin persuading dozens of men to come to West- ern Texas. Can’t you let me haye a pass as an ex- immigration agent?” “Tf you can satisfy me that you really have per- suaded immigrants to come to San Antonio, you shall have an annual pass,” f “Tecan doit. Four years ago, I was living in Kan- sas, and my neighborhood was infested with the worst gang of horse-thieves and highway rebbers in the whole State, There were so many of them, and they had such a high social status in Kansas that the courts could do nothing with them, ‘I: organized a vigilance committee,or rather animmigration society, and after we had hung five or six of them, the rest of them set out for Western Texas.” “You don’t mean to say our road or Western Texas has been benefited by that class of riftraff ?”” “ Riffraff? Well, that is good! Three of. those Kansas immigrants are members of the San Antonio City Council that granted your road a subsidy of $200,000... Another one of them, who has been in- dicted twenty times in Kansas, is one of your freight agents. Still another is a leading banker with whom you do business. I wouid locate here myself, but they would run me out sooner or;later.” ; Col. Andrews, Vice-President of G. H, and 8, A. road, sat there, with his mouth wide open, in a petri- fied state of mind, while the man who “had such claims on Western Texas proceeded, to give the real names of some of the leading citizens and church members, furnishing biographical sketches of other citizens of high standing that. were calculated to make the listener’s hair stand on end. The stranger was about to furnish more details about the. antece- dents of the elite, when Col. Andrews hastily wrote out a pass, and gaveit to him, saying: You have got so many influential, friends who will be glad to know that you have left town, that I cannot refuse your request.” The ex-immigration agent grinned, and tipping Col. Andrews a wink, started for the depot. -e< “OH, ABRAHAM, THIS IS AWFUL.” On the night previous to the meeting of the Re- publican Convention at Chicago,,.Mr. Lincoln did not get home until eleven. o'clock at, night. In the morn- ing Mrs. Lineoln, who was of a most amiable disposi- tion, remonstrated with her good man at breakfast. She kindly but firmly informed him. that. polities were leading him into bad habits—keeping late hours and drinking at the rum-shops;, that she did not like it---she had to sit and keep, the. children, up; and— “Now, Abraham, let me tell you that to-night I will go to bed at ten o’clock. If you come” before that hour, well and good; if not, I will not get up and let you in.” ; Ten o’clock came that night, and, true to her word, Mrs. Lincoln went to bed with her children. About an hour later Mr. Lincoln knocked: atthe door, He knocked once, twice, and even three times, before an upper window was raised and the night-cap of a fe- male looked out. a is there?’ “You know what I told yon, Abraham ?” “Yes; but, wife, I have got something very partic- ular to tell you. Let mein.” “T don’t want to hear. It is some political stuff.”’ “Wife, it is very important. There is a telegraphic dispatch, and T have been nominated for the Presi- dency.” ; “Oh, Abraham, this is; awful! Now I know. you have been drinking. I only suspected it before; and you May just go and’ sleep where at got your iquor;” and down descended thé window with a slam. True enough, the next day confirmed the news that the best anecdote-teller of the village had really been nominated to rule oyer millions.”’ pedgcihaliud When spelling is “reformed,” she'll write: “Tm sailing on the oshun, These is-hi, no sale,in.site, Kt filz me with emoshun,” But one’'‘spell” will not change its name, For she’ll be se-sic just the saim!”’ A en ern tee Se BN NE can eR oe mn EEE Ase AREER RAO CER EET EN NE UNO NRE ChE BEEN COTTE OT NEUEN RRO LEN BRC BORER rennet recente ee ee ee Te Bee RUN at WN ot i OURO NG AE GSA INTRA arp tn “Oh. no; she does not appear to be, Abiel.” s “Then throwthe she into the fire!” he cried, with a savage stamp of his foot. : Of course he did not mean to have his sister lit- erally obey his murderous order, but ony to un- derstand that tlie child must be put out of his way, and that he would have nothing more to do with it. “Oh, Abiel, brother, let me keep it, and rear it, and Gall it mine!” pleaded the lone-hearted sister, “I want something tolove in my declining years! Let me have this! See, dear Abiel, how sweet the darling looks, and how it smiles even now upon u! And the little baby did at that moment chance to throw out its little hands toward the iron man, and did seem to smile at him, just as babies have before now been known to smile upon their murderers. “Bah!” grunted Abiel Grimes, as he turned away. But he had not eseaped seatheless. A beam from that baby’s eye had darted into his, and that beam had carried a ray of God’s sunshine from that pure, innocent soul right straight down into his, warm- ing one tiny little spot, and exciting one of the strangest sensations of his life. .- Abiel hurried off to hed, without putting on his slippers or making his punch, leaving his sister Griselda alone with the child. She found and prepared some milk for it, and se- eretly vowed it should never leave her. That night Abiel Grimes*dreamed.that littie blue, baby eyes were looking at him; and he got uptand hurried off the next morning, as if to escape from the little one and himself. ; As he made no further protest his sister kept the child in the mansion, but out of his sight, and told the servants it was an unexpected Christmas present, which she prized more highly than gold. One day, some seven or eight months later, Abiel came unexpectedly into his own sitting-room, and found the bright and playful little one tied in a chair, hammering its little chubby fists on the eushion before it, and talking to itself in the un- known language of babydom. “Hallo!” said Abiel Grimes, halting in front of it; “you here yet, madam ?” “Ja! jal geo} gel answered. baby, looking up with aJaugh, and making both hands and feet fly up and down as if attached to springs. Again something shot from pure little soul into the dark, hard soul of Abiel Grimes. “Confound it,” he muttered, “‘I believe you’re a “Ja! ja! goo! goo! ja-goo!” laughed baby, all full of springs. : The next moment she was up in those stron arms, ind her little velvet cheek was softly presse against his lips. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you!” he said. At that moment his sister came hurrying into the room, but paused with fright and astonishment on seeing her brother present and baby in his arms. “The only child I ever saw that [ could bear to handle,” he observed, with a kind of sheepish look, as he placed the little one in her arms. “Oh, Abiel, she is an angel sent from heaven for the comfort of us both!” cried Griselda, with a warming enthusiasm. The brother did not answer, and the sister felt happy that he did not. storm and rave. he secret work of Heaven had begun. From that time onward there was a change in Abiel Grimes. Theiron began to melt, the stone began to soften, the soul began to humanize, and people who had known Abiel Grimes for years ‘an,to wonder. One day a poor man came to plead for a little more time in which to pay his rent. “My little girl’s very sick,” he said, in a voice of distress, with tearful eyes, ‘‘and I’ve been obliged to lose time, and take the poner was I'd saved for you to buy medicine with for her.” “You owe me a month’s rent!” said Abiel, tak- ing up his pen and beginning to write. “And if you give me time——” “You will never pay me!” interrupted Abiel, at the same time handing the poor fellow a receipt in full for the amount, and a ten dollar bank-note. “Take that and go home,and nurse your darling, and if not enough for your distress, come back to me again!” _ God bless you!” cried the poor man, bursting into tears. ; , “He _ has already!” murmured Abiel to himself. “He did it one Christmas night when He sent mea little angel!” “IT come to tell you that my husband is dead, and that I cannot at present satisfy the mortgage you hold!” said a weeping widow to him at another time. “Take the mortgage itself down to the recorder of deeds, madam, and let him write ‘satisfied’ on it!” was the reply ofthe once hard-heurted man, as he handed the document, together with an order for satisfaction, to his astonished visitor. Like to the pent-up waters of a stream when the obstructions give way, so now flowed forth the charities of Abie! Grimes, and all who knew him marveled and said: “Behold a miracle!” Years rolled on, and a thousand places felt the secret influence of that baby darling who had come so mysteriously on tnat cold, Christmas night to the then hard, cheerless home of Abiel Grimes, As his heart softened under her genial smiles, the now humanized bachelor had her named Mary All- bright in memory of his first and only love, whom he fanced she resembled. And as she grew in years. the once gloomy man- sion was made cheerful for her sake, ani every Christmas there became a happy day of see ne: Ten years had passed, and the thin hair of Abiel Grimes was becoming flvcked with silver; but his face looked fresher, and his heart felt younger, and his soul was happier.. Into his presence one day came a lady in black, deeply vailed, and, to his utter amazement, re- lated the incident of his finding a baby on his steps. “I put. that baby there, she went on. “It was not my child, but my daughter’s child. I married, and my husband died, leaving me a daughter. She married, and her husband died, leaving her a daughter. Then she died, and the child fell to me. I was poor, and you were rich, and I hoped to in- terest you in the little link. I did not desert the child, nor put it there by chanee, I knew you were coming home, and I watched from my hiding-place till you took the little blessing in. Unknown to you I have had an eye on it ever since. You have cared for it tenderly, Abiel Grimes, and I feel that in turn it has cared for your soul. You have called it Mary Allbright. Why? Well, the nameis answer enough. You have seen a resemblance to one -you once knew, ani once loved, but to whom you did agriev- ous wrong!” “T did?” burst from the white lips of Abiel Grimes. “She forgave you then—forgives you still—and has come to say that you can have her grandchild for your own.’ “Oh, give me herself also?” cried Abiel Grimes. with powerful emotion, as he seized the lady’s hand and drew aside the vail from the calm, sweet face of his old love, Mary Allbright. Need we go on with the sequel ?” They were married on the next Christmas, and have ever since been counted among the happiest of mortals. _ And now, instend of curses, Abiel_ Grimes heaps blessings on every, Christmas; and all the poor around heaps blessings on Abiel Grimes, and on his sweet wife. and his good sister, and his darling pet, and on all that belong to him and them. —__—__ re A READER SEVENTEEN YEARS. Messrs. STREET AND SMITH; As this is the commencement of the new year, I thought I would occupy a few minutes in writing to you. Lhavethought a great many times during the last seventeen years (that being the time I have taken and read your paper, and have not missed a copy in that time) I would tell you how highly we prize your paper. I have taken a great many other literary papers, but in a short time Gave them up. There is none like the New York Wrrxiy. The oy question pl vems after returning from town is, “Did you get the New YorK WrExKLY?” Afterit is read at home it always. goes erpue sas paper is looked for and read by several of my neighbors. Why .do you not reprint some of the stories that were in your poner twelve and fifteen years ago. For one, I would like to read them in. ishing you a happy New Year, I remain very respectfully yours. I. D, Hown. San Jose, : é anny At an auction sale of old Government medical supplies, at St. Louis, among other things one man bought 17,308 pills for thirty cents. A local paper says: “The ks and instruments sold have been used before, but the pills were entirely new.” nee R aR UTES FN a a RE SR ROR OY MOE OOS RIOR NEP HA OE TET LTE A LEN PEPE AD ce EN CCN ET NY RTT RS Re np mY (oe mE > THE WEAKER SEX. By Kate Thorn. These wintry days, when the north winds howl, and the snow goes whirling down the deserted streets, we are constantly admonished of the fact that whoever first gaye to women the name of the weaker sex, was abominably mistaken in his esti- Mate of that part of creation. We presume it was a man who applied that ad- jective, because every woman in the world ‘knows that she is tougher than any man ever thought of being! Just now we are thinking about the way our sex dress for the weather. They are going past con- stantly with their husbands, and brothers, and lovers. They look sweet and charming, and their tipped back hats and bare necks are very bewitch- ing, and no doubt their admirers find them so: But wecannot helpthinking how a man would look with no shirt collar round his neck, and nothing at his throat by way of protection fromthe blasts of winter except a bit of lace and’a gold chain! We wonder how he would feél with cotton stock- ings. and french kid boots on his feet, and the sleeves of his coat and of his ulster half way to his elbows, to show his gold bracelets ? And how would he like to exchange his seal-skin driving cap for a turban trimmed with one long ostrich feather, and a wing, and “‘so stylish!” And these young ladies, thank Heaven most of them are young, which shows that as we grow older we learn the wisdom of keeping comfortable, will tell you that they are nota particle cold! Oh, no, indeed! the air is so bracing, and the sun so bright! And if you suggest vails, or nubias, to cover up their ears, they lift their hands in horror, and won- der what you can be thinking of._to suggest any- thing so dreadfully, dreadfully old-fashioned and unbecoming! Almost every day we hear somebody deploring the decay of the strength of the human race. People. they say, do not live so long as they usedto. They are not sostrong while they do live. Well, they ought not to be; seeing as_ how they labor hard all their lives to break down their con- ote: and cut short their allotted three-score- and-ten. Our women of to-day were never children. They were young ladies when they ought to have been romps. They were lacing their corsets and serew- ing their bright hair into curl paren when they ought to have been out of doors, in warm, loose-fit- ting dresses, playing with their brothers. They began to think of beaus and “wealthy mar- a when they ought to have been dressing rag ies, We live in a social hot-house. Everything is forced. Our girls are pushed through mr prcis and eolleges,:and taught a little of this, and a litttle of that, and they are dressed in tight corsets, and tight boots, and with bare necks and arms; they are kept in hot rooms, and put to sleep at htwith coal gas;andthey dance in ill-ventilated halls, andeome outinto the chill air of midnight, and ride home in draughty carriages, and sleep all the next day to get rea: iy for the same thing over again! But what is the use for us to talk? Fashion will rule! The voice of common sense will not be hi Ms and if some old fogy. like ourselves, ventures a re- MORSUANE. we are told snappishly “to stop croak- ng »”» So we stop, but we want to add that by and by, experience in the shape of bronchitis, or consump- tion, or diphtheria will have to be listened to. We hope that all Boarding-School Girls will read “Datsy DetcourtT.” In it they will recognize the inner workings of Boarding Schools. Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS, Rex, Providence, R. I.—Chronic inflammation of the spleen prevails most in fever and ogee districts, and is a frequent result of chills and fever. It is often very stub- born, lasting for years. The general symptom isa feeling of weight, tightness, and sometimes pain in the left side, the pain being incr by pressure, or an attempt to lie on the left side. The or: sometimes enlarges very much, 80 that it can be felt by the hand. This enlarged mass passes under the Common name of ague cake. There are sometimes numbness, weakness of the legs, difficulty of breathing, palpitation of the heart, inability to exer- cise much, tinate constipation, vomiting of food, piles, dry skin, tongue coated white or red, low spirits, and oc- casionally dropsical affections. During the chill in fever and ague the spleen becomes enormously loaded with blood, and it is not strange that it should become dis- eased. The treatment ‘for inflammation of the spleen should be about the same with the treatment for acute and chronic inflammation of the liver. Ip the chronic form of disease of the spleen, a tar plaster placed over the organ will be found of great service. Or counter irrita- tion may be produced by mustard poultices, castor oil, or tincture of iodine. Among the medicines recommended for the disease is ammonia, and the following recipe is re- garded as an excellent one: Pulverized Peruvian bark, one ounce; pulverized rhubarb, half a dram; pulverized muriate of ammonia, one dram. Mix. Divide into eight powders. Take one three times a day. 3 Emerson.—ist. The Protestant Episcopal Church de- Tives its origin from the Church of England, which in its resent form dates from the Reformation. The Roman Jatholic Church is claimed to have existed from the time of St. Peter. 2d. The <— location of the land of Ophir, from which the fleet of Solomon brought gold and precious stones, is a matter of conjecture. There are four theories which have an appearance of probability: VThat Ophir was a general name for distant southerly regions, just as we say the Indies for the East. That it was on the eastern coast of Africa, embracing Zanzibar and Mozambique, as mines oi gold and silver have been found there, which ap- pear to have been worked extensively in ancient times. That it was in Southern Arabia, because in Genesis Ophir is spoken of as one of the sons of Joktan, who settled be- tween Sabza and Havilah; because native gold was an- ciently found there; 2nd because in Oman there is at pre- sent a city named El-Ophir, once the seat of considerable Arabian commerce. That Ophir was in India, because that country abounds in the articles mentioned as brought from both Tarshish and Ophir; because several of these articles, such as peacocks and sandal wood, are found no- where else; because the Hebrew words for apes and pea- cocks correspond with the words used for the same on the Malabar coast, and for various other reasons. 3d. We find no record of the baptism of either. but as they were authorized to administer the rite, it is assumed they had been themselves baptized. G. W. W.- The following is the population of New York, Philadelphia and Brooklyn at the dates named: New York —1790, 33,131; 1800, 60,489; 1810, 96,373; 1820, 123,- 706; 1830, 203,007; 1840, 312,710; 1850, 315,547 ; 1860, 805,651; 1870, 942,292; 1880, 1,206,290. Philadelphia— 70,287 : 1810, SO E66 1820, 10: age 0, i 1,603; 1800, 3,298; 1810, 4,402; 1820, 7,175: 1830, 12,042; 1840, 36,233; 1850, 96,838; 1860, 266,661 ; 1870, 396,099; 1880, 563,663. 4 Noah.—W. H. Webb’s iron-clad steam ram was built at his ship-yard, at the foot of East Eleventh street, this city. She was 378 feet long, 68 feet wide, depth of hold from main deck 23 feet, tonnage, 7,000. She was com- menced in 1862, but was not completed in time to take any part in the war, and was afterward sold to the Rus- sian governuient. Addie.—It is possible that you are mistaken in your sur- mise that you are suspected of an offense committed by another. However, as you are innocent, go on with your duties the same as usual, taking care to keep account of all the money received by you, 80 that you may at any time be ready to account for it. James R. W. D., Roslyn.—A good printers’ ink may be madeas follows: Take sixteen ounces of printers’ varnish, four ounces of linseed oil well boiled, four ounces of clear oil of turpentine, sixteen ounces of fine lampblack, two ounces of fine Prussian blue, and one ounce of fine indigo. Boil one hour. O. A. C., Brooklyn,—As the parents of both the young lady and yourself object to your corresponding with each other, they evidently have good reasons for so doing, and we cannot encourage you to persistin it in opposition to their wishes. Robert.—As we can only do nothing ungen make her own choice, have to abide by it. New Subscriber.—“‘A says his wife’s sister’s husband is his brother-in-law; B savs he is not. Which is right?’ B is right. The relationship, if such it can be call extends only to the wife’s si , who is his sister-in-law The-error is a very common one. Cc. E. Allward.—1st. ‘Her Double” was written b Annie E. Gibbs. The papers will cost 48 cents. “Wedded. Yet No Wife,” is published in book form under the title of ‘Guy Earlscourt’s Wife.’ The price is $1.50. M. T. Barrett.—We know nothing of the firm nor of their publications, and, as we have stated on several occa- sions, do not hold ourselves responsible for the statements of our advertisers. P. 8.,8cott Center, Pa.—Rollers such as you deseribe are used on wall paper printing machines, and, we pre- as for other purposes with which we may not be milar. J. Q. Z, St. Louis, Mo.- 1st. Angust2, 1849, came on Thursday; April 26, 1858, on Saturday. 2d. We do not know what were the zodiacal signs of the dates mentioned. Harry.—There is aninstitute forthe cure of stammer- ing in the vicinity of Union Square, this city, but.we do not know the name or address. have a rival in the cousin of the lady. vise you to be as devoted as possible, and manly. The lady, of course, will whatever it may be you will Cc. L. White,—1st. ‘““Wolfert’s Roost” was written by Washington Irving. 2d. We shall soon publish new stories by both of the parties named Young Engineer.— We will send Fee Roper’s “Catechism of High Pressure or Non-Conducting Steam Engiues” on receipt of $2. _M. E, P.—As you send no address it would be impossible for us to communicate with you.should we obtain the in- formation, J. W. Wooley.—The ‘‘Duke’s Secret” has not been pub- lished in book form. The papers wiil cost $1.44. 7 A. H. R.—There are thirteen of the Pinkerton books. We will send any or all of them for $1.50 each, Richard Ceur de Lion —Wither of the Parties m e dressed simply at New York city. - ak ly Mrs. J. R. Fox.—We know nothing of the t a his medicines. Go toaregular physician. aw Mrs. L. R. Sweet.—You can buy Scotch yarn of any dealer in wools and yarns. Constant Reader.—We have not time to work out enig- mas or puzzles. Anna Bronson.—A very creditable poem. ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT. WN. G., Baltimore, Md.—1st. Married ladies use the arms of their husbands’ family, unmarried ones the quarterings of their fathers’ and mothers’ arms on a lozenge. 2d. fa arepublic monograms are considered by many in better taste than crests or coats of arms. 3d. Wothing is more vulgar than pretense, and those who use arms or crests should have them printed as simply as possible. 4th. Fashion is always changing the size and the shape of notespeper and envelopes, but the quality never alters. Nothing looks poorer or more untidy than thin paper, and envelopes which do not conceal the writing. D. M. B.—1st. We do not see how any person havin sent an invitation to a party could very well y all that invitation. If the persons invited do not ch accept the invitation, they are at liberty to decline going, and in case of so doing, must send a regret to the pers¢ Bovtine the invitation. Butin the event of a person receiving an invitation to attend a wedding and the rson sending 1t should request the recipient to return the invitation, it would appear that they desired to cut the person’s ac- quaintance altogether. It would be most rude, and an unheard-of proceeding. Miss D., Springfield. Mass.—lst. Mach jewelry is out of place for young ladies at any time. 2d. Diamonds and camel’s-hair shawls are considered unsuitable for unmar- ried ladies until they have passed acertain age. 3d. Hand- kerchiefs trimmed with lace should be reserved for balls and oe parties. 4th. Natural flowers are always more youthful than artificial ones. 0. A. C., Worcester, Mass.—lst. When a gentleman en- ters a_ theater, if accompanied by a lady. he should re- move his hat when he enters, and give‘his check to the usher, to be shown tothe seats they are to occupy. A gentleman will never wait to be reminded that he has not removed his hat. J. W.S., Newark, N. J.—If a gentleman desires to wait on a lady he should ask permission to visit her, and make ern ate an aa se lady’s father’s on to visit his daughter, an at gain ask the lady to allow it. ae ee D. D. C., Buffalo, N. Y.—If you really wish to avoid a bowing acquaintance with a person who has been prop- erly introduced to you, 99 may do so by looking aside, or dropping the eyes as the person che oe if the eyes meet there is no alternative, bow he must. , M. W. D., Plainfield, N. J.—Gentlemen cannot be in- vited without their wives, where other ladies than those of the family are present; or ladies without their hus- bands, when other ladies are invited with their husbands. This rule has no exceptions. Fannie W.—Rochester, N. Y.—Bride-maids should allow nothing short of lines or some tnaoldpble accidentto prevent them from officiating, thus showin their appreciation of the friendship w has pabeod their selection at this the most important in life. D. D. W., Boston, Mass.—In social intercourse of als and in domestic life, ill-temper, selfishness, and indiffer- ence, which is a negative form of selfishness, are the prin- cipal sources of ill-breeding. ee W., Cond Ge ishad eee, luncheon, or oy nner, your time shou ven our guests, either to drive out, walk, shop, or in Coe Sutertai amen in the house. Inquirer.—The more good oupeny you invite ‘tual you must move the whole hand, or N. es ou mix more in you will find . an Kirke.—Do not wear avail with a colored wedding qua, recently, to mothers and Sunday school teach- even with you. A superintendent tol T. I. W.—It an invitation to dinner is given. be accept it, and make a ceremonious or CRY call Rites S table, the better it is for your gent conversation held there is an r ate point with the finger. a as A Friend.—Your friends are bound to call on you, after that the bashfulness or nervousness will wear off. tL. L., Albany, N. Y.—Servants hand the dishes to the os ONE OF GOUGH’S ‘STORIES. ers, upon the value of salvation to children. In the course of the address, he said: three days afterward. C. C. E., Chicago, M.—If an object’ is to” : the head, your reception, before you call an them. left of the guests, when passing the courses. John B. Gough delivered an address at Chautau- “Be careful how you talk to childpep: they’ll be me that a certain Mr. Jones always wan to address. his Sunday school, and always made a botch and fail- ure. One Sunday he came in unexpectedly, and in- sisted on five minutes of time. ‘Children, my name is Jones,’ said he. ‘I came from Baltimore and am going to Massachusetts. and I stopped here to try and save you from going to hell. Noy see if you can fix that in yeur minds. Where did I come from?’ Children—‘Baltimore.’ “What is my name ?” Jones,’ ‘Where am I going?’ ‘To hell!’ said fifty voices.” A School-Girl’s Life. A story of great power, of especial interest to school-girls and parents, will be placed before our readers next week, under the title of DAISY DELCOURT. By a NEW CONTRIBUTOR. The author is gifted with a graceful pen, and her story of “Daisy DELcouRT”’ is really A LITERARY GEM. The language is vigorous, and elegant, and every sentence indicates the accomplished writer, who thoroughly understands the art of word-painting. and has a contempt for redundancy and gush. The style is so earnest and unaffected that the reader is at once impressed with the vividness of the inci- ‘dents, and realizes that the story is something more than a romance—that its characters are PICTURED FROM NATURE, — The opening scenes deftly delineate the routine of BOARDING-SCHOOL LIFE, and the temptations which sometimes beset girls who are even temporarily beyond the watchful care of parents. The plot is simple, yet extremely captivating, and evolved with such remarkable power that the inter- est is sustained to the closing line. DAISY DELCOURT is certain to be admired by all who can appreciate A FIRST-CLASS STORY. It will be commenced next week. A Popular Man. The absence of Mr. Andrew D. Baird from the delibera- tions of the Brooklyn Board of Aldermen during the ses- sions of 1883-’4 will be generally regretted, not only by his constituents of the Nineteenth Ward, but by the ad- mirers of good government in all sections of the city. For. a period of six years, embracing three consecutive terms, — he has represented the Nineteenth Ward in such an able | and effective manner, that even those who oppose him politically give him credit for the rare combination of qualities which befit him for a party leader—honesty, ability, tact, and an unflinching opposition to trickery and rascality. When the Bond Elevated Scheme was be- fore the Board, it found a steadfast opponent in Alderman Baird, who could not be bought to swell the number that. were found ready to override the Mayor's veto. We might refer to many of his public acts while Alderman to demonstrate his unswerving integrity, and his uncoms promising devotion to the intérests of the city. Suf it to say that his record has been so satisfactory that ready he is mentioned as a candidate for nomination 'to succeed Mayor Low. Alderman Baird certainly deserves it, and would prove a strong man to head the city ticket. siting iii sear ian we ene ape CREPE io eects eB LE BO TE eat a ctr ns ar oman nest oa 2 FEB, 12, 1889, oC THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. = BE PROVIDENT. BY FRANCIS 8. B8MITH. Be provident, waste not the gold That fortune showers down, Time tarries not, you may grow old, And fortune yet may frown. For that she is a fickle jade To all ’tis very plain, And when she has your great store made Oft takes it back again. Be provident, but do not hoard Your wealth to look upon, Give freely what you can afford Toevery needy one Who in deep sorrow and distress Appeals for aid to thee, If you’re a Christian do no less, Christ taught sweet charity. Be generous, but still take heed Your loved ones suffer none— That you come not to bitter need When you with work are done. Be generous but not unjust, See well what you're about, For ’tis a maxim that you must For “number one” look out. Be provident, but be not mean, If you great wealth command, Let selfishness come not between You and a ready hand. If there is danger that you may Your run of luck outlive, Reduce your luxuries straightway, And then you still may give. a oe i el YY OUD Mrs CHARNLEIGH OR, THE DARK PROPHECY. By T. W. HANSHEW, Author of “DOUBLY WRONGED,” “NO MAN’S WIFE,” “THE FATAL JEWELS,” “FOR MOTHER’S SAKE,” “A LIVING LIE,” “THE BEAUTIFUL OUTCAST,” ete. [““YOUNG MRS. CHARNLEIGH” was commenced in No. 11. Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers. } CHAPTER VIII. SNAKES IN THE GRASS. La Belle Aurelian’s face had grown very white at the first moment of that unexpected meeting, but her old calmness came back to her soon. and the pink flush returned to her beautiful cheeks and lips. She extended her jeweled hand with a radiant smile of greeting, and let her soft white fingers flut- ter into Simeon Adlowe’s palm. “Mercy! How you startled me at first!” she purred, softly. “‘One naturally looks for ghosts in a@ grave-yard, but not ghosts of the past, dear Simeon. And itis really you in the flesh? Parbdlew! it takes me back to olden days—to_ the tropical echaparrals and the blue waters of the Mexican gulf; to the time when “ ‘We thought there was silver dew on the heather; We thought there was gold on the blackbird’s wings; We thought that youth’s joy would live forever; We thought such sweet, such foolish things; For rare is the song that young love sings, But it dims at its death like the blackbird’s wings.’ That was the style of it, wasn’t it?) Everything was bright, and fair, and beautiful inthe days when you were the grande signaxe, the beau, the butterfly, Chevalier Adlowe; and I——” “And you were the peerless Gitana—the loveliest bohemienne all Mexico could boast of!” finished Ad- lowe, with a faint show of enthusiasm. La Belle Aurelian’s brow clouded, and her lips set in an unpleasantly hard line. It was evident that she did rot relish this allusion to the mysteries of her past life. It was well enough to smile over what he had been ; but putting the shoe on the other foot was quite a different affair, and Adlowe either meant to taunt her still further, or he did not read aright the expression of her beautiful face, for, without a moment’s hesitation, he concluded his unpleasant allusion by saying: “Ah! those were oe duys when, grand as I thought myself, I fell heels over head in love with re from the very hour when I saw you dancing the olero for coppers on the public green, to the im- mense delight of half a dozen Greasers, a little knot of a ee eres aeten and one ortwo old Spanish grandees who had a across the briny sea’ for the express purpose of keeping their villainous old heads on their villainous old shoulders. It was stated then that you were the young queen of one of the richest of Romany bands. I remember that I asked you why you danced for money, and you an- swered me by saying: ‘Money buys what one wants —when I have enough to purchase my revenge, senor, I shall dance no more.’ What that revenge might be, 1 recollect that Icould never drag from you, but as I see you_now, dressing and behaving far different to the Mexican gipsy of eight years ago. it is fair to presume that you have either reaped — reward, or you are on the high-road to doso. Bacchus! Eight years ago! Look at me to- night. Time has sown his most accursed thorns in my path, but heseems to have nothing but roses for you, beautiful Zillah!” . La Belle Aurelian had been writhing beneath his words much as a worm writhes when you place your heel uponit. But shecould stand no more, and asSimeon Adlowe pronounced the last word,she moved forward suddenly, clapping her jeweled hand upon his lips, and casting a startled glance over her shoulder in the direction of Geoffrey Dawn’s grave. “Hush—in God's name, hush!” she eried out bleakly. ‘“‘There may be ears in every leaf, listeners in every flower; and the name of Zillah must not be breathed above a whisper. Hush, Isay! The past. is dead and buried, and the revenge that money was to bring me is slowly but surely coming into my hands. On your life do not breathe my history aloud! On your hopes of happiness, never let that name cross your lips again. The past is dead, I tell you-—never let it be resurrected! I am no longer the Mexican Gitana. am no longer Zillah, the gipsy—I am the high-born Aurelian 8t. Aubrey, the last of a long line of mighty ancestors, the friend, companion, ay, even the trusted sister of Vivian Charnleigh’s wife!” She spoke withaswift and vehement earnestness, the Jast words coming with a bleak little hiss through the glistening line of her clenched teeth. It was now Simeon Adlowe’s turn to become agi- tated, and as La Belle Aurelian pronounced the words, ‘Vivian Churnleigh’s wife,” he drew back a little and stared at her, a wondering look crossing his blase face, his lower jaw oun. and his eyes opening to their fullest extent. We have already as- serted, that whatever Simeon Adlowe might have looked like in the flower of his youth, he was not a decidedly ee individual now, and we hasten to add that this look of blank astonishment d not improve his appearance the least atom. “The friend of Vivian Charnleigh’s wife! You?” he managed to drawl out slowly, gulping in a breath of surprise between each word. “Look here, Zil—I mean, Aurelian—I don’t want to have any mistake about this affair; I don’t want to be groping in the dark. I want the truth—I want to understand you thoroughly! Answer me: Do you mean the wife of the young fellow whose father was buried to-day? Don’t siand there and stare at me! It is my future, my life—do you understand me ?—my life that de- pends upon your words! Speak—do you mean that you are the friend of Geoffrey Dawn’s daughter?” La Belle Aurelian’s eyes were upon him, fixed in a cold, hard, stony stare that seemed to penetrate him—that seemed to read his very thoughts. “IT mean Cuptain Geoffrey John Dawn’s daugh- ter!” she answered, in measured tones. “And you are her friend ?” Her eyes were on him still. and an iey little smile glided over her imperious lips. I am her friend,” she repeated, softly, “but friends are often fulse, cher ami, friends have often purposes in this wicked world of ours! But why are you 80 anxious upon that score? What do you know of Leola Charnleigh? Look here, Simeon. I have said, ‘let the past die,’ but this much of it I will resurrect myself. Reeall your own words—recall what I said to you when you asked me why I dunced the bolero for coppers and stray bits of silver. I told you it wasto gain money with which to pur- chase my revenge, with which to secure the heritage my mother left me, and I tell you now it is for the same thing that I have become Leola Charnleigh’s ireeee t is no use for you to disguise it, your ooks, your words, your actions betray that you know something of her past—that you know tbat which may put into my grasp the power to wreak ‘| presently. word ‘Revenge!’ If gold will buy it—i®money will force it from your lips, I will give you every dollar, ay, even every penny I have hoarded, to purchase that which will bring the shadow of evil over the threshold of Charnleigh Hall!” Her lips were close to his ear now; her hand was resting on the pillars of the great Charnleigh vault, and the pale luster of starlight was upon her face. Simeon Adlowe drew back a little and looked at her from under his drooping lids. 8. 3 “So that’s the way the wind blows, is it ?” he said, “I always thought there was something of the spit-fire in you, but 1 didn’t think you were such a she-devil as this. Question for question, my dear. . What is Leola Charnleigh to you ?” “Nothing!” she answered, vehemently; “nothing but the tool, the catspaw thut must strike the blow to him! Itis hisruin I seek; it is infamy I mean to bring to the last of an ‘accursed race, and I tell you again, if you seek for money, I will place hun- dreds in your hand for the secret I know you pos- sess!” Simeon Adlowe smiled—a queer little smile that was anything but pleasant to see. “Very kindon your part,” he made reply, “but I ean make thousands by keeping my mouth shut. You have your revenge to wreak, so hayelI. My task is to drain Leola Charnleigh’s ceffers of every penny, andto drag her down in the mud and mire as I dragged—— Well, never mind! I won’t sell the secret, but, like you, I will have revenge!” | And,he thought, as he spoke, of the stinging, scornful words of Leola Charnleigh—the words he meant to make her repent. | “Tl humbie her cursed pride!” he muttered once again, his watery eyes flashing in the way they could flash when he was aroused, and his teeth shutting with a disagreeable sound. “‘I’ll hound the life out of her; 1’]l drag her down. into shame and despair, and l’ll let her high-born, honorable, young, high- and-mighty of a husband know what he’s brought on his name by this marriage!” Belle Aurelian caught her breath with one great, joyful gasp, and her eyes glittered jubilantly beneath her dusky brows. “You can do this? You haye the power to do this ?” she questioned, with a feverish impatience that was almost ferocity. “You mean to tell me that you have it in your power to make Vivian Charn- leigh suffer through his wife ?” : Adlowe crushed a great oath through his eclench- ed teeth, and let his half-closed eyes fall upon her beautiful face. He had a disagreeable knack of let- ting the lids droop when he was in earnest over anything, and it gave to his face a peculiar look that was painfully suggestive of the cat, and, some- how. made your flesh crawl. “The power to make him suffer?” he answered, with a jarring little Jaugh. ‘Well, now, don’t you run away with the idea that I hayen’t! ean make him suffer so that he’ll hate the very sight of her; that he’]l tremble with horror at the sound of her voice, and when he learns that she knew all this, and wedded_him with that dreadful secret on her eonscience, I’m not risking much when I say J be- lieve I could almost make him kill her\” The moonlight flickered on his malicious face as he spoke, and you saw that his lids drooped more than ever. and his lirs were set ina rigid line un- der his dark mustache. La Belle Aurelian uttered no cry this time, al- though his words fell like musie on her ears; but there was that upon her face more eloquent of jubi- lation than any utterance could have been. For one moment dead silence reigned. Her eyes were upon his eyes, her hand trembled en his arm, and somewhat as the serpent glides, she glided closer to him, her ears ringing with the echo of his latest. words, her senses reeling with the joy they promised. **Adlowe”—and her voice thrilled him with the keenness of her whisper—“Adlowe, by the memory of the past, I conjure you: by the love you told me onee you _ bore me, by your hopes, your dreams, by the sacred ties of vengeance, I beg of you give this secret into my hands. Nay. Ido not ask it wholly from you; lonly ask, let me share it; I only say, drag her down. Iam her trusted confidante; Iam her constant companion, and I willaid you in the work as no other being on earth could aid you; but, in God’s name, Limplore you let mesee him suffer; let me see him grovel, and whine, and die in the dust, and a life-time’s devotion shall be yours. Listen to me. When I was but a simple Gitana, you begged me to be your bride, andI laughed at you. Lam more beautiful nowthan then. I haye money; I have power. Ask me again, and put in my hands the means of vengeance upon Vivian Charnleigh, and you shall not askin vain. Adlowe! Adlowe! for God’s sake, let me be your prewper in this secret, and I will make you king of my tribe when the work is done; I will make you rich and honored for life!” It was a very tempting stake to a man of Simeon Adlowe’s’ character—very; and besides, there was nothing to lose. He looked down at the beautiful, plending, sintu] face, and read in its dreadful earnestness the truth of what she promised him. “Tell me first why you hate this Vivian Charn- leigh ?” he uttered, softly. ‘Tell me the reason you seek revenge on him,’’ “T hate him!” she hissed out, bleakly. _‘‘I hate his whole accursed race, because—because I am his half-sister—his father’s natural child!” And then, while Simeon Adlowe listened in mute, white wonder to her words, she told him the shame- ful history of the past—told him the story of that dark and terrible prophecy, and the oath she had taken to see it fulfilled. “You will not rob me of the power to do what I have sworn, now that Isee the way clearly ?” she pleaded, passionately, using every art of fascina- tion she possessed. “I will aid you in your work, and I will see him suffer, too. Oh, Simeon, Simeon, have pity, and tell me! Saythat you will tell me the secret, Simeon; in the name of pity, in the name of justice, say that you will!” Her head rested on his bosom, her arms were about him, and her eyes—those dark, voluptuous, assionute, wondrous eyes Cleopatra herself might ave envied—glittered in the watery grayness of his own, and Simeon Adlowe could resist no longer. “You shall know the secret!” he said, abruptly. “Listen: Years ago, when——” The words ended with a sudden gasp. He put her from him with a whispered cry, and sprang, with a tiger-like swiftness, behind the great Charn- leigh vault; for over the stillness had risen the echo of a human footfall, and over the belt of moonlight, far up the graveled walk, the shadow of Leola Charnleigh fell. “The girl is coming; we must not be seen to- gether!” he whispered. swiftly. ‘““‘We shall meet again—iat twelve, to-night, on the breakwater of Charnleigh Hall. Remember!” La Belle Aurelian answered him with some swift word of promise, and tlie next instant she stood alone in the moonlit pathway awaiting Leola Charnleigh’s coming. She came upthe graveled walk in the fair, faint radiance of the moonlight, a little white-faced, sad- eyed child—scarcely the being you would look for as the one to excite revengetul feelings in the bosom ofa man—looking so_ young, so pure, so pitifully innocent in her dead-black garb of mourning, and so utterly alone, so friendless and heart-hungry in the big, cold, empty world. She saw La Belle Aurelian when she was yet some half a dozen yards away, and a smile of greeting broke over her face—a wan, cold phantom of a smile, like moonlight on snow—and hurrying forward a little faster, she laid her trembling hand on the beautiful Gitana’s arm. “It was so good of you to wait so long,” she said, in a low, soft, tremulous voice that quivered with the storm of tears unshed—tears that would not come to ease herbursting heart. ‘‘I—I didn’t mean to keep you so long, but I couldn’t tear myself away —indeed, indeed, [ couldn’t! It seemed as though papa wanted me—as though it would be cruel to go away so soon and—leave him alonein that cold, damp ground. But—but God knows best; the part- ing had to come some time, and—and I am ready to go back to Vivian now, if you please.” She huddled closerto La Belle Aurelian as she ceased speaking, with the pitiful, confiding trust- fulness of a child. and clung in a frightened way to the beautiful arm that encircled her. The scheming beauty bent her dusky head and dropped a cold little kiss on the childish face that looked up into hers so pitifully. “There, there! don’t shiver so, dear!” she said, in a soft, purring yoice. “Your nerves are all un- strung—you need rest, and quiet, and change of scene. ou must tell Vivian that when he re- covers.” : “T will—I will!” she answered, with a shiver. ‘I have suffered so much since I came back to Beach Dale—oh, so very much, that I feel as though I could fly away and never care to look upon it again! When Vivian is better he shalltake me away, and, maybe, when the winter comes, 1 shall not mind coming back to Charnleigh. I’d never look on it again—never! Bly a cand a dry little sob crushed its way through her whitened lips—*‘papa’s grave is here, and I must see it sometimes; td feel as though he thought I had forgotten him, if I didn’t. romised him I would, you know, and I think the dead know when we break our promises, don’t you ?” “TI believe they hear and #ee all we say and do—I hope so, at least!’ La Belle Aurelian answered, fervently; but her thoughts were not with Geoffrey John Dawn; she_ was thinking of Redempta, the Gitana, then, and the oath she had taken beside that death-bed. “‘But come. dear, the night air is too chilly for you: we must hasten back to Charn- leigh Hall.” ola huddled closer to her, and they spoke no more. Calmly and quietly they passed away, with the white luster of starlight slumbering on the earth about them ; leaving the little city of the dead behind, and going straight to Charnleigh by the verge of the purple sea. At the door of Vivian’s chamber, Leola took her companion’s jeweled fingers in her own and pressed them to her lips. “You are so good to me!” she murmured, huskily. the evil and ruin I have emg and planned to bring about since the hour I was first able to lisp the “God knows how I would have lived through it all if it hadn’t been for you, hut—but—it is wicked and sinful, I know—but I sometimes think it would have been better had I died, too!” The jeweled hands dropped suddenly; ‘a last “Good-night!” struck on the darkened air; the door of Vivian Charnleigh’s chamber opened and closed swiftly, and La Belle Aurelian stood alone in the gloomy corridor, _ ‘Better for her had she died too!” La Belle Aure- lian repeated, a queer little smile creeping round her imperiouslips. ‘She is right—it would be bet- ter athousand times! I hate her because she loves him, pee I will crush her because she is part of im! And there came into her eyes a golden light like that in the eyes of the tigress when she crouches to spring upon her prey. On the other side of the door-way there was, in the meantime, quite a different seene. The soft radi- ance of tempered lights flooded the luxurious apartment; Tina, worn out with her long vigil, lay sleeping soundly in the satin embrace of an arm- chair; and over there; his face flushed with the fever that was in him, his gold hair tumbled, and his eyelids closed, the young master of Charnleigh lay wrapped in the first slumber that had come to him since the hour his father died. Leola let the black shawl slip from her shoulders, and with deft hands removed her hat, letting the chestnut glory of her hair fall about her in a vail that was red-gold where the light touched it, brown where the shadows elustered, and wives, and curls, and ripples everywhere. Pale and graceful as a spirit, she crossed the room with muffled tread, and sank down beside him, dropping a frightened little kiss on the locks of hair that were tumbled on his forehead. “My love! my husband!” she murmured, softly, “Oh, God, Father, spare him to me! He isuall I have to live for now! Iam learning to love him so much—oh! so very much—that it would kill me to lose him now. Oh, my love! my life! my king! God grant that nothing shall ever come between us! God grant there may be no more shadovs to fall upon our future life! My love! my love! it was Heaven that sent you tome, and I should die if I lost your love, Vivian—I should die of a broken heart. beloved!” But the time was to come when she should learn the lesson of life—when she should learn that hearts do not break beneath their burden of woe, only wither, and fade, and shrivel, even as the autumn leaves her mother’s hand had painted. * os * * * * Bg Two, by the bell in the tower of Charnleigh—and two, by the grayness that crept upward into the sky from the bosom of the purpie sea. The wayes were sobbing faintly on the sands be- low; starlight hung like a spangled vail over the slumbrous solitude of the earth beneath; and down there where the waters played, and the night was odorous with the scents of the sea—down there on the great stone breakwater, where a dark and awful tragedy was yet to be enacted, La Belle Aurelian stood, her eyes uplifted to Simeon Adlowe’s eyes, pane the moonlight on the wild, triumphant glory of er face. “It is terrible, Simeon—it will bow him down with shame!” she uttered. with a thrill of malicious glee. on mother’s wrongs shall_be avenged, my sacred oath shall be fulfilled, and I shall see him suffer—I shall see him grovel, and whine, and perish in the dust, and say to him, ‘Behold! thisis my work! I have avenged my poor mother!’ It is such a secret as he will never forgive, with his quixotic notions ot honor, and the blow will hurt the more becxuse we strike through her. Oh, God, I thank Thee! His heart isin my grip at last! We must not let them escape our malice, either of then; we must wait until he has fully recovered, and strike when the cup is sweetest at hislips. | “They will go away for a few brief weeks of travel when he is strong enough (Leola told me that to- night). When he comes back. when he is happiest, when this new love has gained a hold upon him, we must strike and strike well. Leave all in my hands. Ishall not be at loss for a plan. In the meantime if you need money, 1 will supply your wants from my own purse. But we must part now before some fatal mischance makes my absence from the house known. You may relyon my prom- ises to the last letter. Adieu, and Heaven bless you for the power you have put into my hands!” Their lips and hands met in ‘parting for one brief instant, and then La Belle Aurelian hurried away, entering the Hall by a side staircase. Silence and darkness infolded the grand old man- sion as she tripped up the carpeted stairs like some spirit of the night. and pausing on the upper land- ing. she shook her clenched hand at the door of the sick-chamber. “I know on secret at last, Leola Charnleigh!” she uttered, with a venomous little hiss. “I hold both your hearts in my grasp this night, and I will squeeze them until they are fine as ashes, and life- less as dust!” CHAPTER Ix. SPREADING THE SNARE. The light of spring-time had faded out; the sum- mer roses hid bloomed and died, and Oetober, with its russet leaves and wrathful sunsets, brooded over the world. The day was dying down, the sea lay gay and smooth under the opaque sky, and in the broad windows of Clarnleigh Hall the young heir stood with his child-bride by his side, and watched the wrathful sun go down in an oriflamme of rose and gold and purple. 4 “Tt is our last night at Charnleigh for many weeks te come, Leo,” he said, his blue eyes resting for a moment on the face that lay against his heart. ‘It will be winter when we come again and, maybe, there will be less sadness in our hearts then.” Leo looked up at him with a smile of perfect love. “IT shall miss papa’s grave. of course,” she mur- mured, softly, “but so that I have you, I shall be very happy, Vivian—I know shall. It seems wicked for me to love anything on earth like this, and sometimes I am half afraid of what may come!” She was huddling closer to him now, and he bent his head and kissed her. “Afraid, Leo? Afraid of what?” “I—I don’t know!” she stammered, softly. “but I read once that ig’ ipa love breeds passionate suffering, and, oh, Vivian, if anything should eome between us, if I should ever lose your love, my hus- band, I—I should want to die! Never let anything come between us, Vivian, oh, promise me you never will!” Her eyes were brimming with mist, and he felt her shiver in his arms. “Why, you foolish child! what can come between us ?” he answered, with a smile. ‘You must drive these gloomy thoughts from your mind, dear. It is the memories of this place that make you nery- ous and fretful. To-morrow we will begin a new life, Leo—to-morrow we will leave Charunleigh and its bitter memories far enough behind!” She did not answer him, only clung closer to his side, soothed by the words he uttered and hopeful for the new life that was to begin ‘“‘to-morrow”’— that day we mortals ever look forward to—that post obit which makes life a string of yesterdays and is only a fool’s paradise after all! : So the soft October night closed in, and when the new dawn broke, when the hollows were brimming with purple haze, when the blue eyes of the asters looked up from the russet leaves and the golden- rod swayed in the morning light, the carriage rolled out from the broad g:ites of Charnleigh, and bore them away to the few brief weeks of happiness ee they were fated to know before the dark- ness fell. The Hall had been left in Miss St. Aubrey’s charge—Miss St. Aubrey,. who had proved herself such a treasure of housekeepers, such an invalu- able friend, and who had won their gratitude and esteem completely. After that the weeks went by slowly, La Belle Aurelian and Simeon Adlowe meeting often to lay their plans—by day in the little township half a mile distant, by night on the great stone break- water of Charnleigh Hall; waiting—still waiting with a wild sort of impatience for the December day that was to bring Vivian and his bride home again, that was to be the signal for the work of ven- geance to begin. It came at last—a damp, pale, drizzly wintry day, with howling trees and a wind that tweaked your nose, and bit your ears, and made you feel blue, and dull, and uncomfortable—a day only fit for great fires, and thick wraps, and fascinating books —with whirling little drifts of snow-flakes now and then, and a pale, sickly sun that was eternally pop- ping out and popping in again, only to give prom- ise of brightness one minute, and contradict itself the next. The carriage whirled up to the gates with a shower of snow-flakes and a blast of wind, and Viv- ian sprang down and handed Leo out. The long line of servants drawn up in the hall-way, with La Belle Aurelian at their head, greeted their young mistress with a faint hum of welcome and admira- tion. She seemed to haye received a new baptism of mee, she looked so happy. so contented in her wedded bliss, gliding up the hall-way to the recep- tion-room on her proud young husband’s arm— more beautiful a thousand times than La Belle Aurelian now, for one was the proud, cold, imperi- ous beauty of Faustine; the other was the soft, sweet, innocent loveliness Raphael gave to his Ma- donna, and you liked that delicate, spiritual, flower- like face the best, for it had nothing earthly about it. Dinner was over. . Leo had lingered by her hus- band’s side “over the walnuts and the wine;” the afternoon was closing in hopelessly drear and win- tery, and the young couple, for the want of better amusement, had betaken themselves to the warmth and comfort of the library—Vivian to puff away in supreme happiness over his Havana; Leo to huddle closely to the blazing logs and try her best to be- come interested in the pages of the last new novel. In the midst of this quiet little scene of domestic happiness, the library door swung open with a gentle creak. and La Belle Aurelian glided into the room, announcing with a singular sort of em- phasis that a gentleman was below—an English artist, she believed—who had taken a fancy to the - Acne nan scenery of the Hall, and wished Vivian’s consent to take some sketches of the house and grounds. “Besides this, he has a large portfolio of pictures he has gethemd in different part of the world,” she finished, ‘‘and as the day was so dull and dreary, I thought Mrs. Charnleigh might while away a few hours by looking over them.” “Wants to take some sketches, eh?” repeated Vivian, knocking the ashes from his cigar, * very well—I don’t mind; and if they are good I'll get him to make some for me, too, What do you say, Leo? Would you like to look over the fellow’s pictures ?” “The day is so dreary, anything will do for a change,” murmured Leo, closing her novel and tossing it aside. “But pray do not let us leave the library—itis the only warm spot in the house to- day. Let_the gentleman come up here, Miss St. Aubrey. I amsure we shall like to look over his paintings.” La Belle Aurelian answered with a sweeping bow, and softly quitted the room. The clock ticked steadily on; the fagots cracked with a warming sound; the wind took on a melan- choly sort of whine as it drove through the writhing trees, and the waves were booming faintly cown there on the silver sands. Leo had risen and joined her husband atthe window—happy, both of them, but with no thought that the shadow had fallen, and this was the last confiding, trustfulhour, | The door creaked and swung open again. La Belle Aurelian’s voice was heard announcing the visitor, and they in the window turned quietly. He stood in the center of, the room, a portfolio under his arm, his hat in his hand—stood, with his watery eyes on Leo Charnleigh’s face, clearly revealed by the iight of the blazing logs—Simeon Adlowe! CHAPTER X. INTO DARKENED WAYS. Leola surveyed him with the calmest of calm in- difference. That meeting in the old grave-yard had entirely slipped her memory, and to her it seemed that she was looking on Simeon Adlowe’s face for the first time in life. Vivian, not a little surprised by the insolent, sarcastic expression of the man’s face upon being presented to Leo, hastened to break the ice by saying: ; ‘Miss St. Aubrey tells me you have some pictures of foreign travel, sir, which you desire to show to Mrs. Charnleigh and myself, Adlovwe shifted his eyes from Leo, and flared them into Vivian’s face. : : “T have, sir,” he said, laying the plethoric port- folio down. ‘Some are my own work; some I have eollected and nearly all have a history. Here is a little bit painted by a poor fellowI knew who lost his head over a woman and went tothe dogs. It is a charming trifle, you see—the Numa Gallery of the Borgias sketched in Ferrara.” | He passed the picture to Vivian as he spoke, and Miss St. Aubrey lingered near, drinking in all that passed, watching with a tiger-like expectancy. The heir of Charnleigh took the picture and held it so that the light feli fully upon it, ; “Oh, by George! that’s beautiful!” he ejxculated. “The fellow was an artist, at least. Look here, Leo, isn’t this exquisite?” ? ; Leola moved forward and_ bent over his chair, watching the pictures one by one, with never a thought of evil, and never a shadow of fear; making a beautiful picture, too, herself, leaning there in her soft, loose robe of pearl-colored velvet and azure satin; the firelight dancing on her beautiful, spirii- ual face, the Charnleigh diamonds flashing on her soft, white, listless hands, locked and resting on her husband's shoulder. , : The pictures were the work of different artists, Adlowe told them, yet the same soft, familiar touch, the same exquisite beauty of coloring that suggest- ed a woman’s work was upon every one of them, and a connoisseur, looking upon those gems of art, would have said outright: “These are the work of one hand, and a woman was the artist. Men paint bolder; women go into fine detail.” : And, entre nous, dear reader, the connoisseur would have spoken the truth! f But the heir of Charnleigh was no art critic; his wife boasted of no perceptive ability in things like that, and they admired the pictures, and were happy, standing on the verge of a quicksand. he collection was quite large and very beauti- ful—"“The Rocks of Gibraltar,” ‘“Moonlight on the Tiber,” ‘The Vatican,” ‘Westminster Abbey,” “Blackfriar’s Bridge,” and numberless others. | Vivian laid the last one down with regret, think- ing the interview was over; but Adlowe had quietly taken another parcel from his portfolio and was deftly unfastening the string. : : : “TL have here a collection of English beauties,” he said, with » queer sort of smile. “One or two of them painted on ivory.” H sin eds Vivian took the first one and passed it to his wife. It was the face of a dark-eyed. dark-haired Spanish + pega with rose-flushed cheeks and laughing ips. “It is very beautiful!” he murmured, extending his hand forthe next. But not so beautiful as his own brilliant bride, he thought. The next was an English lady of rank. Vivian passed it by withouta word of comment. There was no face so beautiful as Leo’s, he thought. There were five pictures in all. The fourth lay on his knee; the fifih was in Simeon Adlowe’s hand, and his eyes were on Leo Charnleigh’s face. She was yet looking at the last picture, while Adlowe extended the other and said: “This was a lady I knew, sir, and her history was the saddest I ever heard!” Vivian took the picture and looked at it with a little ery of surprise. It was a glorious face that looked at him—the face of agirl of sixteen, with drifting chestnut hair and eyes of violet blue—a face strangely, wonderfully like his wife’s. “Look, Leo, look! How beautiful it is!’ He put the picture into his wife’s hand. Leo ut- tered a breathless, gasping cry of horror and _sur- rise, and the next moment she wheeled round and ooked struight into Simeon Adlowe’s eyes, her face grown awiully, terribly white and corpse-like, her lips parted in a pallid line. ; And inthat single look she recognized the man who stood betore her; she lived again that moonlit moment over her father’s grave, and she knew this man held the secret of her life! Slowly she extended the picture, her eyes still resting upon Simeon Adlowe’s face. “Did—did you paint this ?” she faltered, dreading to hear that he knew the original. “No,” he answered her. “The lady painted it herself, and gave it to me with her own hands.” Leo started back with a shuddering cry, and let the picture drop as though it was red-hot. Vivian saw that she was falling, and sprang up with a startled cry. | “Leo, Leo, what is the matter?” he questioned, eagerly. “My darling, are you ill?” But Leo made him no reply. She was staring wildly, stonily, awfully into Simeon Adlowe’s face. “Leo, Leo, my darling! what ails you?” Vivian cried again, and this time she made an effort to smile. “It is nothing—nothing!” she answered, faintly. “Oh, only a trifling pain—my head swims aund—and —oh, Vivian, Vivian!” “Tt is the lady’s nerves,” suggested Adlowe, with a strange little smile. “‘The pictures beguiled one hour; perhaps Mrs. Charnleigh would like me to be- guile another by the story of the hapless lady whose portrait lies at her feet ?’ r x But Leo shrank backward with a frightened ery. “Not for worlds, not for worlds!” she gasped, bleakly. “I—I want to lie down and rest now. You can come again and tell me the story, Mr.—Mr.—— Pardon me; I forget your name!” Adlowe had gathered up his pictures and now moved toward the door. On the threshold he turn- ed and looked back. “My name is Simeon Adlowe, Mrs. Charnleigh!” he answered, with an insolent sneer. “Good-day, sir. Thanks for your kindness. I will come to-mor- row to make my sketches!” — But Vivian scarcely heard his Eris words. The name “‘Adiowe!” had eseaped his wife’s lips in a bleak und frightened whisper; her hands fluttered wildly before her, a dimness came over her eyes, and asthe door closed gently behind the pseudo artist, she fell backward in a limp white heap, and ie his feet in a dead swoon. he frightened cry that escaped the young hus- band’s lips at this sight, fell like music on La Belle Aurelian’s ears. , **Leo, Leo, my darling!” he called out, frantically, dropping on his knees beside her, and lifting her beautiful head. “Good heavens! how sudden this illness is. It was thus her father died, and—oh, no, no. Heaven could not be go cruel! My darling, my darling, speak to me! Ring for her maid, Miss St. Aubrey, ring for her maid!” La Belle Aurelian obeyed him with a cruel sneer upon her lips. but before the maid could reach the library, Leo had recovered her consciousness. “Oh, my darling, my darling!” the young husband erie. “You have frightened me so, Pray let me send for the doctor. This terrible illness alarms me. She lifted her white, ghostly face to his, and tried her best to smile; but it.was such a sad attempt, such a pitiful, ghastly, mirthless smile. “It is nothing—nothing!” she answered, hoarsely. “I—I shall be better soon. Sitting so long by the fire has made me faint and ill. Pray don’t mind me, don’t send forthe doctor. I want to lie down and rest forawhile. I shall be better soon, I shall be better soon!” He did not offer to stay her. pletely that her will was law. Quietly she groped her way from the room, blind- ly she staggered up the long, dark, tortuous stairs, and reeled into her own boudoir. The daylight was deepening into darkness, the sickly glare came flickering into the room, and with a piteous, moaning ery she fell on her knees be- fore the window, and rested her white cheek on the broad sill. **Adlowe! my God, Adlowe!’” she murmured, hoarse- ly. “He has found me out; he has tracked me down, He loved her so com- nia eas ae sets emer, and, henceforth, all peace for me is dead. Oh, papa, papa, why did you draw that promise from me? I cannot speak now—Il dare not, for I gave my oath to the dead, and 1 am lost, lost, lost!” Ay. worse than lost, poor cbild! since the calm- ness of a husband’s perfect trust would never come again, for down there in the library, at that very moment, La Belle Aurelian was instilling the first poisonous drops into his brain, was opening be- tween them avast and awful chasm—a gulf no hue man power could bridge. And so, while the dreary December day closed in, while the winds were howling and the sea-waves beat, the prophecy of Redempta, the Gitana, began to work out its darkened end, and’the first shadow of the seaffold fell over Vivian Charnleigh’s path! (TO BE CONTINUED.) MAGGIE O’HARA’S WEDDING. A COMPLETE EXPOSE OF MARRIAGE INSURANCE. —-— A LOVE TALE OF LOVELAND. By JNO. D. MISSINER. (“Maggie O’Hara’s Wedding” was commenced in No, 12. Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers. ] CHAPTER VIII. MRS. O’HARA’S PLAN, “That’s the sort of a wedding those marriage pirates would like to tie you to,” said Coffin to Terry, as they drove away from the festivities in the after- noon. They had seen all, and heard all. reply. “They’re @ fine gang, those gentlemanly agents! Now. how long do you suppose that patent match will hold out? How long before that nuptial knot will be untied ?” “An iniquitous disgrace!’ muttered Terry. “TI never saw such @ horribly vulgar display in all my life. Why, that minister ought not to have performed the ceremony.” “Tut, tut, man! That minister is an interested party in three of the companies holding insurance on the couple. I’ll admit he is a minister of not much standing, but still he is licensed to preach.” “Well, sir, rather than I’d submit to a marriage like that, I’d go and hang myself!” said Terry. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with these land- pirates, would you?” “No, sir,” emphatically replied Terry; ‘nothing whatever. If I couldn’t get. married to the girl I love without having the aid of ill-gotten gains to make me the laughing-stock of the country, I’d re- main a bachelor all my life—willingly, gladly.” ‘Well, sir, the way those agents swooped down on the O’Hara family was a caution, Terry. They just coolly put $75,000 in policies on Maggie. Of course, I don’t blame the young lady at all. It’s her mother that’s at the bottom of it.” The more they spoke about it, the more Terry vowed he would never marry Maggie O’ Hara under the circumstances. — When they arrived home, Terry found the squire waiting for him. Coffin drove away, first telling Terry he would see him for sure next morning. Terry told the squire of the day’s experience. His disgust absolutely alarmed the squire; and when Terry vowed that the craze was worse than grave- yard insurance, the squire arose from his seat and angrily walked away. Terry followed him up. “What I mean by that is, squire, that instead of making corpses out of old people, the business I saw to-day is making absolute wrecks of young peopte, blighting their lives, bringing about forced and im- proper marriages, giving lessons and examples in the most shocking extravagance, and corrupting the morals of every respectable young couple that is unfortunate enough to fall into their grasp. Further than that, squire, if you see Mrs. O’Hara before I do, tell her for me that she cannot bargain and gamble on my wedding; and before I ever become her son-in-law. she has got to destroy and burn up every evidence of every contract she ever made wit a@ Marriage insurance agent !”” “Well, we'll see about that!” said the squire, rr and tartly; ‘“‘we’ll see about that, The idea of such a bright young man, of whom we all ex- pected so much, to allow himself to be drawn on by the class of men who appear to have you under their thumb!” Terry made no reply, and the squire turned on his heel, jumped into his wagon, and drove away. “The scamp!” thought the squire. ‘‘What’s the use of me bothering my brain about him or his affairs? Getup,Jule!” — And he whipped up his mare to a lively trot to- ward the humble home of Widow O’Hara. Before he reached there, however, he muttered to himself: “This wedding of Maggie O’Hara’s has got to come off! It won’t do to let those men putup a job like that onus. Oh,no! Asevere blow like that to our business would cause a scandal all over the country, and crack us below the belt hard enough to knock the life out of us. Oh, no; they can’t doit, Terry’s got to marry the widow’s daughter. just as the old woman has planned it. Widow O’Hara, I think, is equal to the task; andif she can’t manage Terry with my assistance, and the assistance of every agent in the State if it is necessary, why, we’ll know the reason.” Widow O’Hara had a smile and a kindly greeting for the squire. He told her all he knew, and deliv- ered the message of Terry. Maggie was an eager lis- tener, and when the squire broke the news, the young woman burst into tears and left the room. “Poor girll”’ exclaimed the widow; “to think of that heartless scape-grace bringing all this sorrow and grievance to her young heart; it’s a downright shame, so it is! Turned a reformer, has ‘he? Oh, the foine, noice young gintleman. Too nice to admit of his poverty! Too nice to take a present from an agent! Too nice to marry an honest, industrious girl, whose good, kind, and loving mother is tryin’ to do the best she can to make them comfortable in the world! O,ho! it is that kind of an honorable man Mister Terry is, to be sure. Well, we’ll see about that. He is not the only man in the world. Not the only man that loves that girl. Oh, no. There’s Patsy MeTague, down at the swamp, as nice and as foine a young gintleman as ever tasted his mother’s milk; why, he’d marry the girl this very night if I’a but say the word. No, no, squire, have no fears. Maggie O’Hara’s going to be married, and that right soon. The wedding is going to come off, squire, and when the hour arrives you bet your bottom dollar a gentleman will be on hand to become her husband.” The widow, who had been ironing and talking, brought down her flat-iron with a crash upon the stand, as if she never was more earnest in her life, and the squire meditated a moment, firmly believing she meant every word she said, “Do. you propose to send for Terry?’ asked Ketchem. “Send for the scape-grace? Not at all, not at all squire. That would bea purty how-dy-doo! Send for him? No, no! If he never enters this dour with- out me sendin’ for him, he’ll remain a stranger here as long as he lives.” “But how about the girl?’ inquired the squire. “Never moind,” said Mrs. O’Hara. ‘‘We’ll arrange all that. You drive down to the swamp on business, you understand. See the McTague at man that I spoke of awhile ago, and* engage with him in con- versation about any trifling matter of business you may conveniently think of. Tell him there’s a man from Hoboken, N. J., in the village, that sent you for him. He’ll think it’s his uncle, and he’ll gladly go with you. Find it convanient to shtop here as pa pass by. Ill be at the gate, and be much surprised tosee you both. Then I’ll ask the oe young man to come in,as I’ve a letter from his aunt’s ecousin’s mother-in-law, which he may want to read. That will be renewin’ the ould acquaintance. Maggie will be in the room, and—leave the rest to me, squire.” he squire approved the plan, and soon afterward drove away. CHAPTER IX, HAPPY LOVERS. Terry’slove for Maggie was honest, deep, and sin- cere. He detested her mother, however, since he had heard of her insurance freak. Maggie also ten- derly and devotedly loved Terry. There was no mis- take about that. Maggie had listened at the key- hole, and when she heard her mother tell the squire all of her outrageous plans about marrying the Mc- Tague young man, Maggie knew that the old woman was never more deceived in her life, and that she would no more think of marrying him than jump in the river. So Maggie concluded to see Terry as so00n as possible. She made up her mind not to stand on ceremony and wait until he came. She went up to her room by the back stair-way, and hastily wrote as follows: “DEAR TERRY: Lose no time, but come to our cherry tree at our front gate, to-night at eight o’clock, for sure, T have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Signed MAGGIE.” Terry made no She folded the note, put it in an envelope, ad- te, lianas VA. sOyarena ta lest een eat iret edie nS LS TI tn priest,” said Maggie. 6 dressed it, put it in her pocket, and quietly and quickly descended. In the back yard was a neigh- bor’s boy, and for tive cents. he rapidly disappeared with the message toward the Black Horse tavern down the road. Widow O’Hara had a great deal of condemnation for Terry when Maggie came in. ‘Don’t disgrace your eyes, darlin’, on waping for the loikes of Terry Gowan! There’s plenty of fish in the sea as good as ever were caught !” Then Mrs. O’Hara began praising the virtues, man- ly qualities, and good looks of Patsy McTague. hnd how he wanted to be courtin’ you, see And howhardit was for him to stop comin’ here when he found out that your preferences were for that awfully nice young gentleman, Mr. Terence Gowan. I guess his father’s name was Mickgowen, and the son in his ‘pride dropped the Mick ot it.” The widow did all she could ‘to induce’ Maggie to think less of ‘her accepted lover and saya kindly word for the young man down at the swamp. Mrs. O’Hara was preparing her daughter for the coming of Patsy McTague with the squire, and Maggie was preparing-herself for the coming of Terry. » As luck would-have it, the squire’s wagon-wheel broke and hé was delayed two hours down the road. Widow O’Hara became weary of waiting, and she closed the house to retire. Maggie went to thefront gate to lockit, and to her great joy she saw Terry approaching. j The most affectionate embrace quietly followed, showing that all was well. In afew minutes Maggie had explained all. Terry also told his story, and the result was that. the lovers promised»to,meet each other the néxt forenoon at ten in the village. They kissed and parted, and when Maggie joined her mother in the kitchen the widow never for a moment suspected what had taken place. The daughter was very well pleased at this, and when her mother re- marked that Maggie would have to go to the store in the villagenext day forneededgroceries, Maggie im- agined that her star of good fortune had never shone so brightly before. The more she thought about those promised. wedding gifts the more she detested them. She agreed with Terry that it was a mean and despicable way of doing business, pects bribes and encouraging a species of gambling that was hor- rible to contemplate. She wished that those orders in that tea kettle in the cellar were in the kitchen fire. ; Mother and daughter went to bed that night in dif- ferent moods. Mrs. O’Hara thought the squire had turned traitor, and she was sullen and silent. Mag- gie was planning for the next day’s work. : Maggie was up and about soonafter daybreak, sing- ing like a lark. Milking was never so quickly and easily done before ; the fire never burned better, and the potatoes were never so nicely browned. Maggie put the milk nicely away in the cellar, and before she came up. she dug up the kettle, took out the or- ders, pnt in some folded blank paper, put. down the kettle and covered it as nicely as it was before, put the papers‘in her pocket and came singing’ up stairs, as happy as a bird and busy as a bee. Widow,O’Hara . thought,her daughter was one of the most industri- - ous in the world. Breakfast over} Maggie prepared herself for the store. I a possible, as she expected company, that Maggie would very much like to see, The widow had refer- Sence to Patsy Me Tague; and the'daughter knew all about it. Promptly, at ten o’clock, Maggie and Terry met in ‘ the villagé, and took a stroll in the direction of the cemetery on the hill; Then Maggie drew. from her pocket the orders that) were given. by, the, insurance agents, saying: : : bim, and, not wishing to create a sensation for him~ new acquaintances. The girls and boys of the fami- }. , “And yet they took a high flight on the Christz are Eve. Well, you are righ ey and the wedding th Lat poriet iy This was assented to without a struggle, and Uncle Salathiel went home to devote several months’ preparation for the happy event. It was now verging toward the fall, and as Jasper and Lucy were enjoying a walk in Central Park a person met them, with his face profusely covere with hair, and with long locks hanging down his back, He was dressed in a velvet, coat, elaborately frogged in front, and wore a soft felf hat drawn down over his eyes, As they approarhed cach other there seemed to be a mutual attraction between the two. and when’ they met both cried, excitedly: “Victor!” ‘Tinto !”? And acted like insane Shakers. Well, my dear Tinto,” said Jasper, ‘‘from what lanet haye you dropped upon this scene? But be- ore you answer, let. me introduce to you a young lady, the prineess of the lordly domain—my picture at the Cafe Deux Freres—that you doubtless re- member.” “Ah, well I do, Victor, and I am delighted to meet with one so-worthy of regal honors (lifting his hat). Poor Mahl and Stylus should be here, but they drift- ed from me out into the world, and Ihave not seen them since.” ‘And your own fortune?” ‘But indifferent, and yet I am not so badly off as some. The world uses me as well as I deserve, and I have never had oceasion to adopt the role of the Barmecide.” Come to me,” said Jasper, shaking him by the hand, and giving him his card, ‘to-morrow, any time, all the time, if you will, and we will enjoy the feast ot that Christmas Eve again, with something more substantial than black bread and dried fruit.” _ 1 will do so,” was the reply; “but in the mean- time, where is our benefactor, the picture-buyer?” Oh, he will be forthcoming in good time. Come to-morrow, and I will make arrangements for your seeing him. Good-by till then.” They parted, and Jasper told Lucy the story of the strange feast on Christmas Eve, and of their struggles and their need, whereat she laughed and wept. She had heard the story before, however, from Uncle Salathiel’s lips, but it had no less inter- est when related by him she loved. . The wera as had been arranged, took place at the Highland Farm, where Tinto was welcomed by his patron of the Cafe Deux Freres, who had the name, in large illuminated letters, over the door, and the hospitality of the former scene was fully equaled at this. The neighbors long had oceasion to remember the Christmas on the hill. . Tinto never went back to Paris, finding ope here toremploy him: Time swept away the brothers, and before Jasper was an old man he realized the early dreams of his youth; the stone-front house for winter in the city, and the farm in summer, where for years on the barn-door appeared a rude picture, drawn with chalk, representing the family tradition of the Hopkins family—the participation of their ancestor in the battle of the Boyne by hold- ing a horse. Ls : [THE END.] “Pi BiRnd dh Chak [*Beyond Pardon” was commenced in No! 44. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.) © CHAPTER LXy. A FRIEND’S PROMISE. That journey down the Nile, with its wonders, its noyelties, its never-ending beauties, ‘was the turn- ing point of Sir Lionel’s life, Before that he had been light of purpose, light of heart, careless, reck- less in a certain fashion; he had lived his own life, and thelife of others had not greatly interested him; he had not thought much of the wonders of creation, or the marvelous works that muke the world so'wonderful. : Now a new lifevcame to him; the constant com- }panionship of the ‘clever, thoughtful, ‘intelectual traveler did wonders for him, and Sir Lionel Mar- yeled at the difference between men and/ men. ‘Those he met in London had) few topics of conyer- sation—the beauty of a woman's face, the amount some friend or other had lost at play, the grace and finish of the last danseuse, the probable winner of the Derby or the Oaks. the last piquant seandal, these were the themes that engrossed them; among the more earnest. portion of the community, poli- oe literature, and the fine arts diversified the matter. cit But this man, with his great, beautiful soul full of reverence, his great, earnest heart full of truth and wonder, differed from them.as diamonds. from paste. He had a magnificent soul; he was net one of the polished, highly cuitivated mena who abound on the surfade of the globe, but he was a gentleman at heart. i He lived only for seience; no, woman’s_ face had ever tempted him from his, mistress. If ever he thought of love or marriage, it was with a mild won- der that men should concern themselves so deeply over what seemed to him such trifles. No wonder, no beauty of creation, ever_escaped him; he saw beauty in the humblest weed, in the smallest shell that lay on the sea-shore, in the least drop of water, in the tiniest leaf that grew upona tree, the least blade of grass. His mind was. a storehouse of wonders, and lis- tening to him was better than reading the finest book or listening to the fimest sermon, “From nature’s work,to, nature’s God,” was his constant and unwearying text. To live with such a man was in itself an education, and Sir Lionel profited by it. The wonders of that grand old country were un- yailed before him; he saw the mighty river, the very home of mystery and romance; he saw the great Pyramids, the Sphinx, the ancient monuments of a grandeur that has no parallel, h and all left their separate impression on his mind; eachand all had a separate influence on him: It struck him every day with fresh wonder how frivolous were the ordinary lives of men. Looking at these mag- nificent monuments of antiquity, he felt ashamed of the want of greatness in his own life, of his friv- olous, weak,; foolish, vain ways. Even the pursuit of pleasure seemed very smal! to him then, and the love of women smaller still: but the great stars of honor and loyalty, the grand light of a noble life burned before him more brightly than they had ever done. And with that great longing for a bet- ter, nobler, and more useful life came.a great and humble sorrow for the wrong he had: committed. How small and mean all his pursuits seemed to him now. He had so eagerly sought pleasure, no matter in what shape, whether it was sport, hunting; shoot- ing, fishing, whether it was in the fair words: of praise that were always so pleasing to him, while the duties of life were certainly and most cruell neglected. Where was the wife whom Heaven hac given him to love and cherish? Where were the children committed to his care? Where the infe- riors depending on him ?> __ Where was he, who should have been the guide ofall? Why, even the servants of his household could not utter his name without blushing. There was not much in such a life as this. How he wished that with his youth he might have had experience. Willie Nicholl had grown. very fond of his com- peulems he was pleased, too, to see the change that had come over him; how the despair, the cynicism, the bitterness that had filled his heart, was gradu- ally giving way to a nobler, higher, better feeling— how his mind and brain were growing into higher, ireer thought. And Willie Nicholl never preached to him from any other than the wonders of creation, amet those words—"From nuture’s work to nature’s 04 They were the best and truest of friends; they talked for long hours, but never argued ; thestronger mind at once mastered the weaker one and retained its ascendency. : They came-to Cairo, a city in which Willie Nicholl reyeled, but Sir Lionel seemed anxious to quit. “Why do you_not_wish to remain here, Lionel?” asked his friend. ‘‘Do you not like the place?” “Yes, it is not that, but there are somany Eng- lish here, and I do not care about meeting any nglish. “Still the old skeleton in the closet,” said Willie. “Yes, it is still there; and not likely to leave me,’ replied Sir Lionel. “‘There is no friend so pata as that sameskeleton. Do not stop in Cairo, “Not against your wish; certainly,” said the traveler. é That same evening they were sitting together in the balcony smoking, and enjoying what was sup- — to be some real ‘Bass’ Bitter,’ when Willie icholl looked up suddenly at his friend. © ‘We have been true friends and trusty comrades now, Lionel, for some years,” he said. “We have shared the same dangers, the same perils, the same purse. We are true friends. Now, I feel inclined to ask you at last the story and the secret of*your life. .This kind of existence is right forme; Lam a traveler by nature—I could never been any- thing else. Home and home-ties. honre-affections, have no great interest forme. Explorers. like poets, are born, not made. Iam at:home in ‘my life—I wish for no other; and if Leould go home to-mor- row to England, to live at my ease oniten thousand a year, I would not doit. But with you it is differ- ent; you were not born to bea tra’ yand in all probability you have ties at home.” have, indeed,’ gronned Sir Lionel.: “I. do not think its»vould answer for you to lead this wandering life always.” said Willie Nicholl. “I haye studied your character, and I see paar you fitted for. Ido not urge you to tell me your se- eret, but I think itwill do you good to trust in me— I may help, you, too.” ms “LTassure you,” replied Sir Lionel, ‘that Ihave no j i we + ene Renta Ne ss stn onimpanteganamememmncsmiran? ¥ a . di x ° - } a a» ey ~ FEB. 12, 1888, = hesitation in telling you my story but this—that I am quite ashamed of it.” “You are not the first or only man who has made great mistakes,” said Willie. ““Whohas not? Itis as natural to men to make mistakes as it is for sparks to fiy upward.” . er. o “But I was acoward!” cried Sir Lionel. “Men will forgive each other almost anything, but they seldom torgive the fact that a man has been a coward. We two have stood by each other while death has stared us in the face—death by fire and by water, by hunger and cold, by the sword of men and the tusks of wild beasts, yet I never found you a coward, Lionel. Sir Lionel shook his head gravely. : “My cowardice was of a different nature,” he said, “it was moral, not physical. In the first place, I eould not resist the prayers of a beautiful woman; in the second, I could not find the courage to go back tothose I had wronged. I will tell you, old friend and comrade, the story of my life, and you shall judge me as you will.” : : “It will make no difference to me, Lionel,” said the traveler. “I,have loved but few people in my life, but you are one of them. With me to love once is to love always; nothing that you can tell me will make any difference to me; I have found yon true, brave, loyal, courageous, and noble, and I shall think of you always, love you always as I have found you. You may tell me frankiy what you will about yourself without fear.” ; Sir Lionel was silent forsome minutes. It was a terrible effort for him tomake. He loved Willie Ni- choll, he was proud of the great traveler’s liking for him; proud of their friendship. eo _ In his secret heart he had been flattered by Willie’s admiration for him, they were strangely mated. yet they thoroughly agreed, and now he had to tell the story which would in all human probability destroy his friend’s liking and admiration both. It was a trial, and he looked gravely anxious over it. Willie Nicholl noted it, but waited patiently. | “He is a good fellow,” thought Willie, “a fine fel- low, too good to be allowed to go to the bad in this way, too good for his whole life to be wasted in what may only be a folly, some unfortunate love affair; how many men, good and true men, split upon that track. F ; “lean understand a man going mad if he fails to find the source of a river, fails to find his way into the heart of an unknown land, fails to find out that on which he has set his whole heart; but to go mad over a woman or over women, it is past my compre- hension, it is indeed.” 7 baru : “T am long in beginning,” said Sir Lioned, taking up another cigar. : i : “IT can wait,” replied his friend, “there is no im- mediate hurry; you need not tell me to-night, wait until another day if you will.” “No,” said Sir Lionel, “if 1t be done ai all, let it be now. I should like you to understand the strength of my temptation, and the weakness of my fall. have hardly been able to measure the extent of my own guilt. You shall measure it for me.” “Tt is true,” said Willie Nicholl. “that I have studied the world of nature more: deeply than the world of men; but I must say this one thing: I have never yet met with a man who had not in his life made great mistakes—committed great sins—been guilty of great follies. Now, why should you be more ashamed than the rest of us?” “Only that I have been more foolish and more wisser than the generality of men,” said Sir 1onel. “That is _a very candid admission,” said Willie Nicholl. “Before you tell_me your story, I should like to know one thing. You say that you will be content with my judgment—that I shall tell you phe kly and honestly the full measure of your guilt.” “Yes, I mean that,” said Sir Lionel. “T will do it.” said Willie, honestly as ever a man spoke; ‘but you must let me do one thing more. ou must let me find you the remedy, and you must promise me to abide by it; will you ?” “Yes,” said Sir Lionel, “I will. Whatever you think it best for me to do, I will do. Igive you my word for it!” CHAPTER LXVI. “Tl HAVE SINNED BEYOND PARDON.” The story was told. When Sir Lionel began his recital a hot sun was shining in the heavens; when he finished, the large white moon had turned to silver everything it had shone upon. Willie Nicholl had spoken never a word. Notby question or com- ment had he interrupted the course of that narrative. and only Heaven knew how great the relief of tell- ing that story was to Sir Lionel. It had festered in his heart, it had rankled in his blood: he had brood- ed over it until his whole life was shadowed, and marred, and spoiled. oan Now, even as the shameful words left his lips, his heart seemed lighter. f : “T have done well to tell him,” he said, as he waited for his friend’s verdict. “I feel better even ow.” But Willie Nicholl sat looking very grave; he had imagined that his friend had somestrange story to tell, but he had not thougbt of anything iike this.. He had never met with anything like it in all his experience. _Better, after all, the study of rivers and seas, of hills and mountains, of forest and aa; of sandy desert and open plain, than of man- ind. “Now,” said Sir Lionel, “I have told you the plain simple, horrible truth; do not spare me; tell me frankly what you think of me ?” “TJ will,” replied his friend. “In the*first place, I admit it is most assuredly the strangest story I have ever heard. Itisa most unsatisfactory story. If I had read it, [should have made this remark to myself, that the characters in it are not satisfactory. You, for instance, you wanted either greater good- ness or greater wickedness; either you should have resisted the temptation from the first, or you should have—well, you should have managed differently ; and that poor girl, too, Vivian, Countess of Lynn, she should have been better or worse; either she should have resisted the temptation from the be- ginning, or she should have remained with you. There is a weakness about you both; or perhaps, if I gave it its right name; I should say a strength in her that I do not understand. It seems strange that she was willing toleave her husband, and yet would nottake you from. your wife and children.” “Pell me,” said Sir Lionel, boldly, “what you think of me. Do not spare me.” “LT think,” said the great traveler, slowly, that you acted entirely without principle. You were true to neither woman—not to the wife you loved, and not to the woman who loved you. [see all to blame and nothing to admire in your conduct; in Lady Lynn I see much to admire.” “You agree that I was a coward ?” “Yes. Physically brave, you were a coward then, and your cowardice has ruined three lives.” Sir Lionel had asked for the truth; but now, as he heard it, it hit him hard. He winced under it. “That is your judgment of me,” he said, “and you love me. You are my friend; think for me what the judgment of other men will be, and ask yourself if 1 can ever go among them again.” “Yes,” replied Willie Nicholl; “I think you can. Twill teli you all I think. To begin with—it is a bad case—weak, foolish—a useless wreck of three valuable lives. The weakness of men and the van- ity of women—the, reckless selfishness of both—are well exemplified. Your wife. Elinor, Lady Rydal, seems to me to be a queen among women—an angel of goodness, of purity, and devotion,” “She is all that and more,”:said Sir Lionel, sadly. “You forsook the substance for the shadow,” said Willie Nicholl. “I did,” replied sir Lionel. Yet. as he uttered the words, something in his heart pleaded for Vivian —poor Vivian, who had loved him so well, yet who had given him up. : He could not bear to hear hard words said of her, and yet it was he who had dragged her down from her high estate. ; “In my heart.” continued Willie Nicholl, “Iam most sorry for Lady Rydal. it seems to me the whole weight of the sin has fallen on her; and that a young, beautiful, innocent woman should suffer so terribly from the faults of othersis a cruel and most bitter thing. 4 , “Tam sorry, too,” he continued, “for the girl who loved you, a beautiful, impassioned, lovely, lonely woman, according to your description. Her story seems to me simply PR Oe one in the extreme. For yourself—old friend and old comrade none the less dear for your sin—for yourse]{f I have ne pity. our want of ACPI. your reckless playing with fire, has ended as.such things always end, and you must suffer to the end of your life for your sin.” “I know it,” replied Sir Lionel, sadly. : “There is one thing I do think,” continued Willie Nicholl, ‘and it is this—you are bound to do what you can to retrieve, your position; at present it is one of humiliation and shame. There is nothing on earth so bad but that it may be improved. Cer- tainly you. can improye on the present state of talngs. : What do you. suppose has become of Lady yun ?’ “I do not know,” replied Sir Lionel. “And that is one of my greatest troubles. I never forget her, and I never cease to wonder where she is or what has become of her.” “Lynn!” repeated the great traveler. something in that name familiar to me. it somewhere, and _yery lately, too.” Sir Lionel looked anxiously at him. “Have you? Try to remember where and how ?” “Ldoremember,” said Willie. “It was in one of the English hotels, You would not go with me lest you should meet English people, and I read all the papers. Iremember very well it was the death of ord Lynn.” ? “T wonder,” interrupted Sir Lionel, “if she had gone back to him.” \ ‘No, I am sure she had not, because this very paragraph spoke of her disappearance, and said that no news had been heard of her since.” “So he is dead,” said Sir Lionel. ‘I hope he has forgiven me the wrong I did him.” “He was never very happy with her, I suppose ?” said Willie. : “TL should think he must have been quite forty 7 ere is I have seen . 3 years older than she was; and he was a stern, ir- ritable old man. She had a miserable life of it, poor child! How beautiful and lovin “Worthy of a better fate,” sai “Yes, worthy of a bétter fate. she can marry again.” And he wondered if the beautiful, impassioned hud loved him so dearly would ever learn to care woman who for any one else. “It seems to me, Lionel,” said Willie Nicholl, “that you ought to set this lady straight in the eyes of the world; indeed. [think you ought to have done it long-an9. It is a cruel omission.” “What should I do—what ought I to have done ?” cried Sir Lionel. : “Why, instead of going round the world as you she was!” Willie. She is free, then— have done, my dear old comrade, your first care sbous. have been to clear the character of a most unfortunate lady. You ought either to have gone back to England, or you Should haye written to the Ear! of Lynn, your own lawyers—any one to estab- lish her innocence, Every one thinks she has been with you the whole of this time, and you are to blame for it.” ‘You are right,” cried Sir Lionel, ‘I ought to have done it. but it has never once occurred to me.” nd “Tf IT were in your place,” continued his friend, “T should not go to:sleep to-night until that act of justice had been done. Lord Lynn’s death gives you an excellent opportunity—most.excellent. You ean write and say that from what is reported in the papers, you find that Lady Lynn has not returned to England, but that. she left you on the day you quitted England, and you have not seen her since.” “Would you really do that ?” asked Sir Lionel “IT would indeed, Lionel, without loss of time; every moment that the present belief exists in the mind of people is a wrong to her.” “T wish I bad thought of it before,” said Sir Lionel. “Tt would have been better: but it is not too late. They to whom you write, you see, will think that the paragraphs in the paper have caused your letter. “But will that suffice? Will writing to them be of any use?” “Of course it will.. Ina short time you will find that every paper in England has the news. There is nothing, to my mind, more wonderful than the manner in which news percolates—if I may so ex- press it—through all classes and ranks in_ society. Before your letter has been two weeks in England, every one will have heard of it. The society papers avill have got hold of it first; then, in all probability, two of them will quarrel as to which had the news first, and then you are safe.” “T will do it before I sleep,’ said Sir Lionel. “The matter never occurred to me in that_ light. Poor Vivian! I would have done what I could.” “Then I have a second piece of advice to give you, which may seem hard and impossible, but if you are a wise man you will follow it; that is, go home at once, without delay, and ask your wife’s pardon.” : Sir Lionel grew pale with emotion as he heard the words. wit? home!’ he gasped; ‘I can never do that, ill.’’ “So you have taught yourself to believe,” said the great traveler; “but it is all nonsense. You can go home whenever you will or please.” eae “Thaye never thought of it as a possibility,” he stammered. . “Or you would have done it before now. Going away was a bad thing: but stopping away is even worse. You say you have never thought of itasa possibility. Why not?” : cae For the first time in their conversation Sir Lio- nel’s eyes filled with tears. : “It has always seemed to me,” he replied, simply, “that I have sinned beyond pardon.” ; “No man can do that. From all you say of your wife, lam quite sure that she will forgive you. Why make bad worse, Lionel ?” “But,” said Sir Lionel, in a broken voice, “I do not_ deserve it; I do not indeed!” “She will be the. best judge of that. You try her,” said Willie. . ; “Tam almost tempted to go,” said Sir Lionel; and his.old friend grasped his hand. “Do go. Lionel,” he said. ““Every man makes mis- takes. A brave man meets the consequences of sin. Go—you may atone yet for all the evil you have wrought—at least, you can do your best. It would be far better to go back and try to makethe rest.of your wife’s life happy than to let her remain in the misery she lives in now.” : “Poor Elinor!” sighed Sir Lionel. “Iam sure of this, Will—when I iook back on the folly of my life, I wonder at myself. I can ‘hardly believe that any natural man ever behayed in sucha fashion; but,” he added, “I think Iwill take your advice. I will go home and try my fate.” — “TI give you that advice quite terest,” said Willie Nicholl. shall lose a true friend and a trusty comrade; but it is best for you.” They said little more, while the moon was shinin in the dark blue sky; but that same night Sir Lione wrote his letter, and onthe morning following he set sail for home. CHAPTER LXVII. “I MUST TELL YOU MY GOOD NEWS.” Quickly as Sir Lionel tried to reach home the news was there before him, for midway on his journey he fell ill, and that delayed him—ill with regret and re- morse and nervous anxiety. He was so impatient to reach home that he did not even take the ordi- nary precaution of travelers; he could not eat or sleep or rest: he could do nothing but count the hours that lay between him and home. He could not understand his own blindness then, it was in- eredible to him that he had not taken some steps be- fore this to clear Vivian; he ought to have done it the very first thing, yet it had never occurred to him until a stranger suggested it; and now he felt that his heart was on fire, that he should know no rest until the whole world was well assured of the truth. So he hursied on, and as is usual with those who hurry tov much, he lost time. He fell ill with long- ing and regret, added to which was a low fever which threatened mischief, induced by a violent eold which he caught on deck. “T must goon,” he said, piteously, to the doctor who attended him: ‘‘I have a matter of life and death in England—I must get home.” “You will travel at the peril of your life,” was the stern: reply, “‘and you will gain nothing by your haste. Unless you carry out my directions to the very letter you will never reach home alive.”’ So that Sir Lionel had no choice but to remain until he was well enough to go on. The parting with Willie Nichol had been a sad one; they had been such intimate and constant friends for so many years that now it was hard to separate. “Tt do not know what husbands and wives feel who have lived together for may years and have to art,” said the great traveler, with tears in his eyes, ‘but I will never believe any one m@n has loved an- other so well as I love you.” Sir Lionel made him promise that when his busi- ness at Cairo was finished he would visit him in England. “I do not know where I may be,” he said, '‘whether Ishall goto my home at Dunwold, or whether I shall live in London.” ‘I would not try that again,” interrupted his friend, and Sir Lionel’s face fiushe hotly. “Wherever I may be.” he said, “it will be home for you, and you must come tome. A yearin England will be a pleasant change.” “T will come,” said Willie. with a grasp of the hand that was more eloquent than words; “I will come.” But the news reached England before him—news that' was at first ree@ived with incredulity, then be- lieved. Sir Lionel had written strongly, and his first letter was to Messrs. Fortnett. & Co., the late earl’s lawyers—a letter that fell like a bomb-shell in the office, and completely routed those mast excel- lent of men. It stated briefly that Sir Lionel Rydal’s attention had been called, while he was in Egypt, toa paragraph going the round of the papers with reference to the death of the late Lord Lynn. In that paragraph the disappearance of the Countess of Lynn from home was commented upon, and it was stated that since that disappearance no tidings whateyer had been received from her. Sir Lionel begged to say most emphatically that since the day he left England he had never seen or heard of the Countess of Lynn; that they had traveled together as far as Calais, where they parted, and had not met again; that he was perfectly ignorant of hér whereabouts; that the rumor generally believed that she was with him. was a most false one ; that he challenged the most perfect inquiry, and:could produce any number of witnesses to prove the truth of his words. He added that if he had knownof this prevalent notion that Lady Lynn was with him, he would have written three years'ago to dispel and contradict it; but he had been traveling in remote lands, and until he read of Lord Lynn’s death; he had been quite ignorant of the fate of Lady Lynn, He asked them, as. a mutter of justice to her, to oe his letter in the form of a paragraph, and let it e well circulated, as it was butan.act of justice to a deeply injured lady. Messrs. Fortnett & Co..were more startled than they had. ever been in their lives before, Was it true ? the members of the firm. asked each other. Then they agreed that it must be so, or Sir Lionel would never have written that letter or courted nae Rt Eg “T wish.” said Mr. Fortnett, senior, “that the old earl had lived to know this.” ; y ’ “Tt would have been ag ead thing for him.” said the junior Mr. Fortnett.. ‘He never forgot the blow to his pride, We must send a copy of this letter to the new lord,” which was done. The two old lawyers looked ateach other. Many strange stories had come to their knowledge. They had possession of many secrets that would have startled most people; but they had no case so strange as this. This young and beautiful woman had left her husband’s home, her magnificence, luxury, and high position. asit was supposed, for love of the handsome face of Sir Lionel. Yet, true it was, clearly proved. clearly stated. that from the yoy, day she quitted home she had been a stranger o him. ainst my own in- £ ay - “Why did she do it?” asked the junior of the senior, “Heaven only knows!” was the answer. “It could not haye been as every one thought—from love.” Messrs. Fortnett & Co. did their duty. A para- graph was drawn up which went the round of the papers, and created a sensation such as is seldom expetonred in English society. ady Lynn had been so well known, so popular, her beauty, grace, and wit had made her so pre- eminent, her disappearance from, society had cre- ated so great a panic, that.to find all that had been said and written about her untrue, was a nine days’ wonder—evyen greater than that of her flight. The news was Well discussed, and—strange to say for such acruel, slanderous world—it was well received and thoroughly believed. Then Sir Lionel, who had declared to himself that he had done no good thing by half, wrote to his own lawyer, Wilson, telling him the same story. That was a much stronger letter. If I had known,” wrote Sir Lionel, ‘‘that this foul slander was fully believed, I should have re- turned to refute it. I authorize you, to make it known to every one whom it may concern, that for reasons Tam not compelled to mention. I did leave England with Lady Lynn, and traveled as far as Calais with her; but that we parted at Calais the same evening, and I have never seen her since. I wish you to publish this fact to the whole world for me. I shall age pes i it for myself.” He forgot, in his haste and excitement, to add that he was returning home, and as his letter was dated Egypt, Mr. Wilson did not expect him home. “Rather late in the day,” said the lawyer to him- self. “I do not doubt him, but he should have writ- ten this three years ago.” Mr. Wilson did his best, and the first step he took was Wee Eee ED the squire, and inclosing to hima copy of Sir Lionel’s letter, and the effect of that let- ter on the squire can better imagined than de- seribed. “I know Lady Rydal is ill,” said Mr. Wilson, in his letter. “I dare not send it to her, lest,in her delicate state, it might injure her. I believe every word of it. For manyreasons I have been con- yinced lately that Lady Lynn is not with Sir Lionel, I believe him, but I must add that I believe ee son-in-law, and my client, to be quite mad. Why they took the trouble to leave England together to part at Calais, and neyer to meet again, must re- main the mystery it is until Sir Lionel himself chooses to solve it.” _ The squire read that letter with a mixture of feel- ings that could never be described. Certainly Sir Lionel had taken the old earl’s beautiful wife from hey home, Could any words haye been plainerthan thoser . “The beautiful, guilty partner of my flight is Vivian, Countess of Lynn.” | If she had not gone with him, why did he say so? And why had they parted? The squire stamped and raved. He called his son-in-law some very ugly names; he exhausted himself in finding terms bad enough for him. Then, old as he was—usual with him in times of embarrassment—he went to consult his wife. He was staying with her and little Blos- som at St. Louis. 5 Mrs. Gordon read it through. “J hope it is true, Angus,” she said. “It will make all the difference in the world to Elinor if that letter tells the truth. ITshould neyer be sur- prised at his returning, and at their being friends again.” “But.” said the squire, “where is the other? What has become and what is to become of her?” “That is no business of ours,” said the lady. “We must attend to and think of Elinor first. You go at once, Angus, to the villa, and let her see that letter. It will do her more good than all the doc- tor’s medicine put together.” : The squire, like an obedient, well-trained hus- band, went off at once. He was just as much de- lighted as his wife, but side by side with his delight was the burning indignation that one man feels when he longs to horsewhip another. : At the villa he found Lady Rydal better; the child was the same, making little or no progress, but the mother was. improving. It was Sister, Marie who told him this, and she looked so pale and ill that the squire’s heart was touched with great pity. “I want to see my daughter,” he said, ‘‘as soon as possible, sister. I have some good news for her.” “T am glad: of that,” she replied, wondering in her secret heart what that good news could be, and if it referred to Sir,Lionel. “‘Lady R ( BebigPe: she said, “thata little good news will cure er.” “Tsuppose,” said the squire, looking fixedly at Sister Marie, ‘that you know about it ?” The pale, beautiful face flushed deepest crimson. “Tf you mean,” she said, “that I know Lady Ry- dal’s story—yes, She has told all to me,” ‘And you would give her good advice, I am sure,” said the squire, heartily, I j “The advice I gave to Lady Rydal was this,” said Sister Marie, “‘that if her husband returned to her and asked her forgiveness, it would be wise to grant 1627 The squire’s kindly face darkened a little. “Did you tell her that ?” he cried. : . “Yes, I did; and any sensible person who wished her well would tell her the same thing,” said Sister Marie. “You stand to ‘ oR guns,” he replied; but he paused as Sister arie, in a voice full of emotion, said: “No father ever loved his child more than you love Lady Rydal,’ she said. “Do not oppose her happiness. She ean no more be well or happy with- out her husband than flowers can grow without rain and sunshine, be comes back to her. do not in- terfere; let her forgive him, and be as happy with him as she can.” : : : ie “J shall not interfere,” said the squire: if I did, it would be to kill him. If f had my will, I would kill him: but Imust do as the lady in the song says—I must smother my feelings.” | ; , “You must indeed,” said Sister Marie. gravely. “T feel,” said the squire, ‘‘as though I could for- give him freely if I might have one shot at him. But you may trust me, sister, when the time comes; you may indeed. Now I will go to Lady Rydal. My wife says the good news I have for her will do her more good than all the doctors’ medi- cine in the world.” vy ; “Ts itof—of her husband ?” asked Sister Marie, with a faltering voice. ‘ ait , i “Yes,” replied the squire, “it is of him, if any news of or from him ean be ealied good. I doubt it.” He did not notice that the beautiful face before him had grown white even to the lips. “Ts he coming back ?” she asked, slowly. “No.” said the squire, ‘it is nothing of that kind. He is still in Egypt, and I should call Egypt a very happy country for holding him. No, the news that I bring is—that black as he is, he is not so black as he is painted, after all, though he is black enough, in all conscience.” ' t The squire went_to his daughter’s room, and | found her better.. What passed between them when he read that letter to her, no one ever knew. When he left her room he had tears in his eyes. Soon afterward she sent for Sister Marie, who found her with alight on her face and in her eyes that had not been there for years. « _ “Come and kiss me, sister,” she cried. ““You have consoled me so often, I must tell you my good news first. It is good news to me. Do you know what my husband, Sir Lionel. .has been doing, all these years, while we have been thinking that he was with Vivian, Countess of Lynn ?? (TO BE CONTINUED.) THRICE WEDDED, BUT ONLY ONCE A WIFE. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, AUTHOR OF ° “A TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “BROWNIE’S TRI- UMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” “LOST—A PEARLE.” (“Thrice Wedded” was commenced in No. 6. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXIII. UNSUSPICIOUS TRAVELERS. Madam Alroyd and Dora had intended departing from the place where they had suffered so much, the day following the one on which Mr. Ellerton had visited them and obtained our heroine’s signature to that fatal document. But their plans were defeated ; for on the morning set for their departure, madam awoke with one of her raging nervous headaches, caused by the’ excitement of the day previous, and from which she did not recover for several days. Then a driving storm set in, which detained them three days longer. Toward evening of the third day, however, the clouds dispersed, and Dora begged her aunt not to delay their departure any longer. . Madam thought it rather late in the day to begin a long journey, but finally yielded to her niece’s persuasions, and ordered their carriage to be got in readiness. ‘ The kind-hearted landlord was much distressed at tinis decision, for he knew it was unsafe for any one ydal is so much. to travel in that part of the country during the night, and put forth every inducement he could think of ~) make them defer their journey until the follow- ing day. But: no; Madam Alroyd said she‘wanted to get away from that “horrible place” as soon as possible, and now that she had made up her mind, she should not_ alter it: and in defiance of the anxious land. lord’s protestations, they started, with only their driver for a protection, just as the last rays of the glorious setting sun faded from sight. They soon repented of their hasty determination, for they had not proceeded five miles upon their way when heayy clouds again overcast the before cloudless sky ; the winds arose, and there was every indication of another severe storm, or a continua- tat of the previous one. But they would not turn ack. On they went, over the dark, rugged, mountain road, which was rendered doubly dismal by the huge forest trees which lined each side of the rough way. Suddenly the carriage lights revealed tothe driver’s frightened eyes a closely muffled figure, with up- raised arm,in the act of hurling a heavy, knotted club at his head. He dodged, but too late, for it struck him full in the face, and, with a groan of pain, his fingers re- laxed their hold upon the reins, and he rolled sense- less from his seat to the damp earth below. At the same moment, the flying horses were seized by the bits by a strong and evidently masterly hand, for after a few fearful plunges, they yielded to the firm hold, and stood quiet and resistless. Madam Alroyd, thoroughly alarmed at this fearful state of affairs, but without knowing the cause, hastily pulled down the carriage window. and strove in vain to see what was the trouble. “Thomas, what has occurred?’ she asked, in a frightened voice. ‘Nothing much, mum; only the horses got a little poEy and one of the lamps went out, so I stopped to light it again,” replied a voice which madam thought did not sound quite natural, but laid it to the howling winds which rendered it almost impos- sible to hear. “Very well,” she returned. ‘“Lightit again as soon as possible, for it is a fearful night, and Iam anxious to gain a shelter.” “Yes, mum !” “How far is it before we can reach one,” she con- tinued. “About six or eight miles,’ said the man, with a low chuckle, as he bent over the refractory lamp which would not light. (2) “Blast it! there goes my last match,” he added, as it flickered, flared, and went out. “Well, well, Thomas. never mind,’”’ returned the lady, impatiently,, ‘‘Letit go, and do the best you can with the other, only do hasten, for we are al- most frightened to death in this darkness, and long a a comfortable room, with cheerful lights and a re.”’ “Yes, mum. Allright, mum,” was the answer, as the man hastily climbed to his seat, and touched the horses witb his whip, muttering with intense satis- faction. “Neat little job that! neat little job; though I should rather have liked to see what became of that stupid coachman !” The horses’ heads, during the struggle which had just occurred, had been adroitly turned to one side, and now in obedience to the, reins, dashed on with the speed of the winds in an entirely different direc- tion from that which they had been pursuing. In fact; our unsuspicious travelers. “were paing veyed back.to the very place whence they h come: On, on they sped through the night’s intense black- ness, over a rough and uneven road, jolted and pitched from side.to side, until they were ready to cry out with pain and fatigue. Two mortal hours, which they thought would never end, were spent in this manner, and then they drew up before a small white house, from the case- ment of which.a single light was peain'ng: The driver went to the door and rapped. His summons was immediately answered by a trim servant girl, who demanded his business, though a close observer might have noticed the look of re- cognition which passed between them! He explained, loud enough for the inmates of the carriage to hear, their situation; and after a slight demur on the part of the girl, obtained permission for them to pass the night there. Going back to the coach, he explained that it was not a regular inn, only a little cottage in which lived a poor but honest family. Our weary travelers cared not whether it was inn or hovel, so that they could obtain, rest, and quickly alighted, nae seeking the welcome. shel- ter, when they found to their surprise a neat little parlor at their service,.and a cheerful fire. Their spirits readily returned under these pleasant influences, und when a tempting little supper of tea, toast, and chicken was added to their comforts, their faces fairly grew radiant with satisfaction. Having finished their meal, they spent an hour or more chatting cheerfully, and congratulating them- selves upon their comfortable quarters. The same trim little servant then entered and signified her readiness to show them to their sleeping-room. Both felt their need of rest, and followed her to the apartment, behind the one they had first entered, where they found a soft and inviting bed, hung with dainty white curtains, and everything fresh, sweet, and clean, They retired to rest, and soon their senses were locked fast in sound and refreshing slumber. con- just CHAPTER XXTV~. DORA’S SURPRISE. Midnight found the night calm, quiet, lovely ! The roaring winds had ceased, and the clouds had been suddenly swept aside by a master-hand, and the blue-vaulted heavens, studded with their spark- ling gems, looked serenely down upon earth and sea. Our weary travelers lay wholly unconscious of the change without, their eyelids heavy with the weight of sleep, and their bodies cumbered with its powerful influence. But see! Suddenly their white-draped couch be- gins to move! Slowly, silently, steadily, it com- mences to descend! Heavens! Will not some one warn those uncon- scious sleepers? Will not some one bid them wake, arise, and flee? Ah! but what could two such defenseless women do against the powers at work. They could not escape even should they awake, for the entrance to that innocent looking white cottage was closely guarded, and none could enter or retreat without the knowledge and consent of that rough, stern sentinel ! Reader, you doubtless recognize the place as the same to which Robert Ellerton was so adroitly en- ticed and made a prisoner. The villain who had’ knocked madam’s faithful driver senseless from his seat had driven the unsus- pecting women back, though by an unfrequented road, to the German settlement which they had but just left. And now they were in the power of a band of heartless villains, sleeping as calmly and sweetly as if no such thing as danger or treachery inhabited the earth! Softly, gently as a tender mother would bear her slumbering infant upon her bosom, their bed de- scended through the floor, down, down—twenty, yes, thirty feet, when it was received by four muffied figures and carefully wheeled to one side of a most gorgeous apartment, which contained every comfort and luxury that the most fastidious could desire; after which the trap noiselessly ascended to its place, leaving no crack nor crevice by which its existence could possibly be detected ! Immediately after the four muffled forms silently glided from the room, leaving our friends to pass the remainder of the night unmolested. Late the next morning Dora opened her deep-blue eyes, and with one fair hand swept aside the spotless curtain, and gazed out into the room. An expression of wondering admiration shone in her lovely orbs as she beheld the splendor, light- ed by the many-jetted chandelier, which surrounded her, and she raised her hand as if to brush away some imaginary vision; but when she looked again the fair scene remained. With a breathless voice, and a quickly beating heart, she shook her aunt, and cried out: “Auntie, auntie, wake up, and tell me what this means !” “What, child—what is it?’ exclaimed the old lady, in a fright, sitting bolt upright in bed, and unable to get her eyes open. “Why this lovely room ¢—all these beautiful things? Everything around us is gorgeous. This is not the room we came into last night. That was plain and homely, although neat and clean. And—why—but this is the same bed !” “Sure enough,” said Madam Alroyd. staring about, witn an amazed expression on her face. ‘‘We are either bewitched,” she continued, ‘‘or our room has been entered during the night, and we borne off, bed and all, to another. “Oh, auntie, see what tore pictures, and atatu- ettes—and just look at this lovely toilet set—was there ever anything so exquisite!” exclaimed the impulsive girl, who had sprung from her couch, and was pattering about in her little bare feet upon an exploring expedition, and filled with admiration at everything she saw. “But madam was in a brown study. The change was as unaccountable as ii was lovely, and she was deeply troubled and perplexed. What could be the motive for this complete transformation ? The design could not haye been robbery, for there lay all their luggage right before them, while her watch and money were snugly tucked beneath her peor just where she had placed them before re- tiring. The more she strove to solve the mystery, the more puzzled she became. But she wisely resolved not to excite Dora’s fears, until she saw something actually alarming. At this moment a servant swept aside the heavy curtain which covered the entrance to the room, and approached. But she suddenly stopped upon seeing E NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 that little white-robed fairy who was flitting about the room, and a look of honest admiration settled over her face. Presently she went, forward,.and.said, in a low, sweet voice: “Can I assist mademoiselle about her toilet ?” Dora gave a little scream of startled surprise, for she had not heard the girl’s light steps behind her. But seeing that it was not the same maid who had attended them the previous night, she recovered her Tahoe cae oe are said: ‘How you startled me, my good girl!. But. never mind. Where did you drop from, ory what.is your name ?” “Nina, at your service ; and I came in atthe door,” was the reply. “Well, then, Nina, if that is so—for I did not know but that you had woke up and found yourself here, like ourselves— please tell me where we are, for I believe my head is nearly turned ‘with so much beauty and eleganee.”’ “Tam happy to know that mademoiselle is pleased with her apartments,” returned Nina, evading Do- ra’s query. “Apartments? Is there more than one?’ ques- tioned Dora, in surprise. The girl stepped hastily forward, and’ seizing a heavy tassel, gave it a vigorous pull,and instantly two huge curtains slid apart, disclosing an elegant boudoir. *See!” she said. tion, too.”’ “Oh-o-oh! Auntie, do come and see!” exelaimed the gratified girl, with a radiant face. Her features clouded again instantly. as she said: “But you have not yet answered my question; you'have not told me where I am,” She tapped her foot impatiently, while she went on: “It is all very nice to have these beautiful things at my command. But I want to know whose hos- pitality Iam enjoying, all unasked. We were notin this place last night. Whose residence is this?” There was no retreat. ‘The little maiden’s tone was very imperative, and there was an indignant sparkle in her blue eyes. “You are in the palace of his lordship, the Baron Weichel,” answered Nina, dropping her eyes, while a guilty flush mounted to her brow, beneath the penetrating gaze of Miss Dupont. “But how came we here?” interrupted Madam Al- royd, with a sharp glance at her, as she noted her evident confusion. “You were brought here by the baron’s own or- ders, madam.” “And what authority has he to order us here, I should like to know % said the old lady, indignantly. “And another thing I want to haye you explain to me; and that is, how were we brought here during the night without our knowledge ?” “His lordship arranged all that,” said Nina. “Well. then, I must say that his lordship is no gentleman, to allow people to enter a room and re- move its sleeping occupants,” returned madam, with a good deal of asperity. “No one entered your room to remove you, madam——” “No one entered our room!” repeated the now angry woman, with hands upraised in absolute as- tonishment, ‘Do you suppose you can make me be- lieve such an unlikely story as that ?”’ ae madam, unless you choose,” was the humble reply. “Tam all out of patience with you. Do; Dora, try and make her explain this mystery,” urged Madam Alroyd, with a look of perplexity upon her face. And Dora, with a charming expression of good nature, which won the servant’s heart at once. went up to her and said, sweetly : “Now, Nina. please to dress my hair; and@.in the meantime, tell us. all you know about this singular transportation during the night. You must realize that it is a very trying situation to us.” Dora seated herself, and the girl went, to work, with nimble and willing fingers, to bind up and ar- range her abundant golden tresses; and after a few moments’ hesitation, replied: “Mademoiselle must excuse me, for I cannot an- swer her question.”’ “Why not?’ asked Miss Dupont, with a pout upon her red lips. “Because—because the chief—I mean his lordship —will do that,’ stammered Nina, in confusion, Dora was startled from her seat by a sharp shriek from her aunt, who sprang frantically from the bed, wringing her hands, and exclaiming: f “The chief! the chief! Do you hear, Dora?—the chief! Oh, heavens! we are in the hands of a band of robbers—in the hands of those awful: smugglers that we heard about at the hotel! .I see :it all now— the trouble with the horses, their plunging ang rear- ing; that dreadful noise as of some one falling; the unnatural tones of the driver, which was not Thomas atall!. All—all is as plain as day to. menow. Oh, Dora, Dora, my darling, we are lost!” Dora, with pale face, turned to Nina, and demand- ed, sternly : “Girl, what have you to say? Is what my aunt suspects the truth ?’ Pe “Ah! pardon, pardon, mademoiselle, but I dare not tell!” cried the poor girl, with streaming eyes and clasped hands, for she was touched to the heart with their cruel distress. f “Tt is enough!” answered our heroine, her very lips becoming white as marble, and her heart sink- ing with despair at what she imagifted their fate would be. Then suddenly assuming a haughty, de- fiant air, she added: “Go at once and tell your chief that I desire his presence immediately !”” “Oh, my lady, do not blame poor Nina, for she would gladly serve you if she could. But my lot is that of a slave here, and I dare not disobey, lest my life pay the forfeit. Were it not for my own dear wnistress, I would gladly die.’’ “What!” almost shrieked Dora, “are there others here, in the same situation with ourselves ?” “Ah, mademoiselle, there are seven as lovely ladies here as ever the sun shone upon.” “Oh, heavens! and how long have they been held captive in such a place ?”’ “Some have been here three or four years; some not as long, but one has lived here many years. But I must not tell you more, lest I be overheard ; onl do not blame me for what you suffer,” she entreated, heaving a deep sigh. “My poor child!” said Madam Alroy4d, soothingly, while a shudder quivered through her frame. ‘We cannot regard you with any other feeling than that of pity. And rest assured, should kind Providenese send friends to our réscue, we will not forget you and your poor mistress.” The grateful girl seized her hand and kissed it passionately, and immediately glided from the room. The two terror-stricken ladies then made a hasty toilet, and sat down with fear and tremUling, to await the appearance of the much-dréaded Gliief: Presently Nina returned and said: “The chief desires that you will partake of your- breakfast, which is waiting; after which your re- quest shall be attended to.” , She ie another set of curtains, and revealed beyond an elegant breakfast-room, in which a table was daintily spread for two. Dora walked proudly within, without uttering a word in reply. Madam timidly followed, and they seated themselves, going through the ceremony of Cen ee being attentively waited on by the faithful girl. When the repast was ended, Nina seized a tiny sil- yer whistle that lay upon the table.and blew it, and instantly .a page entered and removed ‘the service, followed by the girl. Not many minutes elapsed, and Dora saw the drapery which hid the entrance move; then there was a sound, as of persons whispering. She held her breath—she felt that the decisive mo- ment had arrived. A fair, white, shapely hand parted the curtains; a trim, finely formed foot was upon the threshold, and for an instant our heroine’s head pid dizzy, while a mist vailed. her eyes; but with a mighty effort she conquered the faintness, and drew her queenly little form,to its fullest height, and waited for the appearance of her dreaded visitor, The drapery was swept entirely aside, and a ery of indignant surprise parted her lips as she fixed her eyes upon the figure before her. (TO BE CONTINUED.) “This is for your accommoda- POPULAR NEW BOOKS. Price $1.50. cach BERTHA M. CLAY’S WORKS. A STRUGGLE FOR A RING, UNDER A SHADOW, A WOMAN'S TEMPTATION, GEORGIE SHELDON’S WORKS. EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY, BROWNIE’'S TRIUMPH FORSAKEN BRIDE. MAY AGNES FLEMING S WORKS. A WIFE’S TRAGEDY, PRIDE AND PASSION. G. W, CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Madison Square, New York. WAGON-SPOKE JIM'S MISTAKE. BY L. G. OSFIELD. To Howling Gulch a ‘‘pilgrim’’ came One eve in early fall, His clothes were poor, his step quite lame, He reached—and that was all— Sandy’s Inn, the first in town, And by all odds the est, For the grub Was gvud aud served up brown, And the liquorsstood the test. Sandy’s house stood not up high, Though he had the business *‘pat,”’ And could stand off a mob and not half try— You can bet your dust on that. To this open door the pilgrim came, And then meandered in ; He dropped into an old chair-frame Near the wall, by a jug of gin. He looked with a longing, wistful eye, Upon a bottle marked “sour mash ;”’ And then at a placard stuck up high— “In God we trust—ali others cash.” A crowd came in from Rocky Hollow; The first, with a voice like a grizzly’s growl, Roared ‘I’m the chief of the Walla Walla, And this ismy night to howl.” Wagon-spoke Jim was this chief's name, And his pockets were lined with tin, For he'd struck it rich en the “Guess Not” claim, And now was “blowing it in.” “Let’s pizen !’’ the big chief cried, And his followers answered the call; The pilgrim ope’d his eyes up wide, But kept his seat at the wall. “Pilgrim, did you hear me sigh? Then strike a trail for the bar.” And wild lights danced in the big chief's eye, That meant—‘‘Look out for war!’’ The pilgrim straightened on his seat, Which caused the chair to bulge, And said, in a voice so mild and sweet, “Thank you, I never indulge.” “Oh, yes, you do,” said Wagon-spoke Jim, “And I’m sure you'll oblige me now.” And he strode toward the lone pilgrim With a scowl on his ugly brow. Just as he reached his huge right paw To grasp the pilgrim bold, Our lonesome friend made a lightning “draw,” And Jim's rich blood turned cold. “That's a pretty toy, now, ain’t it, pard?”’ The pilgrim mildly said; “And pray, don’t press me quite too hard, Or I’ll fill you full of lead.” The “chief” felt sick, for he knew that face— He had seen it before on the plains— And as he turned to leave the place He murmured—‘‘Jesse James.” ® THE ACQUITTED CASHIER. By Mrs. Nora Lu. HEilussey. A bright December day in the sunny South. Late roses blooming in the garden, and a flame of scar- let geraniums flashing in the windows of the par- sonage in the little Georgia village of V—. That is the scene. A dainty figure, petite and plump, a complexion of lilies and roses; gray eyes, with inexpressible power in them, under straight brows; hair like an ever-changing golden halo about a small Greek bead. That is the heroine—Marion Elsworth. The sunset radiance was falling upon her as she leaned over the garden gate and looked after her departing lover... “It is unfortunate, Marion,” her father said, join- ing her and laying his hand gently on the coil of golden hair. “It is most unfortunate, dear. I hope you will believe that I regretted to give Mr. Oldham an unfavorable answer. He is a total stranger, you must remember. I must wait till he proves himself worthy before I can trust my treasure to him.” “Yes,’’ she answered, slowly. the gray eyes cloud- ing meanwhile, “it is, indeed, unfortunate, father, that you cannot trust Paul ashe deserves. But we are willing to wait,” she added, more brightly. “And Colonel Rockwell?” | t “Oh, Tom is ali right. He is too light-hearted to grieve long for any girl——” “Rockwell is the noblest man I have ever known, daughter,” the old pastor in«errupted, almost stern- ly. “I’ve known Tom from his boyhood. Heis stanch and true, Marion.” hse : ( “So he may be,” she answered, smiling irto his face, “so he may be, father; but he isn’t Paul.” The “Paul” referred to was a young Englishman —Paul Oidham—who. had come to Y. in answer to the banking oompeny 6 advertisement for a eashier. Absolutely nothing was known of his antecedents. Of courteous and cultured address, ossessing excellent recommendations and fine Pusiness qualifications. he very quickly convinced his employers of his efficiency, and soon won for himself an entrance into the best society of the village. " . . 3 ‘ 3 A raw January day, the late roses hanging from their stems, ice-crusted; the cedars, hoary with wintry age, reaching to the frozen earth for sup- port; the gray heavens hanging gloomily over a gray and gloomy world. rai In the parsonage library was a scene of cheer and comfort. Firelight flickering over warm colors, violets. breathing a promise of springs to come, a cat purring on the hearth-rug, and the dainty young mistress sewing steadily by a window where the light was strongest, while her low song told of the happy heart and peaceful soul. “Miss Marion, chile, yer better come out here an’ see ’long ’er Pete. He done put de white hen’s chickens in de speckled hen’s coop. and he won’ pay no ’tention to me. Dat nigger gwine kill dem chickens, shore’s yer born, honey.” _. “They. are more than likely to die, anyhow,” Marion answered, smiling indulgently upon the old negress, who had been both nurse and foster- mother to her motherless babyhood. —“‘But_I will see to it that Pete obeys you. Just tell him, ‘Maum Dinah,’ that Colonel Rockwell is in the library. That will be terror enough for one day.” “So it will; honey, so it will,” old Dinah chuckled, following Marion down the hall. There had been, in the history of the aforesaid Pete, certain misdemeanors which Colonel Rock- well, ip the name of the law, had felt called upon to reward, But in the hall Marion came to a sudden “Oldham has disappeared,” Rockwell w “And Mr. Thomas ?” Mr. Elsworth asked. * “The president ?, Heis altogether overcome. I’ve been with him allthe morning. The circumstances are dead against Oldham. Thomas says the com- bination was known only to himself and his cashier. Certainly Thomas would not have opened his own safe to steal his own money.” An indignant flash leaped into the gray eyes. “Do you hear that, Maum Dinah?” she asked, breithlessly. ‘Do you hear what they are saying about Paul ?” “Dere’s sum’en wrong, Miss Mar’on. Don’ yer bilieve dat tale. No, nor Marse Tom don’t nuther,” she continued. striving to quiet the excited girl. *“Marse Tom’s jist talkin’ lawyer-like, honey. Yer’ll find it out, shore’s yer born, chile. Marse Tom’ll elear him bright as new money. Ole Dinah done said so, honey. And yer’ll see it too, by an’ by.” But Marion’s frightened face was turned toward the library, and she was listening—listening as if life pepgnenn on the words. “And he ‘cut and run’ before the theft could be discovered,” Rockwell continued. ‘But there are detectives on his track, and in these days of steam Coe it is well-nigh impossible to escape e law.” “My poor, poor Marion!” the pastor said, tear- fully, thinking first and always of his bright and beautiful darling. ; “Yes,” and for the first time Col. Rockwell’s voice trembied. ‘It will_be impossible to keep her_in ignorance of the sad facts. When you tell her, Mr. Elworth, tell her also for me, if you please, that I intend to defend her lover to the utmost of my abil- ity. Unfortunately circumstances are against him; but, in the eyes of the law, every man is innocent till he be proved guilty.” Later in the day, old Dinah, crept, softly up the stairs and opened the poor of Marion’s bedroom. “Miss Mar’on, dere’s a woe-begone tramp down stairs what stan’s like a fool an’ axes fur de mistis. Could yer come down an’ speak to him, honey ?” He was a woe-begone Creature, certainly; rags, and tatters, and dirt. | ‘“T’ve. been paid to give this note into nobody’s hands but yours, ma’am,” the man said, politely, when Marion approiched him. And then, before she could speak, he had shouldered his pack and was trudging down the garden path. “Meet me at dark on ‘the bridge, darling.” she read, and the color rushed into her pale face. “Fore de Lerd!’’ old Dinah muttered; but never a ause. saying. | question did she ask, and no word of information did Marion offer. fi The wind whistled mournfully through the pines, the sleet crusted upon their long branches and set- tled thickly upon the girl’s Wraps as she almost ran through the darkness. A solitary birdling, half frozen and hungry, chirped to her as she passed; and a rabbit, startled by her step, rustled the leaves of his hiding-place. No other sound, save the throbbing of her own heart, broke the stillness. Her lover was reckless, sullen, almost wordless. protesting that being a gtranger he would stand no showing—determined to evade the law, it possible, doggedly determined to escape a trial. , : “Try to believe me innocent,” he said. “I am in- nocent, although Iam to all appearances confess- ing my guilt by my flight. If it were not for you and my dear mother, I could bear it better. There isn’t a Jury in the land who could find anything but a verdict of guilty in the face of such evidence as will be put before them. It is the shame that I dread, Marion. Perhaps this is weakness, but sure- ly you cannot blame me.” Blame him? What woman eyer did “‘blame” the man she loved? She could only lay her head on his breast and sob out her words of love and trust. She could only shiver and moan while she suffered herself put away from hisarm and knewthat she was standing alone, both in the gathering gloom of na- ture’s night and that more awful darkness of deso- lation which had fallen upon her. Far and wide was the search for the criminal; but no trace of him could be discovered. Meanwhile Marion shuddered, and was silent, while investiga- tion developed facts which bore unmistakable evi- dence of her lover’s guilt. : Only two people were aware of the combination upon which the lock of the bank safe had been set. These two were the president, Mr. Thomas, and the eashier, Mr. Paul T. Oldham. During the day of January 20th, the bank was closed on account of the funeral services of one of the vice-presidents. None of the officials or employees entered the building, except Mr. Oldham, who, according to his statement made after the burial, desired to avail himself ofthe day to do some extra work upon the books. Mr. Oldham had worked in the office until the regular closing hour, and had returned to the office at eight o’clock, P. M., to finish his work. At nime o’clock, P. M., the door-bell of Mr. Thomas’ residence was rung violently, and a message left that the bank had been robbed at some time between the hours of four and eight, P.M. This message was in the form of a note, signed Paul T. Oldham, and contained the further information that Mr. Oldham had taken his departure upon the 8.30 express. At the bank nothing exculpating the cashier could be discovered. The lock was uninjured, thus proving that the safe had been opene.! by one who knew the combination, and was familiar with its working. Upona thorough search of the office nothing could be found except a glove, supposed to be Oldham’s, and a handkerchief bearing in monogram the em- broidered initials P. T.O. Here the investigation was forced to halt, and the ease, succinctly stated, stood as follows: 7 bank robbed by its cashier of fifty thousand dollars, Cashier gone. No trace either of money or man. _ The adjournment term of court, set for the sec- ons week in February, was approaching, aad still ine orerney for the State and the detective were affied. ; “Spencer comes to-morrow,” Colonel Rockwell said, atthe parsonage one evening during the first week in February. “Spencer” was his law partner. who had been er to an adjoining State on the day of the fu- neral, “Spencer is the shrewdest man I ever knew. I’ve a settled conviction that there will be developments when he investigates.” And developments there certainly were! “Why, that’s my glove, Tom!” Mr. Spencer ex- claimed, when he was shown the articles found in the office, “Fellow tooneI have in my dresser at this very moment. I’d givenit up as lost. Glad to receive it! Fine quality of dogskin you will per- ceive. The handkerchief? Now, don’t laugh. I borrowed that handkerchief of Oldham about ten minutes before I left. Ieame from home without one as a matter ot course, and equally of course I forgot this one before I’d had it ten minutes. Why,ifthese articles are to identify the thief, I’m your man. No, sir! Paul Oldham can’t be convicted that way.” After which statement he proceeded, with charac- teristic impulsiveness, to carry the good news to arion. “Take heart, Miss Marion!” he exclaimed. “Paul isn’t convicted yet—and won’t be, if I’m a judge of robberies.” : Whereupon Marion brightened perceptibly. And court week came on apace. 5 , “A lady to see yer, honey,” old Dinah said, the saturday preceding court week. — “Mrs. Paul T. Oldham!’” Marion cried, holding the carde-de-visite in her hand. “Is she an old lady, Maum Dinah ?” *Jist middlin’, honey. ’*Pears like she mought be ae ter fifty. Mother, p’raps,’ she suggested, linidly. His mother in very truth! Her heart leaped up totell her even before the handsome old lady had spoken a,word. His mother—come all the way from ngland at her son’s bidding to help this young aus ae creature endure tne humiliation of his tria). “T was delayed in various ways,” Mrs. Oldham said, taking Marion’s handin hers, when they had grown calm enough to talk sensibly. ‘‘I began to give up all hope of reaching you in time. It will be ° nee day for us, my child, but we must be hope- u ~ “Tt is almost too late for hope now.” Marion an- swered, wearily. Her father’s entrance put a stop to her words. “This is Paul’s mother, dear father.” she said, gently, rising to meet him. ‘Her presence is a great comfort to me.” “And to us all,” the old pastor assented, cordially extending his hand. “Iam truly. glad to see you, madam.” : It was late at night before the three separated. Many things were to be told, much information to be given and received; and Marion’s heart glowed with something akin to joy once more when she — now nicely the two old people were getting on ogether. “Commend me to a rectory for queer, dreams,” Mrs. Oldham said, the following morning, when they were gathered around the breakfast-table. “I know nothing of your little village as_a matter of course, but so plainly did I see an old cemetery in my dreams last night, that if you will get me paper and pencil, Marion, I think I can draw a pretty cor- rect diagram of it. Is there an old cemetery here?” she asked. “Yes,” the old pastor answered, in a surprise tone; “avery neglected cemetery too, to V Ss diseredit.” “Now, here, my dear,” Mrs. Oldham continued, taking the pencil and sketching rapidly while she talked—here runs a small stream; jurst hereis a gradually ascending knoll; beyond is an old fence, partly broken down; and quite close to the fence is a burial ground—a family lot, containing—three ?— yes, three grave-stones. Do you follow me?” “Indeed I do—” Marion began. “Perfectly!” her father interrupted. “Most aston- ishing!” he ejaculated, regarding Mrs. Oldham with surprise. ““My dear madam, you astound me!” “And just under the grave-stone to the right, as you enter the old inclosure,”’ Mrs, Oldham con- tinued, quite calmly, ‘‘there is a small iron box—the box of asafe, Marion—containing bills and drafts to the amount of fifty thousand dollars!” “Impossible!” the pastor cried, almost rising out of his chair. : s ‘‘Why more impossible than this sketch ?” Mar- “And there have been ion asked, triumphantly. : Verified dreams. too,” dreams quite as wonderful, she added, stoutly, “Will you be kind enough to ask Col. Rockwell to call before church time, my dear?” Mrs. Oldham asked, in a voice which indicated clearly enough that no shadow of doubt should be permitted to darken her mind. Col. Rockwell listened to the story of the dream with ill-concealed amusement, and regarded the really accurate sketch with some surprise and doubt. After much pleading on the part of Marion and Mrs. Oldham, he finally consented to make a search forthe box. . Accordingly, after nightfall, he with his partner, Spencer, and an old negro grave-digger might have been seen busily engaged in the very law-abiding act of secretly reopening a grave. On the following,Monday, when the robbery case was called, the court-room was filled with an eager and expectant throng. **Rockwell has got his trump card,” one of the by- piandore remarked, when that gentleman came into court. Rockwell’s face justified the remark. He wore the expression of a man confident of success, and an amused smile flashed in his ‘eyes when the first witness for the State was called. This witness was a negro boy, Albert Higgins by name, who, being sworn, testified: On the night of Jan. 20th, about eight o’clock, he was standing in front of the bank building when Mr, Oldham en- tered the bank through the front door. He sup- posed it must have been some fifteen minutes before Oldham reappeared. Mr. Oldham approached him and handed him a note which he was directed to taketo Mr, Thomas. Yes, Mr. Oldham’s manner was excited and he seemed.to be in a hurry. The white boy employed at the bank to run er- rands and do odd jobs was next called. Being sworn, he testified that Oldham left the bank at four o’clock P.M, of January 20th. He knew of no other person who had entered the building. He was quite sure everything was in order when the building was locked on the 19h. He had never seen anybody attempt to tamper with any lock anywhere. He had never observed Mr. Oldham closely. He attended strictly to his own business, and had always looked upon Mr. Oldham as one of the bosses, While the testimony of this witness was being re- corded by the reporter, the court-room was the scene of much subdued excitement, a rumor being afloat that Mr. Thomas was suspected of having robbed his own bank. Mr. Thomas was next called, and testified some- what reluctantly. The lock was set upon a com- bination known only to himself and his cashier, He himself had net entered the building since the afternoon of Jan.19th. The object missed was a small iron box holding a locked drawer, in which drawer were bills and drafts to the amount of fifty thousand dollars. This drawer was secured by a peculiar lock—Mr. Thomas’ own invention. It eould ony be unlocked by using a key of a peculiar shape, This key, strange to say, had been left in Mr. Thomas’ possession when the bank was closed on the afternoon of Jun. 19th, Yes; he could ac- count for himself between the hours of four and eight P.M. of the 20th. At that time he was asleep upon his library sofa, He had lost much sleep while attending his friend, the late vice-president, and was greatly exhausted in body and mind. Cre eae cross-questioned, Mr. Thomas reiter- ated his statement that on the afternoon of Jan. 20th, between the hours of four and eight, he was sleeping soundly in his osar His sleeping at such an unusual hour he thought to be caused from fatigue and the reaction consequent upon great nervous excitement. Mrs. Thomas testified that she closed the library door on the afternoon of Jan. 20th, leaving Mr. Thomas asleep upon the sofa: She was not aware that he had left the house after that time. Just about dark, while looking from her sitting-room window, she had seen one, whom she supposed to be Mr. Thomas, open the front gate, and walk rap- idly up the street. Atterward she felt sure she must have been mistaken, however, for at tea-time, about an hour afterward, she aroused him froma deep sleep. No, his position was not the same as that in which she had left him. She left him asleep upon the sofa. When she awoke him he was reclining in an invalid’s chair. : Mr. Thomas’ body-servant, being sworn, testifled that just at dark, on the evening of the 20th, he was standing before the side entrance ofthe bank when Mr. Thomas approached from the direction of his home and entered the building. Mr. Thomas was without overcoat or gloves, which somewhat sur- prised the servant. Yes, he noticed something un- usualin Mr. Thomas’ appearance. He refused to speak, altbough directly addressed, and his eyes were open, although he had the appearance of a man in deep sleep. When this witness descended from the stand the exe bopnenp in the court-room could hardly be con- rolled. The comments and arguments of the spectators were beginning to assume a rather noisy nature, when Mr. Thomas’ family physician was called to the stand. ; Colonel Rockwell was now conducting the case, the attorney for the State having no further wit- nesses to bring forward. ; : Dr. Caldwell’s testimony was, in substance, as fol- ows: “Tam Mr. Thomas’ family physician. Have at- tended him through several attacks of nervous pros- tration. Am aware of certain constitutional weak- nesses which Mr. Thomas has heretofore concealed from all except his wife and myself. I have for years known Mr. Thomas to be incurably a som- nambulist. I have never known of any instance in which he exhibited symptoms of kleptomania. I believe somnambulism to originate in diseased nerves.” When Dr. Caldwell resumed his seat Colonel Rock- well arose, deliberately undid a package which he had kept near at hand, and placed upon the re- porter’s desk a small iron box. Do you recognize this box ?” he asked,,turning to Mr. Thomas. “It is the missing drawer,” that gentleman un- hesitatingly replied. **Have you the key about your person ?” In reply Mr. Thomas drew a tiny key from his vest-pocket and handed it to Colonel Rockwell. The look of consternation which had crept into Mr. Thomas’ face deepened perceptibly when the key was turned easily in the lock and the drawer drawn slowly out. Upon careful scrutiny the contents were found to have been. untouched. “Now, may it please the court,” Colonel Rockwell began, “I wish to present tothe jury certain facts hitherto unknown to them, and of a somewhat mys- terious nature.” Whereupon he related to them the strange dream, showing them the sketch made by Mrs. Oldham at the breakfast-table, and confessing to them that his own incredulity was onlyjovercome by his own efforts in securing the box. He dwelt with force and pathos upon the motives which had induced the cashier’s flight; appealed to the manliness and chivalry of the jury. and made it a personal question. what would each man of the twelve have done under similar circumstances ? His argument, brilliant and exhaustive, followed; and before it was ended every man in the court- room was thoroughly satisfied of Oldham’s inno- cence. The withdrawal of the jury was amere form. The verdict of ‘not guilty” was proclaimed amid shouts of applause for Col. Rockwell. whose skill and shrewdness had successfully worked up the case. Thus the absent cashier was acquitted. And for years afterward, when stories of circumstantial evi- dence were going round the board at bar dinners, there would be cited the instance when a bunk president, during a fit of somnambulism, robbed his own safe and very nearly sent his cashier to the penitentiary. Old Dinah had put a holiday face upon the old parsonage to welcome Marion’s return from the court-room, and she herself was standing at the gate waiting to greet her foster-child, who, flushed, happy, and hysterical, was alternately laughing and weeping, “Ole Dinah tole yer so, honey!” she cried. ‘Ole Dinah knowed Marse Tom ’ud clear him. Jist show me aman wid more brains nor Marse Tom, won’t yer ?” she challenged, exultantly. ‘ “How can we ever thank you?” Marion asked, looking up tearfully into this ““Marse Tom’s” face. “IT am thanked already,” he answered, gently. ‘Your happiness is dearer to me than my own.” The tears rushed quickly into the gray eyes, and agreat pity arose in her heart for this noble, un- selfish soul, who was destined to be so poorly re- warded. “One more thing remains to be done,” Mrs. Old- ham said, when Tom was about to take his depart- ure. “Can I trouble you to leave this message at the telegraph office, Col. Rockwell?” “With pleasure, madam,” though his face belied his words when he glanced at the message and read: “Mr. Paul T. Oldham, Ravenglass, Cumberland County, England. Acquitted. Come at once,” *« * * = *« * a In May, when the earth was filled with spring’s delicious beauty, the little church in V-— was adorned for the bridal of the pet and pride of the vil- lage—beautiful Marion Elsworth. Bright was the day and merry the wedding party. But the bride sighed softly when she missed among her friends the voice and face of valiant Tom Rock- well, the rejected lover who had saved her husband from shame and who now refused to sadden the bridal by his own sad presence. -e-~< CHRISTMAS FACTS. By G. Bancroft Griffith. In the primitive chureh Christmas Day was al- ways observed as a Sabbath, and hence, like other Lord’s days, it was preceded by an eve or vigil, as an oecasion of preparing for the day following. No festivalof the church was attended by more popular superstitions anf observances, the ceremonies of the Saturnalia from whichit was derived being im- proved upon by Christian and Druidical additions. The day of this vigil was passed in the ordinary manner; but with the evening, the sports began; about seven or eight o clock hot cakes were drawn from the oven; ale, cider, and spirits went freel around; and the carol singing commenced, whic was continued through the greater part of the night. Christmas carols is the name given among English- speaking people to the songs of this holiday season. In Germany they take the name of Wethnachislieder, and in France that of Noels, from Weibnacht and Noel the words for Christmas itself. It was the uni- versal custom in England, many years ago, for a band of-singers, called Waits, to be ready at the midnight of Christmas Eve to usherin the day by ringing the church bells, and by going from house to house to sing their carols They always received a cup of “ nut froun ale,’ and sometimes small fees in silver. The custom is still observed in some of the villages, and in at least one New England town, where there is a mill with many English operatives. The following is a verse of a favorite child carol, dating from the time of James I.: “God bless the master of this house, Likewise the mistress, too; And all the little children That round the table go; And all your kin and kinsfolk That dwell both far and near I wish you a merry Christmas, And a happy New Year.” The connection of the original festival with the Roman Saturnalia has never been disputed by those competent to form a judgment, and in some existing observances in Franconia the traces of it are un- deniable. Inthe nights of the three Thursdays pre- ceding the Nativity, the young of either sex go about beating at the doors of the houses singing, as we have shown, the near birth of our Saviour, and wishing the inhabitants a happy new year, for which in return, as in England, they are presented with pears, apples, nuts, and money. With what joy in the churches of that land not only the priests, but the people, also receive the birthday of Christ, may = be inferred from this—that the image of a new-born child being placed upon the altar, they dance and chant as they circle round it, while the elders sing. Many of the customs that have attended the cele- bration of Christmas in the early ages of Christian- ity have become obsolete. Among the Christmas dishes most in vogue were a boar’s head stuck with rosemary, with an apple or an orange in the mouth; plum-porridge and mince pies. Diocletian, who kept his court at Incomedia, hearing that multitudes had assembled to celebrate the nativity of Christ, ordered the church to be burned. His commands were obeyed, and all the in- mates perished. The Christmas of 1525 was called the ‘still Christmas,” on account of the plague, which pre- vented the king from holding any festival at court. The mortality was so great that half of the citizens of London are said to have died. The baptism of Jesus was celebrated by the East- ern church as early as A. D 220, and by the Western church as early as A. D. 380. Some authorities fix the time earlier for the celebration by the Western church, and put it in the reign of Constantine. Miracle plays and Scripture histories are synony- mous with Christmas. The miracle play of St. George and the Dragon, one of the first, is still pre- served. There is a town in Germany where once in ten years all the inhabitants take part in the repre- sentation of the life of Christ. In the early courts of England Christmas was celebrated by arrangements made by the master of the revels, who was appointed by the king, and was called the lord of misrule. Leeland, speaking of the court of Henry VII., A. D. 1489, mentions an abbot of misrule who was created for this purpose who made much sport and did right well his office. It is a poet’s idea that all nature unites in celebrat- ing the birth of Christ. The superstition of Eu- ropean peasants puts the idea into the belief that on Chrismas morning the oxen are -always found on their knees. This they do in imitation of the ox and ass who, according to an old legend, were present atthe manger and knelt when Christ was orn. An English traveler, Dowison, in his sketches of Upper Canada, mentions that on one moonlight Christmas Eve he met an Indian creeping along, who motioned him to siJence. **Me watch to see the deer kneel,” he answered to the traveler’s inquiry. “This is Christmas night and all the deer fall upon their knees to the Great Spirit, and look up.” In some parts of England the popular belief is that sheep walk in procession on Christmas Eve, in com- memorstion of the glad tidings first announced to shepherds. Bees are alsosaid to singin their hives on the night before Christmas. Bread baked on Christmas Eve never became mouldy, at least so once thought many English housewives. s In Devonshire, England, the farmer and his friends partake of hot cakes and cider on Christmas Eeve. They then go to the orchard, bearing hot cake and cider, as an offering to the principal apple-tree. The cake is laid in the fork of the tree, and the cider thrown over it,amid the firing of guns and the shout- ing of women who sing a song of blessing. In Hampshire a libation of spiced ale is sprinkled on the orchards and fields, while the chorus is sung. Salmon was once a favorite dish for the Christmas table. An old superstition, long believed in Mon- mouthshire, held that every Christmas morning a large salmon exhibited himself in the river near Aberavon, and permitted himself to be handled. No one, however, was s0 impious as to capture the sacred fish. We have the unquestionable authority of Bede for asserting that the birthday of Christ was observed in England by the heathen Saxons. They called it, he says, the ‘‘Mother Night,” or ‘‘Night of Mothers,” and probably on account of the ceremonies used by them during their vigil. But, in fact, as par- ticular portions of this festival may be traced to the Romans orto the ancient Saxons, the root of the whole affair lies much deeper, and is to be sought in tar remoter periods. It was clearly in its origin an astronomical observance to celebrate the winter sol- stice and the consequently approaching prolongation of the days, as is demonstrated by the emblematic Christmas candles and yule logs, the symbols of in- creasing light and heat. These Christmas candles, though now out of date, were one time of an im- mense size. The Christmas tree is the product of German fan- cies, and the custom of using it so old that they have no tradition of its origin, but there is a legend which dates it as far back as the seventh century, Conse- quently, in the fatherland it occupies a far more rominent place than here, being found in every ousehold. It was carried to England by Prince as been Albert, and since its introduction by him steadily growing in favor. Pleasant Paragraphs. {Mostof our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib- uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will oige us by send- ing for publication anything which may be deemed of suflicient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. ] Love’s Labor’s Reward. When all was sere and brown, Into this busy town (I think ’twas about twenty yeurs ago) A ragged pilgrim came, Whose step was halt (that’s lame), Whose feet were bare, whose hair was white as snow. He hugged beneath his arm, ‘ To shield, as ’twere, from harm, A looking-glass about ten inches square ; And that was all he had, Indifferent, good, or bad, Of what we good people call “earthly ware.” Now I, to tell the truth, Was a kind-hearted youth, And as my eye took in that poor old man, Marking his tattered clothes, And shoeless, sockless toes, Something whispered: ‘Go, help him all you can.” So, with the best intent, My steps I quickly bent To where he trudged along in woeful plight ; And touching light his arm, I said: **Friend, fear no harm, But come with me; I’l] bed you for the night.” Quick as the lightning’s flash That man of little cash Whirled like a beast, or fiend—no matter which ; And letting his “right” fly, Struck me above the eye, And landed me, heels upward, in the ditch. Then, yelling ‘““No you won't; And “Coppie, no you don’t— You can’t fool me, no matter how you're dressed ;” - He gave his belt a twist, His halting gait dismissed, And tore up Theurett street like one possessed. NAT CAREY. A Mistake. A young-man, very much more conceited than handsome, being once caught in a heavy_shower of rain, sought shelter underan awning. Just across the street stooda fine house. At a second story window sat a very handsome young lady, who every now and then, as it seemed to the young man, was looking at him. That he had made a favorable im- pression was his firm opinion, and as if to prove his surmise correct, a servant-girl emerged from the house, carrying an umbrella, Coming over toward him she offered it to him. He politely took the um- brella from the girl, lifted his hat, made a very pro- found bow toward the lady by the window. and went home, happy in_the thought that he had made a “mash” sure. The lady would expect him to return the umbrella, and that would be his chance for an interview. So early next morning, rigged u in his very best, and with the umbrella in his hand, he repaired to the residence of the young lady. Timidly ringing the bell, it was answered by the servant-girl who brought him the umbrella on the day previous. Handing her the umbrella he offered a thousand thanks, and was about to say a great deal more, but was curtly cut short by the girl say- ing: 3 “That’s all right, sir;” and she was about shutting the door when the young man said: “Beg pardon, miss. but would it not be better for me to bring the umbrella to the young lady herself, as she may wish to see me.” : “She wishes not to see you,” the girl firmly re- plied. “Ifshe had she could have done so yester- day when you stood under theawning yonder. Says she to me: ‘Bridget, do you see that ugly fright un- der that awning there? See how impudently he is staring at me. I can’t bear the sight of him. Take him an old umbrella so that we may get him away from there.’ ” ’ “That was a great mistake that young man made,” pemeene remarked when his story was related in a crowd. “Yes,” replied another, “it was, and yet. it seems the miss was neither taken with him nor by him.” MAURIE, Johnny’s Sorrow. Judge Morrison Waite is in the habit of taking a toddy for his stomach’s sake every morning. His little boy Johnny is in the habit of scooping up the sugar in the bottom of the glass, and putting it where it will do him the most good. : A few days ago, Judge Waite had occasion‘to take a dose of quinine, and as he left a little of the bitter stuff in the bottom of the glass, Johnny, supposing it was toddy, filed _his application for the sediment, which was granted. as Judge Waite was desirous of curing the child of an inexplicable yearning for strong drink. Johnny soon began to show his dis- gust by fearful howls and impracations. | “Is it better, sonny?” asked Judge Waite, in an anxious tone of voice. : “Oh, Lam not erying about that,” replied Johnhy. ‘‘What are are you erying about, then ?” “T’se crying because I drank it all up, andIam so sorry there is none left for poor little brother Billy.” An Expensive Funeral. “T’ve been thinking,” said a miserly man, “over the extravagance we see every day in the funeral of the poorer classes, It’s all wrong. See here, I’ve got it all figured out here; so much for the under- taker, so much for the clergyman, so much for the grave; just look atit. A laboring man can’t afford to have a death in his family at that figure. 1 tell you it’s all wrong.” Yes, I know,” responded the other; “but still when you die you will have the most expensive funeral ever seen in these parts.” Why, how’s that?” exclaimed the close-fisted fellow, at the same time flusiing with pleasure at the supposed complimentary intention. “I have the most expensive funeral eyer seen here? How _. "Why ? because,” sturdily came the explanation, because, sir, they’ll have to hire the mourners.” The Poor Heathen, No other nation can compete with the English in sending out missionaries to the heathen, yet there is an unlimited supply of criminals and paupers at home, that might be converted and otherwise as- sisted. England reminds one of Bobby’s mother. She was a very good, kind-hearted woman to every- body except to the members of her immediate fam- ily, One day a gentleman met this lady's little boy in a tattered and torn condition, and the following remarks were passed: “Bobby, why can’t your mother sew up your trowsers ?” ‘“’*Cause she is at the vestry sewin’ for the heathen.” Hats Off! A gentleman at the theater sits behind a lady who wears a very large hat. “Excuse me, madam; but, unless your hat, I ean see absolutely nothing. Lady ignores him, Excuse me, madam: but unless you remove yout hat, something unpleasant will happen, Lady ignores him again, Gentleman put on his own hat, Loud cries from the audience: “Take off that hat! Take off that hat!” mean her hat, and removes it.” you remove ’ “Lady thinks the “Thank you, madam.” He Knew Her. Anold man would not believe he could hear his wife talk a distance of five miles by telephone. His bet- ter half was in a country store several miles away, where there was a telephone, and the skeptic was also in a place where there was a similar instru- ment, and on being told how to operate it, he walked boldly up and shouted: “Hello, Sarah!” Atthat instant lightning struck the telephone wire and knocked the man down, and as he scrambled to his feet he excitedly cried: “That’s Sarah, every time!” Broken Off. A citizen who has been travelingin Europe for the past year, returned not long since, and he is surprised at the changes that have taken place dur- ing his absence. In talking with a friend about the changes, the returned traveler asked: “Is Miss Esmerelda Chase still engaged to young Conkling?” “‘No, the engagement is broken off.” ‘You don’t say so? How did that happen?” “Well, you see they got married six months ago. That broke off the engagement.” Mirthful Morsels. Said a farmer, who was given to long drinks, to a brother agriculturist: ‘““What breed of cattle would you advise me to adopt?” “Short horns,” was the significant reply. A lchao girl said she couldn’t remember the number of her shoes, and then got mad because anne said it was a good deal to tax one’s mind with, ‘‘Mynherr, do yo you know for what we call our boy Hans?” “Do not, really,” replied the man thus addressed. ‘‘Well, Itell you. Dat ish his name,” A man who had a scolding wife, being anxious to excuse her failings when called upon to give some account of her habits and character, said: ‘She is pretty, well in general, only subject at times to a reaking out of the mouth.” A Sandusky boy was rather troubled for fear that he would not know his father when they both reached Heaven, but his mother eased him by re- marking “All you have to do is to look lor an angel with a red nose on him.” An unknown Geen eyN Te number of years seen by a spring chicken. “Why is a young man like a kernel of corn ?” asked a young lady. “Because,” said another, “‘he turns white when he pops.” “What are you always thinking about, Ida?” I’m always thinking about nothing, auntie. I never think about ree unless I happen to think of something to think about.” + Items of Interest. A hunter fired ata bird as it flew over the door- yard of an Arkansas residence. A boy that was playing around was struck by a couple of shot, and his loud cries brought the farmer to the scene. ‘‘What have you done?’ he demanded of the hunter, drawinga revolver. “I beg ten thousand pardons,” exclaimed the hunter. *‘In m eagerness to secure the bird I fired thoughtlessly, and fear that I have seriously woundsd your son.’”’ “Son,’’ saidthe old man, “I thought that you had hit my dog. Mind how you shoot around here, for if you put a shot into that dog I’il cut off both of your ears.” A man in Hamilton. Ohio, although rather de- voted to a young lady, did not seem to be in any particu- lar hurry to shake oif single blessedness. His intended mother-in-law, velieving that delays were dangerons, was very anxious to have the matter settled, and gave him 75 cents with which to purchase the license. The heartless wretch took the money, and got such a license as the dear old lady wanted, but had it filied up in another girl’s name and married her. This is the first time that a mother-in-law has been outwitted. The wife of the late Chief-Justice Hardin. of Ken- tucky, has been found living in Louisville, on the fourth floor of a tumble-down rookery, in absolute want. Her only companion is her seven-year-old daughter, the rest of her family of five children being scattered through the world, the whereabouts of two of the children being un- known to the mother. Mrs. Hardin lives in one room, and when found the other day by the reporter was with- out fire or food. On the evening of the graduating exercises of Mr. Waller’s class in the New London high school, a terrific thunder storm burst forth at the very moment young Waller stepped upon the stage to deliver his declamation on “Spartacus ;”’ but, undaunted by the peals, the young graduate delivered his effort, and was heard far above the elements. “Those who were present,’ we are told, ‘‘tes- tify to the grandeur and suggestiveness of the scare’— evidently meaning “the scene.” An Iowa paper has supplied along-felt want by giving to the public an obituary notice that bears sees its face the stamp of honesty. It says: “He gained his riches by loaning money and handling notes. and mort- gages, had a State-wide name for his litigation in various counties and in the Supreme Courts, was grasping and heartless in his trauactions, became divorced from his wife, and died without a friend.” On Christmas Day Mrs. Ellen Dunn, of Hoosick Falls, N. Y., a lady fifty years of age, threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and exclaimed : “‘I thank God that we have had such a happy Christmas.”’ The husband replied that he hoped they would live to see many of them. The wife kissed him, turned away, passed into an adjoin- ing room, and dropped dead of heart disease. A terrified Philadelphian requests the influence of the press to prevent any further reduction in the price of gas. jonny. a@ year ago, he says, with gas at $2 per 1,000, his bill was $19.46 ; this January, with gas reduced to $1.90, his blll calls for $27.06, although he closed two hours earlier this season than last, He hasn't dared to cipher out what it would be were gas reduced to $1.50. A Portland paper tells a story of a wealthy but very parsimonious Maine man who, two or three days be- fore his death, awoke in the evening, and, turning to the watcher at the bedside, asked: ‘How much do they give you anight?’ ‘Two dollars and a half,” was the reply. “Well, you needn’t come any more; I can’t stand such a sum as that,” and he didn’t. A Boston man has taught his dog, when offered sausage, to smell it and then turn away with a mournful howl. When he goes into a butcher’s shop where there are a lot of folks, offers the dog a sausage and the dog does the act, it is very embarrassing for the butcher, and, if he gets a chance, he kicks the dog. Amobtook Andrew Elliott out of jail at Grand Forks, Dakota, and adjusted a rope round his neck; but he argued convincingly that his crime did not merit a death penalty, and suggested that a coat of tar and feath- ers would ve about the right punishment. The lynchers took his view of the matter. The eurse of California is the Central Pacific Rail- road, which charges such high rates for freight, that near- ly four-fifths of the profits of merchandise go into the pockets of the company, leaving but little for the pro- ducers and merchants. Tomato juice is a sure cure for warts—so it is said. A Missouri girl began canning tomatoes with nine- teen warts on her hands, and quit with neveraone in sight. That was good for the girl, no doubt, but how about the tomatoes? Mr. Chaules Bayley, of Baltimore, died recently at the age of 713 years. e had been confined to the house by illness for over 33 years, having been injured by a fall from the roof of a high building while working at h trade as a slater. An elderly English lady of fashion needing a page advertised : “Youth wanted.” Next day there came to her a bottle of Rimmel’s wrinkle filler and skin tightener, a pot of “Fairy Bloom.” a set of false teeth, a flaxen wig, and some iodine soap. There are fourteen lawyers and four editors in the California Senate. Thecombined wealth of the Sen- ators, without counting that of the editors—who usually carry their evidences of affluence (a change of linen) in their gripsacks—is about $20,000,000. Calico printing was practiced in Egypt in the first century. It is believed to have originated in India. It was introduced into Europe at the close of the seventeenth century.