oa

 

 

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ann annotate x —oalntjeni ioe:

| oncneeneeemmmees

terion sae A nn i tia, enon ts

OO ee Siilindcicilleeiaa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STREET «& SMITH,
Proprietors.

 
 
 

 

 

BY HH. NORMAN GUNNISON.

Like a child that in the night

Gropes, and groping finds its way,
So I grope, and wait the light,

In the night before the day.
Wandering through this border hand,

Through ¢arth’s desert drear and witd,
Guided by an unseen hand,

Like a child.

Like a child whose timid feet
Straying, feebly totter still,
Onward through an unknown street,
Answering to an unknown will;
So I stray—and I am led
By aa unseen influence mild,
Kopt and cared for, guarded, fed
Like a child.

Like & child oh, may I reat

Trusting to the hand which keeps,
Lying safely in His breast,

Watched by One who never sleeps.
Till my feet Thy courts shall press,

Keep me, Pather, undefiled,

 

SNOWED IN
SNOWED OUT;

OR,

A Week at Pine Burn.

AStory for the Little Folks.
By Mary Kyle Dallas

4 CHAPTER, 1. {

 
  
   
 

HE TELZAG SAM.

rey ine ting! thre! atthe Pell) Battle! rattle! rat-
Mist atths kn er. Whi >a} varit. could that be,
&i his hour é night?" fhe children, all aronsed,
ask each other the ques from their beds, in the

two sleeping-rooms they occupied.
ay might be robbers,” said timid Ruth.
“If it were, papa would soon shoot them,” said

Tamar. “Besides, robbers don’t ring and knook.”
“Theo,” whispered Fred to his b er, perhaps
Santa Claus.”

“Tt isn’t Christmas yet,” said Theo.

“But he might forget, you know.”

“Bother!” said Theo, “how foolish you are: more
likely the barn is on fire.”

Fred began to cry. Meanwhile they heard their
father go down stairs and open the door. me

uick words were exchanged, then there was a sud-

on Fanaa to and fro, and a scream from their
mother,

“It’s somethi dreadful, Tamar,” said Buth.
“Oh, I wish they’d come and tell us.”

Then the girls lay very still.

“T wonder whether Fred and Theo are awake?’
whispered Ruth, at last. If it should be robbers,
Theo is hig and strong enough to help drive them
away.”

“Hush!” said Tamar, “whoever they are, there
they go. Don’t you hear the horse ?”

And glatter! clatter! clatter! went the sound of
the hoofs over the frostyroad. |

_They’re going toward the city,” said Tamar.
“Therel they are on the hollow, now up on the hill.
Ruth, I know it’s a message from somewhere.
Something has happened.” .

“Here comes mamma,” said Ruth. ’

And the door weed and in eame their mother,
with a candle in her hand. Her face was very pale.
tn all their lives the children had never seen it so
pale before, and her eyes were full of tears.

“Girls,” she said, “very bad news has come to us.
A telegram ‘has just been brought to us from the
army. Your Unole Stephen has been mortally
wounded, and if we desire to see him before he dies,
we must go to him at once, Your Aunt Rachel’s
min brought the message. She is going with us,
and her children are coming over here, with their
nurse.to stay until we return. I think you ara
sensibleenough to obey Margaret and Rose, and
not get inte mischief.” :

“IT should hope so, mamma,” said Tamar, “I’m
nearly fourteen.

Ruth was erying softly.

“Poor Uncle Stephen! Perhaps ho won’t die. It’s
not sure, is it, Manrma ?”

“T am afraid itis certain, child,” said her mother.

*“‘Can’t you do anything forhim?” asked Ruth.

**We can all pray,” said her mother. “Even little
Fred can do that, and God can answer us if it is
His will to do 80. But we must waste no time. Yout€
Pipa and I must be at the station at seven, and it is
Nearly four o’clock now. You can lie still, or get
up,as you please. And, remember, Tamar, you
are the oldest of the four, older even than your
cousin, you must take my place.”

“And the keys, mamma?” asked Tamar.

“No,” Said Mrs. Hathaway, “Ishall givethe keys
to Margaret. If I can trust her with my children,

i can surely trust her with my store-room, and you |}
,

are to obey Margaret while I am gone,’

Tamar pouted. :

a a young lady, and she is a servant,” she
said.

But her mother did not hear her, or at least did
not heed her, a8she hurried away to pack up such
garments as she intended to take with her, and ar-
panies matters as well as she could for her depar-

ure,

I shall got up,” said Ruth.

LSha’n’t,” said Tamar. “What is the use?”

To see them off,” said Ruth, dressing herself.

They won't care,” said Tamar.

“T shall,” said Ruth.

So when she was dressed she went down stairs
into the dining-room. :

There was afeeble fire in the stove, and the frost
was white on the windows. Never had she taken
hor seat at socheerless abreakfast-table. The boys
were down also. Fred, hushed into silence by the

news that UncleStephen was dying,and twelve- |

year-old Theodore, much disposed to ask questions
and talk the matter over.

. Where’s he hit, ma?” he asked.

«don’t know.” sobbed mamma,

Didn’t they tell?”

“No, child.’

“Who hit him ? A Reb?”

L Suppose so, Don’t talkto mo.”

I wish I’d been there,” said Theo, “l’d have done
for that Reb. When I’m aman I'll bea soldior, too.
say. ma?”

But mamma was not abis toanswer any more
questions, and Theo comforted himself by drinking
coffee in forbidden quantities now that the elders
were too much excited to notice him.

In half_an hour the little light Wagon was at the
door, and two, portmanteaus placed within it. Phen
with adieux to the children, the parents took their
places, and Mr, Hathaway put the black horse to
his full speed,

,-swuth stood’on the porch, Fred climbed to the
handrail They watched the little wagon out of
SifznTr

..LWwish I was along.” said Fred.

_ Dowt it seem dreadful ?” asked Ruth.

What?” queried Fred.

‘About Uncle Stephen,” said Rutb.

Nos: 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
P.O, Box 4896, New York.

Hiniered According to Act of Oomagress,in the Your 1877, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the EAbrarian of Congress, Washington, D.C. _

 

 

 

 

 

 

|

—

.

—
—————

; »
aude fell with the handle,

NEW YORK,-MAROCH 22. 1877.

 

    
    

f

&

 

 

 

 

x $ ; ;
1¢0 ith the touy of the basket,

 

Three Doliars Per Year. oauee NCIS S. STHREE'r.
Two Copies Five Dollars. $ FRANCIS S. SMITH.

No. 17.
Mrs. Margaret.” she
“Butcome, Mrs, Margaret, young folks

Will. be young.” esl
i, be come here, Master Joy, out of mischfet.”

 

 

| Rose came. ‘Dreadful!

assented.

Mistress’s best cloth, and jam, and cake, and good-
ness knows what all, slopped on the center-table ;
and crumbs beat into the Brussels carpet, so’s I
don’t believe they'll come out, and, oh, sakes alive!
that silver cake-basket broken! Who did that ?
Who got it Quy ey you, Miss Tamar, not a young
ady going on fourteen.
“Ts ma's basket, anyhow; you need not scold,”
said Tamar. :
“Everything was left in my charge,” said Marga-
| rat, “and I’ll be blamed. I shall have to pocket the
| keys now. I only meant to take ’em when I nesded
*em. Ain’t it enough to try the patience of an. angel,
Rose? I’das soon have a parcel of monkeys under
my care. Ruth, who broke the basket?” "
: feuth hung her head; she hated to get people iato
rouble.
; ‘‘Tel) mo, Ruth,” said Margaret.
| “All the boys,” sobbed Ruth. “They didn’t moan
to; they wanted the last piece of cake.” :
| ‘Not another bit of cake do they have until your
| ma comes home,” said Margaret. “Now take your
| things away, whileI clean the parlor. Hurry} or
Pll put them where you won’t find them again.”
:. Tamar never stirred. Ruth in a fright gathered
up the little gilt-edged set. Doing so as she went
\ ; around the table, her foot caught in. something, and
. | she fell. In falling, the sugar-basin rolled from her
' hand, and was smashed to pieces on the floor.
| “Oh, Ruth!” said Tamar; ‘‘you’ve broken the set,
; you careless child!” :
|, “I haven't sobbed Ruth; “it’s only the sugar-

 

f

oasin.
|. I tell you the set is broken,” said Tamar.
| “Only the sugar-basin' sobbed Ruth. “Oh! eh!
| oh!” and, putting down the little box in which she
' had placed the china, ran away to hide herself in
baer pedzoom, and bewailher misfortune and her
Zulit.

“We _are so very bad,” said Ruth, “oh, so ver
|bad! I suppose it’s ause ma is Beer I wish
| She would come back. She wouldn’t let Tamar say
| Pd broken the set, when it was only the su—gar—~
| basin!’ and sobs choked her voice.

t Por
CHAPTER IV,
i A STUPID AFTERNOON.
| “I wish, oh! I wish there were no ugly old wo-
| men,” said Tamar, as the girls Stood disconsolately
about the sitting-room stove, “We could do justas
| we chose, if it wasn’t for Margaret. I wish she'd go.”
; \We couldn’t get dinner, Tamar,” said Ruth.
heap + te BUre | could; it’s easy enough,” said Tamar.
1 RO ast Ta rather Hveon a crust than ba imposed
; gh. ¢ ¢
i | Lt wouldn’t put up with & from Rose,” said Gail,
aging & Gbalr pear the stoke, E
avent you something go do? FT krewybu had
‘ the Busby cards’ when Iwas hereadast/’ 5
|. @heo cut them ‘all up lasiweek,?
eoletully, ; : f
‘Let’s play something,” said Gail, looking at the

said ‘amar,

 

 

but I guess he’ll get well,” said
“Let’s go in?’ and in they went.

CHAPTER II.
MARGARET’S TROUBLES BEGIN.

Theo. was at the table still. He had filled the slop-
| bowl with strong coffee, emptied the contents of
ithe milk-jug into it dropped in lumps of sugar,
jand now, instead of partaking of his beverage in
Christian fashion, had put his mouth down to the
rim of the bowl, and was sucking at it with aloud
noise.
Fred looked into the coffee-pot.
There ain’t a bit left for me,” he said.
RB 7 never let’s you have more than one cup,” said
| Ruth.
Ma, ain’t here,” said Fred.
but that don’t make any difference,” said Ruth,
O, Theo! how mean of you. There ain’t a mouth-

“Oh, yes! I fo
Fred.

 

 

| ful for Tamar.’

Why didn’t she get up,” said Theo.

|} “It’s mean allthe same,” said Fred; and at that
| moment Tamar herself entered.
| She was in high indignation because Margaret
was to have the keys and the management of the
provisions. Cross as she wellcoujd be, she scowl-
}@d at Theo, pushed Fred out of the way, and sat
gown at the table, drawing the coffes-pot toward
| her.

“It’s empty,” she said. “Well I declare; and she
| tang the bell violently. Nobody answered.
| _. 1 declare,” she said again, and rung more fu-
| riously.

Still no answer. Then she opened the door.

Margaret?” she called.
| Well,” said Margaret from the kitchen.

 

“The coffee is all gone, and I want some more.
Didn’t you hear the bell ?”’

You rung fit to crack it,” said Margaret. “Buf

look @ here, Miss Tamar, I’m an old woman,
jand I don’t allow. young uns to ring me about.
Your ma don’t do it more than necessary, though
she has a right.” :

ive a right, too,” said Tamar.

No,” said Margaret. “The lastwords your ma
said were these: ‘Margaret,’ said she, ‘while I’m
gone I put everything in your charge. You are to
see to the provisions and manage, as you know I
like to have things managed. You are mistress

here until I return, and you'll do your duty, [
know.’ 80 I will, Miss Tamar, but it ain’t my duty

|to be rung about by children. Your ma never let
; you, you know that. As for coffee, you shall have
some more, but whoever emptied thé pot must have
made ’emselves sick, and after this 1 shan’t allow
it. Two cups apiece for you two big uns, and one
for the two little uns is the extent.”

Tamar marched away, slamming the door.

‘A pretty notion if a servant is to rule us,” she
said. ‘I won’t stand it.”

,.3he’s only doing what ma likes,” said Ruth.

Oh, you would put up with anything,” said Ta-
mar.

Here a divertisement occurred. Theo was still
sucking at his bowl of coffee, with his elbows on his
knees, and occupying the extreme margin of his
chair, when Fred essayed to climb upon the back.
He ascen ded the first rung safely, and had just put
one foot on the seat itself, when over itcame, Fred
below, Theo above, chair, coffee, bowl, saucer, plate,
and knife chattering about their ears.

Fred screamed, Theo began, still on the floor, to
| revenge himself. by pounding Fred; and old Mar-
garet camo in with Tamar’s coffee in the midst.

Her first act was to pick up Fred; her next to
shake Theo.

.,40u let me alone,” said Theo.

ou bad boy,”’ said Margaret; “the minute your

| Door ma turns ber back! I won’t have Freddy hurt.

And whataslop! Hyerything you do I shall tell

our pa and ma. Remember—I’ve promised to.

ou two big ones oughtn’t to bother me now—
ought ye, Miss Tamar ?”

But Tamar wouldn’t answer. She was drinking
hor coffee, with an air which she could put on some-
times. She nevis well as any one that Margaret
was right, that th®@ housekeeping was given into her
hands, and that@he—Tamar—should have helped
rather than hind@fed her; but she cared nothing
for right or wrong when her temper was up. The
moment Margaret had left the room, she turned
to. Theo.

Mind, Theo,” she said, “I sha’n’t think anything
pr ar spirit if you mind that hateful old thing—I
sha’n’t.”

..Let her shake me again, that’s all,” said Theo.

_Lf we let her have her way, all our fun’s gone,”
said Tamar.

_Ma said we were to mind her,” said Ruth.

‘I don’t care,” said Tamar; “she sha’n’t take airs,
I ought to be mistress when ma’s away.”

“You'd be a pretty mistress,” said Theo.

“Much you know about it,” said Tamar. “But ma
= been unjust to me, and I won’t submit to injus-
tice,

She finished her coffeo ag: she spoke, and arose
from the table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

a

 

? litte

“T think I'll dress tliat“ for you,”
Ruth. Come upto ourt
AWAY. ° ;

Meanwhile Theo and Fra Went out toskate. The

ond was well frozen, and they had asplendid time.

red had forgiven Theo ths thumping he had given
him, and Theo was very good to Fred, who was new
at the sport, and fell downthreée times a minute on
the average.

After a while he went for his sled, and pulled Fred
about on it until their cheeks were rogy.

‘The snow is most gone,’ said; “but I guess
we'll have another storm.” 4

“Why ?”’ said Fred. sft

“Don’t you see how the.g**3-Books,” said Theo—
“lead-colored and queer.”

“¥es,’ said Fred. “Won't it-be jolly if it comes
down thick? We’ll make a big ball,and a man, and
a snow cave. We'll have Claude and Joy here, you
know, and Gail.” :

“I don’t eare for Gail: Girls are just a bother,”
said Theo; “but I wish ClaudsaniuJoy would come.
Claude is the.best fellow I iknow. He can cut the
figure eight. Em going to learn te do it.”

“Ticould only stand _up-and go without tam-
blingjI a be giad,” said Fro.

“There, now—there they come.”

And, sure enough, over the hill arose four figures
—A boy about Theo’s age, who carried a small ear-
pet-bag, a girl as old as Tamar, and astout servant-
woman, as black as bluck could be. who had a bas-
ket on her arm, and a boy about four years of age
by the hand.

When the children saw Theo and Fred they hur-
ried forward to meet them.

Fred clapped his hands.

‘“‘Ain’t I glad you’ve come!’, he said.

“You oughtn’t to be, Fred.” said the tall girl.

“Why ?” asked Fred. s

“Because maybe poor Uncie Stephen will die,”
said Gail.

“I guess not,” said Fred; “and I’m sorry for that,
only glad to see the boys and you. Theo thinks it’s
going to snow.”

“Ain’t you had enough of storms?” said Black

e. “Ym down sick of’em. If you’re going to
stay out, give me that carpet-bag, Master Claude.
I suppose you’ll go in, seeing the young ladies ain’t
here, Miss Gail.

“You don’t suppeeet want to play with boys,”
said Gail, and she Jed the way houseward.

On the porch the girls met hers“and they proceed-
ed to their badroom, while Rose went into Marga-
ret’s clean kitchen.

A heap of bits of muslin, calico, and silk were on
the bed, and, in the midst, lay a doll, quite un-
dressed.

“Dressing Flora ?” asked Abigail.

“Yos,” said Tamar; “only we don’t know what to
do. If Uncle Stephen does die, we'll have to dress
her in mourning, you know.” *

“Yes,” said Abizgail...“~

“LT won’t,”’ said Ruth. It’s dreadful to think of. I
couldn’t play with a doll in black,” and she began
to ery.

“When Hilda Ormes’ aunt died, she had her doll
in bombazine, and a doubie vail,” said Gail. “But,
Tamar, you know it’sfunto dressa doll. Makeup
your pretty things to-day, Maybe Uncle Stephen
will get well,” ot 4

Ruth wiped her eyes, Thenthe three, Gail having
taken off her wrappings, perehed themselves on
the bed, yet unmade, and bezan to sew. Gail on a
pink silk dress, Tamaon a blue velvet bonnet,

tuth, who was not very handy at the needle yet, on
a white petticoat.

“Did your ma ery,” asked she, ‘when the tele-
gram cume, I mean.” :

“She fainted,” said Gnil, “we were frightened
almost to death. Rose brought her to.”

“Ma felt dreadfully,” said Tamar, “she had been
anxious about Uncle Stephen ali along. I can’t re-
member very much of him, and Fred only sayw him
once. Ruth seems to, though its four years since
he was here and she is just ten now.” ; ;

““‘We’ve seen him sinee in New York, said Gail.
“When he enlisted,ma,and Claude,and I went down.
He cried and told ma if he came back he would be a
better brother than hehad been. I asked ma what
he meant. Shesaid he had been a little wild.”

‘We had another uncelé, you know.”

“Yes,” said Tamar, “uncle Halbert, Mother says
he ran away to sea before he was much older than
Theo,,and must have been drowned, for he never
came back,” :

“Boys are always talking about going to sea,”
said Gail, “Claude is wild over a ship oraboat. I
think—

What she thought no one ever knew, for, at that
moment, a voice was heard. Margaret scolding.

“The idea’ A parcel of lazy girls. I should think
a young lady would make her bed before she sat
uponit. Your ma always bids you do it. Get off
now, put those rags away. I’m going to tidy the
room, RoseandI will have our hands full and we
can’t be bothered this way.”

“Trmpoertinence,” said Tamar, ~

“An old woman can’t be saucy toayoung galif

eo said she to
Hol)” And the girls ran

 

 

 

| Cottage planoin the corner.

; 4» /i., 2 wont. Lhate practicing and {t’s all the
that gal is a lady,” said Margaret. pounding the pil-|)
lows. “Lor whata room. wet towels on the chair-}

backs and ¢ slop on the wash-stand—and

S8@nhg
thing. We’d better go out of doors, and play with
| the boys. Perhaps they’d give us a sled-ride. 8ome-
i d your; times Theo will, and sometimes he won’t, boys are
night-gown on the floor. I should think, Miss Ta-|s0 queer. Where has Ruth gone; I wonder? No
mar, you’d blush to let your cousins seesuch &) matter, come along.”
place. And the nice work-box you got for your} And they went out. Theoand Claude were good-
irthday, a reg’lar tangle.” humored, and theyhad a merry time togéther.
Tamar walked outoitheroom. —— |. | Ruth, still crying up stairs, heard them shout with
“I never was so angry,’ sho said, “ma had no | jaughter, but was too heart-broken to join them.
right to treat me so. I’m fourteen. I should have| After a while, good-tempored black Rose camo
had the keys and rung the beil when I chos9, and | in, and sat beside her.
had what I liked for meals, If we’d been alone we} “Don’t ery, little missy,” she said. “Margaret is
could have managed splendidly. Is Rose as cross | bothered; she don’t mean to be crosa.”
as Margaret?” : | “It isn’t Margaret, it’s Tamar,” said Ruth.
“She’s only Joy’s nurse-maid and don’t meddle | “Well, den, what did she do 2” said Rose,

 

with Claude and me,” said Gail. “Said I’d broke the sed, and stuck to it, and it was
“What shall we do now?” a only the sugar-bowl,” said Ruth.
“Let's have a tea-party,.” said Tamar. “My new) Rose considered.
set is.in this pantry.and I’ll get cake and jam, and! ‘Well, missy, you did,” she said.
bread and butter, and other good things.’ “T—did—n’t,” and Ruth sobbed again.

_ “Yes, missy,” said Rose. ‘Not a whole set, mind
ye. Butdon’t ye see, one of the pieces, so it ain’t
| no wholeset, no more, kinder spiled.”
$¢ eo ti | “Wasthatit? Was that what sho meant? You’re

what wil Margaret | sure ?”
: Bi | “Yes, missy,” said Rose. “NowTLtell you what
i don’t care,” said Tamar; “Ma, allows us to} youdo. When your ma comes home, you ask her
play tea when we choose. We'll have the boys in,| fora shilling, and then you can go to Pineburn,
and have fun. Ma says itis a quiet play, don’t she,| and then you can get a new sugar-bowl the same
Ruth ?” j | size, atthe shop. {bought one for a little lady,
“Yes,” said Ruth And that was true, for under | onee, for allthe world like it.”
Mrs. Hathaway’s eye all pastime, somehow, grew “White and gilt ?” asked Ruth.
pleasantly quiet, and when the children played tea, “Yes,” said Rose.
it was always in the sitting-room. At such times “Td like that; and I’ve got two shillings,” said
she gave them what was proper for them to have. | Ruth.
To-day, Tamar was directress of the feast, she felt | “Well, then, you've only to go to Pineburn,” said
defiant and angry,and resolved to go as far as she! Rose.
could, despite Margaret. ts |" ““T’m so glad,” said Ruth. “T’ll tell Tamar. No I
Instead of taking her cousin into the sitting-room, | won’t, either. Pll surprise her. That’s better, eh,
she marched into the parlor, flung the shutters | Rose ?”
wide, drew out the marble-topped _center-table,| ‘A heap, missy,” said Rose.
divested it of books and ornaments, piled coalupon| “I'll go play with the rest, now,” said Ruth.
the fire, and set the new chairs, covered with blue “Do, missy,” said Rose, “only put on your com-
reps, about it. Then she went to a closet in the hall, | forter, and your shawl, and mits, and hood. Rose’ll
and brought one of Mrs, Hathaway’s very choicest; tie’em. Here now.”
and best damask table-cloths;a potof jam, &quan-; Ruth was wrapped up, and went to the pond. Be-
tity of cake, and other edibles she brought from tho | fore she got there, however, the fun was dono. Joy
store-room, the keys of which were still in Mrs.| had run into Freddy, and Freddy had a blue bruise
Hathawey’s work basket, and the toy tea-set_was/ on his forehead, and Joy a cut lip,and Theo's fin-
set out finely. Then the boys were called in, Ruth; gers were cold, and Glaude was,as he declared,
being the ambassadress. : starved to death, and Ruth had no ride. Leaving
She stood on the edge of the skating pond, beckon-| the sled in the snow, they all weft back to the sit.
ing; for some time, no one paid heed to her. At ting-room, where Rose took charge of the wounded,
last Joy skated toward her, | and applied sugar to the lip, and brown paper and
“Come in.” said Ruth, **we’re going to play tea.” vinegar to the bruised head, and Margaret was get-
“What with?” said Jay. ting a noon-tide dinner ready.
The tea-set,” said Ruth, *‘I_ mean to set the table here,” she said. “No need
“Oh, bother!” cried Theo, “we ain’t coming.” of mussing the dining-room, and parlor, and every
“And cake, and jam, and cheese, and milk, and| room in the house, for children. I'll just put down
bread and butter, and pie, and rasins,” said Ruth, at} a drugget, and a crumb-cloth, and have no more
the top of her voice. bother. Why, what’s the matter, Rose?” and she
“Crumbs ?” asked Theo. Papas talking and looked at the black woman.
“No; -real pieces,” said Ruth. - | “DPve done gone de drefulest thing, Missus Mar-
“Come, fellows,” said Theo, and in they rushed, ! garet,” said Rose. “I dunno where my brains are.
never minding their boots, which soiled the clean; Can’t think nohow. I’ve left the kitchen door, over
oil-cloths and carpets, as they tramped in. ' at our place, unlocked, and any tramp can jest walk
In addition to her little china set, Tamar had put! off with everything. I must go back and fasten it,
on her mother’s silver cake-basket, a very precious | to-day.” a
thing which had. been given to her by her scholars} ‘You'll have to, Rose,” said Margaret, ‘and, I tell
when ‘she taught school, before her marriage. It. you what, after these children have had their din-
was a beautiful thing, with her maiden name en-| ner, I’ll go with you. There’s a silversmith in Pino-
graved on the handle, encircled by & wreath of| burn,and I’lltake mistress’ basket to him. He'll
flowers. ; ...,, | ix it; andI know she’ll feel.so bad to have it bro-
Tamar knew she was doing wrong in touching it,| ken.”
but I think she took it partly in defiance of Marga-| “I know who you mean. That John Underwood.
ret, and partly to show Gail, whose mother was} Yes, he’s a good workman,” said Rose, “and it’s a
very strict with her, whatshe could do. good idea, Missus Margaret, and maybe. you'll
She knew, too, that they were always told to play | please help me bring over some old clothes for the
tea in the sitting room, neverinthe parlor. She} children. They are ruining their good things, and
was not at all happy, though she laughed and talk- | [’ll be blamed.”
ed loudly. No body ever yet was happy who was Ruth listened gravely. When the dinner was
conscious of doing wrong. done, and a small riot on the subjeot of pickles,
The girls poured out the milk, and asked the | which Margaret would only produce in small quan-
others if they liked sugarinit. They passed the | tities, over, the two women dressed themselves, and
cake and cheese, genteelly. The boys grabbed with- } Margaret gave her charge to Tamar.
out rule or order, finally there was but one piece of| “Now, Miss Tamar, don’t let none of those young
eake remaining. Theo and Claude good humoredly | ones run_ out, please; nor fall into the fire, nor
tussled forit. Joy and Fred, of course, found the! nothing. You’ve only got to watch ’em three hours,
fun too great not to join in it. One caught the} and you'll do it, won’t ye?”
handle of the basket, one its edge. It was pull this; ‘Of course,” said Tamar, tossing her head. “I<
way, and pull that. In yain Tamar screamed,| don’t need to be told. [should hope.”
“You mustn't, you mustn’nt. You'll break ma’s| “I hope not,” said Margaret. ‘Come, Rose.”
basket.” Joy and Fred, dug tneir little fingers into| But Rose was whispering in the corner to little
the cake, and crumbled it between them on the! Ruth.
floor, Claude and Theo spun around, their whole| ‘Piease, Rose.” said little Ruth. “There’s a dear,
weight on either side of the basket handle, There-| take my quarter, and buy mea sugar-bowl to give
sult was,as might have been expected, the silver} Tamar at Pineburn.”
parted. Claude fell down on oneside with the han-| “Yes, miss, if there is one at the chany-shop,”
dle in his fist,and Theo measured his length on} said Rose.
the other side, with the body of the basket. *I suppose the china shop is close to the silver-
“Oh, ain’t you ashamed, Claude?” said Gail. sSmith’s?” asked Ruth.
* What will ma say ?” said Tamar. “Pretty close,” said Rose, aie her quarter.
Ruth began to ery. “White with a gilt edge.” said Ruth, “and only so
At this moment in came Margaret. ‘ long,” and she held her little fingers apart.
She stood with hands uplifted, and eyes distend-; “TI know, missy,” and away she went.
ed. Ruth felt very happy; in three hours she could
Then she called Rose. restore the sugar-bowl to the set and Tamar would
“Just look here, Rose,’’ she said, ' be so much pleased,

 

CHAPTER III.
MAMA’S CAKE-BASKET.

“But Tamar,’ said Gail,

say ?”

 

 

 

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She could do nothing but sit at the window look-

ing out along the road watching for Rose.
One hour passed; they were almost there.
—they were probably in the china shop.
they would be home soon. In ten minutes.
five more, not yet; and still the moments passed.
Ruth called to Tamar, as five o’clock struck.
“What can keep Margaret and Rose, Tamar?”

“T don't know, and I don’t care,” said Tamar, who
had at last opened the piano, and was. playing
‘For all me Margaret

Yankee Doodle for little Joy.
may stay forever. I guess I could manage.”
“T wish she’d come,” said Ruth,
“Why. on earth?” asked, Gail, :
“T havefa very purticular rvason,” said Ruth.
Gail laughed. G.
“She wants Her tea,? she said.
“Not that,” said Rath. The secret was hard to

eg, . ‘ ‘
“T wonder,” said Pred, from his stool by the fire,
wen she’ll got out jam—I’d\ like some rasp-
erry.
“Catch her?’'said Theo. “Mean ¢oneern.
mother had told ws to keap the keys,” ;
“Tish sheJhad,” said (Claude. “You cant do
much this winter weathor but skate and eat... Have
you lessons?’ Vay i.
“Tt should think I”had,” said”Theo., “but I hate

4am.”

“My books are home,” “Oh, dear,
oh, dear,” and he yawned.

“Ain’tthere some fun? The'room is too little to
play tag in, or leap-frog, or ball, nnd we’ve played
everyihing else that can be played in cold weather.”

ae two boys came to the window where Ruth
stood.

“But it’s going to snow to-morrow,” Claude said.

“if it did, we might enjoy ourselves,” said.Theo.
“When Fred and I are alone he is such a little fel-
low there’s hardly any use of trying to make a big
ball, and he cries if I pelt him or rub him.”

“@Mhe four of us together will be jolly. Even Fred
and Joy.are of some.use.in.a.crowa.”
~“Phe sun is going down, Claude, and by George
there’s snow!” said ‘Lheo, I?

T wish

said Claude.

: 1 “Hurral!l snow? snow!
The, girlsandlittle Joy and Fred ran to the window ;
a@ very fine, feathery snow was indeed beginning to

fall.

“i’s too little to make much of a pile,” said Fred,
wisely. ““‘There; it’s melting now!” :

*The smaller the flakes, ‘the longer the snow
fle. pele Gail. “I wonder those women don’t

moby. et 1°

And they continued to wonder, for the snow kept
falling. and the day grew dark, and. a moonless,
starless night set in, and still Margaret and Rose
did not come, ;

Little Rath sat: Wy her window’ the longest.’ At
first anxious. aboutéher.sugar-bowl, then ‘about
Margaret and Rose.

. “pomething his happened, J’m* sure,” she said,
hut the others laughed at the idea.

“Afraid to come until morning,”
“women are allafraideof thedark.”

“Wantto cheat us out of our supper, likely,” said
Vheo. I say, Tamar,if you won't get tea I. will.
gam and .cake,, and pickles, ‘and all sorts of
goodies. Make haste; Tamar.’

And Tamar, assuming all her dignity, arose to

said. Claude;

CHAPTER Y.
A FAMINE IN THE LAND,

Getting tea was easier talked about than done
that night. Tamar marched kitechenward, with the
determination not to be outdone by any house-
keeper soever, S

&he poured boiling water from the kettle into the
teapot,and pressed Ruth into service to. put the
eloth and dishes on the table. ;

As for Gail, she was too idle to be useful; she sat
sieepily swaying to and fro in the big Boston rock-
eee just-half awake. .

16 bread was in the kiteaon—a loaf, at least, but
nothing else, All other things were in the store-
room;and cried Tamar, with a sort of scream,
, Margaret hasthe keysin her pocket, mean old

She rushed into the sitting-room with the news.
Even Joy stood petrified.

Phen they went up to look at the door of the store-
room, and tried all keys,fromthe great one be-
longing to the stable-door, to those of bureau-
drawer and elaset: Nothing fitted.

Glaude said ifhe had a ladder he could climb up
outside, and getin at the window. But there was
no ladder.

Theo proposed breaking down the door, or pick-

ing the lock; but Fred, with eyes round as eyes
gould be, desired to know what papa would say on
his return; and even Pheo was not bold enough to
fin t ie deed.
“"Forhaps,” said Ruth, “there is something down
eellic.v,” and down eellar they wert, but everything
but the coal-bin was locked &lso, The children
wen bae ¥ to the sitting-room. : i,

"Wis tt. 3 Pasaid Tamar “It’s all vety
weil to talk about gettingg Supper, but where are the
provisions? This prov@s that mamma did not treaq
mo properly when she jgave the keys to” Margares.
is) tne had them about mé; as it is, we shall

     
 

   

oo
©
®

 

L
starve. “Wihiatis one loaf of bread for a family?”

*“Vithonwontter, too,’ said Frea.

“F don’t gutend to stand it,” said Thea,

“What d@ yot. moan to do?” asked Gail,

‘Something desperate,” said Theo.
~Ruth gave a little seream.

“T wish | was homé,” said little Joy. z

“"\Well.”’ said Tamar; with the face of a martyr,
“at least we shall have, to. put up with it to-night—
that is certain. Sit down to tea, children.” 4

“A prolty ical” said Theo. “We mightas well be
on a desert isiand.”

“A great. deal better,” said Claude. “I have two
books about desert islands, and they have oranges,
and bananas, and young kids, and birds, and. fish,
and crackers washed ashore from the ship; and
barrels of wine, and no end of goodies... A barren
island Is a jolly place,I tell you, I wish we were
on one.” {

“Oh, Claude!” said Ruth; “we’d never: see our
mothers then.”

Glaude said: “Bother!’’

“Children |” said Tamar, solemnly, “come to
“Children!” sneered Theo. *‘Who set you up for
a woman?”

“™he position in which I am placed,’ said Ta-
mar. “Iam housekeeper now; I have allthe care
of ipgmetablab meant onmy shoulders. Haven’t I,

ail?

“There isn’t much to take care of; as far as Isee,’,
said Gail,

Tamar pouted and broughtin the teapot, and
theysat down. The beyerage was poured out, and
milked and sugared, and the assemblage tasted.

“Funny tea!” said Theo.

“Slops!’ said Claude.

“Tt never tasted anything like it,” said Gail.

“It only wants to draw longer,” said Tamar.

But the longer the worse, Tamar could have
cried. Was tea-making such an art, after all?

“T guess the water didn’t boil,’ said Gail.

“T know it did; said Tamar.

Little Ruth got up, and went into the kitchen. She
returned with a long-handied spoon.

“What are you going. todo?” asked Tamar.

“See ifwhat Ithink is so,’ said Ruth, and she
dipped her spoon into the pot. _““Yos, Tamar,” she
said, as she withdrew it—‘yes, I thought so; there
isn’t any tea there—you’vye made. it with only
Water.”

And every one, at table immediately looked into
the. pot. and declared Ruth’s statement to be cor-
Tea had been left out. ;

ff any girl knows whatit is'to be laughed atby
boys,she understands what Tamar endured. It
@4nie to crying at Inst, though Tamar wept rather
from: anger than. grief;

Tittle Ruth sympathized.

‘Tt was thefuss you all made—about the store-
room, that made Tamar forget,” she said, “Pm sure
ob, that. You ean’t ‘remember when there is so
much noise.” ;

“hhe made tea before a word was said about the
etore-room,” said Gail.

Whoop! hurrah! Look at the housekeeper!
There’s one for you,” yelled Theo.

. Making tea without any,’ said Claude, but its
like a girl.” :

i shouldn’t care if we had jam,’’said Joy.

Who cares about jam!” said Claude.: “There are
ther thines botter than jam.” SK 28

wo!” saiti Fred.

“Not” said Joy.

“No!” said Ruth. in one breath.

Weil, said Gail, never moving herself, “I think,
as it Seems likely Margaret won’t core home to-
night, and as we've eaten!the tea, such as it was,
some one had better clear the table.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Claude,

“Tam company,” said Gail.

“Ruth,” said Tamar, “why don’t you. take the
things away, and rid us of the sight of them.”

And meek little Ruth obeyed. Having a special
eare of the sugar-bowl, as she thought of the toy
one she had broken.

After the cups were washed, she brought in a
brush and dust-pan, to sweep up the crumbs.

“You ought to have put down a crumb cloth,” she
said, “I don’t know what Margaret will say.”

argaret!?’ caid Tamar, “I hope Margaret will
think what mamma will sayto her; I hope she’ll
turn her away.”

“Maybe she is killed,” said Joy.

“How could she be killed between here and Pine-
burn,” asked Fred.

“A cow. might have hooked her.” said Joy.

‘Cows are all shutup such cold days,” said Fred.

"Maybe she’s frozen,” said Joy,

"-Tisn’t cold enough for that,” said Claude.

“Perhaps a robber has killed her,” said Joy.

What for?” asked Theo., “she hadn’t much
money about her, I guess.”

She had,” said Ruth, thinking of her quarter,

How silly,” said Tamar, ‘they were belated ‘and
are afraid of the dark. “Happen! Nothing hap-
pens to such people as Margaret, depend on that,’

 

Two
Three—
No—in

She said it with an extremely wise air, as though
she were stating some fact well knows to all sensi-
ble people, and little Joy asked, gravely, “don’t
anything? Why?”

The girls were cross: the boys wanted. more to
eat, and were savage. No fun was, to be had that
evening. At last they went to bed. Claude, Theo..
Joy, and Fred on the ehildren’s floor, and the girls
occupying mamma's room and the spare bedroom.

“Are you asleep, Gail?” asked Tamar, in about
half an hour.

“No,” said Gail.

‘What shall I do about breakfast?” asked Tatar,
‘You knowbest,” said Gail, and after that she
gave no answer to Tamar's complaints.

It was Gail’s way not to trouble herself about
matters which were difficult to manage, |

Rose said, “Miss Abigail was too idle to Jive,” and
Rose was very nearly right. If it had been any
touble to live, Gail would not hayelasted long. »

_ Ruth, just ten years old, sat up and thought, after
the others were asleep. She was e@old, and she put
her Jittle blanket-shawl.whieh hung upon a chair at
her head-board, oyer her plump shoulders. Sleep
she could not, any more than Tamar, but. while
Tamar repeated to herself “what shall f do?” Ruth
‘Strove to think. “Itis a good plan; the snow isget-
ting thicker and thicker,” said Ruth to herself. “It
is likely that Margaret and Rose can’t gefover iat
all in the morning... We must have food to eat. We
must get into the storesroom. How are we to do it?
If we only had the keys! Did Margaret take them
with her? Wait, a minute. she had them in the
ocket of her gray dress, and she wore her bluejone.
Maybe they are in the gray dress yét. z

Little Ruth couldn’t wait for morning. She put
onher quilted skirts’ and her. slippers, threw her
shawl over her head, and went out intothe long
hall, with the night-lamp, ;

Every noise frigutened. her. She loeked into
corners fearfully, She had a terrible dread of
“something white,avhith no litthe girl ever saw,
but which every little child is afraid of seeing, but
she reached Margaret’s room at last. On the wall
hung thev¢ray dress. with its caretul darns ‘and
patches. Ruth shook it, something jingled, she felt
with her cold hands for the pocket, and found it,
She put her hands in; there were the keys. Ruth
danced for joy. She ran back tothe bedroom, and
went up to Tamer’s bedside,

“Pamar,’ she whispered, “are you awake ?”

“Vos, indeed,” said Tamar,

“They are found, Tamar. I found them.”

“What, Ruth ?”

“The keys,”

“No, Ruth!”

“Yes. I laid awake and thought, and at‘ last I
said, mayWe she has left them in her pocket. Here
they ate, the brass store-room key and all.”

“Ruth. said Tamar, “you are the best childin the
world. {forgive you about breaking the set.” :

“Only the sugar-bowl.” began Ruth, but stopped,
thinking of Rose’s commission.

Tacs put the keys *under Ber pillow. Ruth
waited. _~

“Want anything, Ruth ?” said Tamar,

_ “Yes,* said little Ruth. “Liish you’d let me get
in by -you,and hug meup. You don’t know how
queer the entry, and stairs, and Margaret’s room
are at night.”

“Getin, Ruth,” said Tamar. - pes
_ And Ruth nestled up to her sister, and was asleep
in five minutes. So was Tamar.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]

 

BEAVER JIM;
OR,
THE TRAIL OF THE SECRET BROTHERHOOD,

— > ye
By Maurice Silingsby, — %
Author of “BUCKSKIN JOE,” “NOLCR 2S ON
THE STICK,” ete.

(“Beaver Jim” was commenced in Ne 9 Back Nos can be

had ot all News Agents in the United States. j
CHAPTER XXXT)
BEAVER JIM RECONNOITERING.

After the disappearance. of the masked eavaleade
in the ’Devil’s Corridor,” Beayer Jim lay snugly
ensconced in his crevice in 4he rock, impatiently
awaiting the approach of night.

Ove as tue ing
{tbe sp Enh her, Ug

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

pretending to be anagentor runner for Kenge,
| Grinow & Co.”

“Can that be so, Miriam, dear? And heis the yil-
lain, then, who dared to dothis?” |

“Yes, dear Tom; and I believe, from what Leould
hear, that he and a large number of his wicked fol-
lowers have started to rob the express train from
California, which has been telegraphed to arrive
soeraaen with a large amount of gold on

oard,

“And who, darling Miriam, was the fellow Isaw
in the other room with you?”

“His nome is Simms. He is next-in authority
here to the®robber-¢itief; I think he is)good,in
spiteof the wieked influences that surrgund him,

e proved ltiimself my friend in the yer y commence-
ment, and exacted a promise from this Gap. Buck-

mé, and that I should béset.at liberty ina month if
he should fail to wit me oyer to his interests. With
the exception chee 6 is compolléd to keep mo un-
der surveillance during the chief’ absence, I am at
perfect liberty. When he retired to-night, he lockod
the outer door to this Suiteof rooms and put the
key in his pockétso_ there is no egressforme in
that direction; but Ivthink dearTom,with your
assistance, [can manageto erawl through this win-

,adow,

u: *¥ibs, darling.” whispere@ Beaver Jim, joyfully,
“if you ean but findsomething in the room to stand
upon, [know I can get you safely through, You
have but to work your head and shoulders through
and the rest will be easy.” %

“Tf you will but turn away for a minute, dear
Tom, [ will slip on my.old dress in place of this
nice silk one; and be ready.”

“Tsawyou were dressed like a born lady, Mir-
iam, and that was what przzled me. Where did
you get it?” heinqguired,somewhat uneasily.

“Tt was a present from the robbe-chief, with two
others, yesterday morning; and this queer, kind-
hearted little fellow, Sinus; fitted ifto me as hand:
ily as a woman, and afterward helped me to make
the whole of it. Iwould not refuse the gift, for I
thought [mightas well have something after all
the anxiety and trouble fe would put me to; and I
knew that silks worth two dollars a yard would not
erow for mo di eve y best} and I thoucht, you
know, if I should be lucky enough-to eseane out of
this, and—and—” (her » §6F E 6 hesitated)
“we should conclude t» do whahweWwers saying we
would—~” - ng *

6 “Get married when k got thé five thousand ?” in-
terrupted ber auditor, eagerly, offeringia solution
to her partly expressed meaning.

She nodded her pretty head in theaffirmatiys, ad-

‘ding:

“And for such an oceasion, dearTom, I couldn’t
help thinkingthey would be just the thing, andsave
age, : i ’ .
“The ruling passion strong in death!” soliloquized
our hero, turninedtWay.to allow Miriam the oppor-
tunity she had asked fo¥ to chamge her dress. Ina
couple of minutes or so the newgarmert was ex-
ehanged for the old one, and Miriam stood hesitat-
ing about something. eh” ade 7 :
“What is it you are delaying for?” whispered
Beaver Jim, somewhat impatiently. ~

“Twas thinking,’ said Miriam, somewhat rue-
fully, “whether or not J had_better Yenture into the
next room forthe alpaca Bp ee oy black
silk here just finished up— the alpaca is a splen-
did one, worth af least a déilar-and-a-half a yard,
hat do you think, dear om, is it best? ean
ereep in very softly, and itand the two silk dresses
might as well go in one parcel, seeing they are pre-
sents, and cost ug nothing,” and before Beayer Jim
could raise an objection,she had_glided softly to
the door and reised tha Jatch. She disappeared
next moment from i *.as noiseless in her

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

skin, as he is called that no harm should come to

“Téenithousand dollars worth of gold in two days!”
she exclaimed delightedly.. “Why, Jim, it seems
almost incredible. Surely, with that capital you will
not remain a great while longer at day work in the
mines ?”

“T was thinking,’ said Beaver Jim, with a com-
placent smile, ““ whatsort of business I eould go
into and make it profitable.’

“You are a dear, Jim. Leave it to me. We will
establishadaundry in Denyer, on the same plan
that they doin other large cities. I can superin-
tend the works, and _youtan be proprietor. It willnot
be very hard on you to sit in the eounting-roomea
few hours every. day—Sundays ex¢epted—which we
may haye all'to ourselves for recreation and en-
joyment.” 77 ae ae
“Yow have the head for planning, my beauty;
and the business shall be whatever you say.”

Having settled this important matter, they moved
on in thé white, spectral moonlight, that enyeloped
the surrounding landscape. 3 :
They were nowon the last wearisome mile of
their homeward journey, and the sh@mty was just
dimly beginning to be visible, like @ speek in the
distance, A few faint streaks in the east were al-
ready prophesying the approach of day when, foot-
sore, and withva mutual sigh of relief, they drew up
at the door of the shanty.

CHAPTER XXXIIL
BEAVER JIM’S WEDDING, y

It was with-a’ hesitating ‘hand that Beaver Jim
gave his first taprat the door, for the shanty looked
so deserted, and there wassuch an air of desolation
all about him, that he could not help feeling there
Was no one within to’welcome them back. Not re-
ceiving any response, our hero gave another sharp
and distinct rap—so loud, this time, that it could
not fail to eall the attention of the inmate.

_“Who’s there?” cried the well-remembered veice
‘of old Joo, in Atone somewhat auerulous and im-
patient:

“It’s me—Beaver Jim—Miriam,”

“Yes, father!”—in a trembling yoice,

‘My heavens! itis!” followed by a sudden leap
from the bunk to the floor. $

Inanother moment the fastenings were removed,
and Beaver Jim and Miriam stepped wearily into
the shanty.

With a heart too full for utterance, old Joe Mel-
lows eaught his restored child in his arms, and
hugged her conyulsively to his bosom. Thenthe
turned to Beaver Jim, and embraced him, without

ttering one word either of gratitude ordhanks.
Sut the action was more eloquent than words, and
‘our hero felt he had gained a friend in old Joewho
would never desert him while he lived.

It was now half-past four in the morning, and the
old miner insisted on getting breakfast, while jhis
wearied child should have the few honrs’ sleep that
her overtaxed frame required. He would listen to
no explanations from either till-after they had ob-
tained the repose which they so much needed.

it’s allright,” he said. “‘Thestory will keep till
after rou both have your sleep out.”

None of the boarders had been awakened, and old
Joe hurried our hero and Miriam to_ their beds,
while he commenced preparing breakfast. It took
double the length of time for old Joe to do it, of
course; and as the boarders tumbled out oftheir
bunks one after another, and heard the old fellow
‘chuckling tovhimself, and occasionally rubbing his
hands gleefully, they began to wonder if the loss of
Le cause had really driven him out of his right
mink. os
At length, to the joy of every body, the truth
leaked out that Miriam had_ returned in safety,
When Beaver Jim arose, they learned the full par-
ticulars of the abduction, andof the band of robbers
he had traced to their mountain fastness.
He took ola Joe aside, and told him an a few manly

 

 

tof a mouse, leaving
eu 1 Lor to insure ao
t. from: detect! jimms- hear her an
Open his door. eS

 
 
  
 
  
   
  

ivi. (2 returned from the outer

  

coyeted alpaca patterls: NOR i
ie renee ap ety — wun =. eeaee
carefully, and depositing Seem in 2k,
which chanced a4 ap . she thrast the,
Ope

,and drawing a
ot, Whieh site ‘hgstily

whole through the narger

Mp iingss to follow these

m- aghethe same chan-
i ; ow

quaint old chest to
mounted, signvigd ie
pore ap Dpropmnti«:
nel. ; 7
The box raised her

Wise ¢ A

words what he and Miriam had settled. y pon for that
evening, in the event of their being able to geta
elergyman from Denver in season; andthe old man

 

 

 

the city, they proceeded immediately to, ’
Pee aUnriGe® \ ey ee omon'S

¢ had recently been appointed chief ofthe ic
of Denver, besides being at the head, and oo
munication with all the vigilanee committees
throughout the territory. The chief was scated in
company with two or three of his subordinates
diseussing the late robbery, when Mr. Play‘iir, the
clergyman, and.our o entered, Mr, Play tair in-
troduced him to the ¢hief. *

Hehas something oftimportance to communi-
cate concerning the @xpressfobbery.”

f is l Houston, instantly On the alert,
mat topic of theday. Are, you come pre-
us any additional light, my man ?”

ing the robbers, if that

   

 
    
   
  
   
   
 
   

  

is What woul oi discoy®
is What you desire,” said Beayer Jim, promptly
and with th eonfidence of d¢ptainty in histone;
‘Accident revealed their hautbado me not anhour

  
       

before they started fo commit ie robbery. I can

swide you to the spot in four offive hours.”

. 6 clef Started @xcitedly tehis feet before our

ms was half thro with is unex pected dis-
(Ou Gai)? Then you shall havo half the reward

the moment you do Where they ? and how

 

strong a force are they massed 277)

They arein their Stronghold inthe mountalps
and as nearas I was ableto learn @bout thirtyin
number.” v Ee

‘Are they fortified ?”
| f think they@me. They have a big loz-housp
thateovers an th of an acre of ground, with
two sniail apertures that might answer for port
holes.” ia?

*Briges,” said"the chief, turning to one of the
men_ present, “go down to the express office and
tell Mr. Herbert Iwant to see him immeciately—
that we have just obtained a most important clew.”

The subordinate started in a hurry,

Where will I see you inan hour? demanded
Houston,.again turning-toour- hero “Bebalt have
arranged my plans then, and shall beatleisure.”

 

mee alinae'4 Hotel, i

‘Very well. If-you donot return iy hous, f
shalh-make w point tovallon you. Wapaos able
to state then atwhathour your services DOAK,
quired.” eis ,

Mr. Playfair and ourherothen witha few, the for
Hel ay leave of BeayéerJim at the date of the
1otel. “4 ai led) |

When the time had expired onr hero went back
to Houston's office, 1nd found hint there. It. was
about the middle of the afternoonn, aud he was
pa stoue to hear how the balbwas°to be set in mo-
ion. Sita as
There yvasagray-haired gentlemanof about fifty,
present, whom Houston introduced.as Mr. Herbert,
the express agent,’ — —

“T have come,” said Mr. Herbert, “to endeavor to
make an arrangement. with you,in behalf of the
company. In thefirst place. if you ¢an conduct us
to the rendezvous:of the robbers, there is no cer-
tainty of ourscapturing them, andf*we should,
there is no certainty of our» recoverimg@the gold. I
am therefore authorized. by the. compamy to offer
you one thousand dolars.to guide.a.party under
are Houston to the robber’s, retreat, and if the
egcld of which we have been robbed istecovered,
the five thousand reward we haved offered for its re-
covery shall be paid over to. you in full, 1f the
robbers are arrested pnd brought 10 Fustice, the
other reward@offered by the business men of Den-
ver and Keno, you will of: course, receive without
demur. Are,you willing, torguide a party to the -
spot upon these considerations, and satisfy the end
of justice ?” : ’

“The thousand dollars is asure thing?”
“Certainly.” ; ;

‘Well, I don’t see how I can earn a thousand doi-
lars easier.”’

“Phen you do not decline the offer?”

“No, sir; Lam willing to guide you to the Hermit-

 

 

volunteered himself to bring one, A half an hour
later, after donning his best garments, he borrowed
Kavanagh’s horse, and started on his mission.
The news of the intended marriage was soon rife
among the miners, and atthe suggestion of the su~
perintendent, the day was set aside for pleasura
and recreation. . \ i
. The miners were all pleased at the idea of Mir-
riam becoming the wife of Beayer Jim—all, if we
except.little Piper, and he was resigned—for there
never was a fellow more popular and beloved by

his gompenions than our hero... He was the lion of
Gold Valley Mines

 

 

 

As soon as it was dark enouwe ® Avarraut: his
safety, he left his retreut.in the Bo¢k. mak
egreful detour to avoid the obseyatio” -
nel, till he eame in the rear of the f
ture, and advanced continuously fo

gtood safely concealed under cove

  
 
  

  
 

valis. \ ; ae

Here hg remained till ajiscundsot
forior wdée silanveds. Tiare were no ©
fla lowed end oF the ding, only tbe

holes we have previous
There were two 'smail
Prear part of the building :
Fother inthe barracks. H@peered through thes
4theearly part of the evening, and discovered soy. |
vtalmen drinking «ad playing cards. He crept can
tiously along under shelter of the wall to the upper |
end of the building. : % ;
Here bo found four small ¥ooms connedted t6- |
gether and forming ® suite of homely “ppartmenis,

glass, ;

Through one of these’a faint light was just dis
eernible from where he stood, and Beaver Jim ad
vanced with a stealthy tread, keeping closely under |
shelter of the wall till he reacheu’the light. fhen
_— an anxious eye he peered in through the.sin-
gie pane. 4

Heaven be praised! she was there—and our de-
lighted hero uttered an inward prayer of thanks-
giving atthe discovery.

There were only two persons in the room—Mir-
iam and another. Her companion was a small,
handsome young feHow, with features marvelously
like Miriam’s.

They were both industriously at work upen some
dark fabric, and he could see they were conversing
together, and appeared to be on the most excellent
terms with each other. eos

The sight of this perfect understanding—this
friendly familiarity between his betrothed and the
handsome young stranger, created, a jealous pang
in the tortured soul of the observer, and in the
angry spirit of his resentment he was more than
once on the point of turning away and resigning’
her to her fate; but love, and the better impulses of
his heart, would. struggle up in opposition to this
hasty resolve, and restrain him‘from his mad pur-
pose. He was puzzled, grieved. and angry at what
he saw. Indeed, how could her conduct be any-
thing less than inexplieable to him? Hereshs was
in the seeming énjoyment of. peace, comfort, and
unrestrained liberty. Never had he seen her look-
ing so beautiful before—neyer in such becoming
and costly attire as she now wore. The transfor-
mation from coarse cotton to the costliest silk was
so sudden and unexpected to Beaver Jim as to com-
pletely bewilder him.

But in spite of what seemed to be the strange in-
fatuation Of the beautiful girl, Beaver Jim was de-
termined to make one attempt to save her from
ruin, even if she should spurn his assistance.

For nearly two hours longer, and with a sinking.
and. despondent heart, the poor fellow lingared
under eover of the gloomy building, jealously
watching every movement of Miriam and her com-
panion.

At Jeneth they both arose and retired into sapa-
rate rooms—the one in which they had been seated
intervening between the tivo.

He saw the light glimmer through the single
pape of glass from the next room, into which he
1ad seen Miriam disappear but a moment before.
He crept carefully back, still under cover of the
buildings, and peered in through thesingle, dingy
pane. which afforded to the room its only light.

Miriam was seated on the side ofa bed of rather
coarse and primitive appearance, with. her fair
head resting upon her hand for support, and her
whole demeanor drooping and despondent, like
one overpowered with some trouble or anxiety.

Somewhat uncertain as to the result, he tapped
softly and with nervous fingers against the narrow
pane of glass through which the light now feebly
struggled, and anxiously awaited the effect of this
cautious move,

Miriam looked up, at first a little startled. He
repeated his signal. and this time she glanced di-
rectly at the spot from whence the sound pro-
ceeded.

He tapped on the glass again, and then pressed
his face as close up tothe pane as possible. The
sharp eye of Miriam recognized his features in an
instant, and springing forward. she uttered a sub-
dued but joyous ery_of Bose He drew his
stout knife from its sheath, and in afew minutes
succeeded in removing the pane of glass from its
solid frame-work.

“Oh, Miriam!’ he ‘whispered, when he had ob-
tained her ear, “did you come to this place of your
own free will ?’”,

“Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed, sorrowfuily, “how
can you ask such a question? Of course 1 would
not leave youof my own free will. Did father
think so? Could you for a moment entertain so
base an opinion of me? No, dear Tom, I never
knew how, or by whom TI was brought here till the
next day.” :

“Then,” said Beaver Jim, eagerly, “you will not
refusé to go hack with me, and become my wife as
you promised ?”

“Of course not, dear Tom. Iam only too anxious
to get away from. this den of thieves and robbers.
But how were you able to find me?”

“Weare twenty miles from the mines, Miriam,
and I trailedthe Irishman. whom they aH supposed
had gone off with you, to this spot.” ,

‘He is no Irishman, deat Tom... Hais the chief
of a gangof robbers, and the same Mr. Warbler,

 

  
   

‘each imperfectly lighted with a single pané of}

 

   
   
 

                
     

tA devel ¥ ith, fe.

aperture, which nage | fc.. ong tl seme O”
head and shotikd &e vs CO S¥, a -|
Nut ber body wa af 7 er Jov ve his
“eo, mid je ./7 rag bandishe “qWwas,

itty bum ah the o mr” 2

Thy i ' Poe hand, he Yoda

rear pi the
ome, Uber
ee

 
  

th
Mak

 
  

tig bay's
aep-Ttke ridge,
Mm tireuitous ex Uh

@tection from

 
   

ey
mowett by watehing
@. >ock- was, turned,
iG. ngiselesgs meove-

 

ie iit Se dark, narfow pass,
rithou ra ne bis ieee) be y dated not move
forward : hile hé scott walking the «backward
length of his at Wigarhe wheeled to retrace his

ens, the,

 

 

' aid” D@ag sink. down ‘3s near the
Juha as pi le. ane@ewait till ho turned back
gun from t and of.éee Deak j §
iu ths Wav Paspes cee ee moonlight, which
sho )¢ \anter’s grag froecn and deerskin leg-

gings of Beiver gi almost as plain as day, they
contrived.to approach te within a very few feet of
the terntinas of the beat, Forty yards more would
bring them sitely, {yigithe dark confines of ithe
“Devil's Corridor, 4 © no humanwye could dis-
}cern theml, looking if ott of the clear moonlight.
But they were not: fag “8 escape so easily. :

The sentinel hada ry turned, andwas mareh-
ing towardthem with a shuffling, unmilitary step,
when suddenly he straightened up out of drowsy
inertness, and instantly became all attention. He
had noticed the outiine of something mear the op-
posite end of his beat that he did not remember to
have seen before. % :

The two fugitives, in the meantime, dad bent as
near to the gfound as possible. Beaver Jim with
his head bowed, waS.Aysioustly striving to cover the
more fragile form of Miriam wih his own Diet
ting shadew. But it wo 6c do. The sentinel was
ngw fully om the aler’. bad -

“Weare discovered .” whispered Beaver Jim in
the startled ear of his ~stapanion. “Emust either kill
him, surrender, or we mast run the risk of being
sh@t at ourselves. Isuati not ascept cither of the
two litter alternatives. If my hand has not lost its
skill, 1 can bring him down at this distance with
my revolver.” :

The sentinel had already stopped, and wason the
point of challenging. Our hero drew_his weapon
at the moment he ceas*d speaking, and ths polish-
ed barre! gleamed in ti#Yiteenlight at the same in-
bo thatthe other was in the. act of raising his
rifle.

He never raised it; forat that momenta stream of
fire issued from the very point where his attention
had been ealled, and tha fatal bullet sped directly
to his heart. i

The unlucky weeteh plunged forward on. his
face without a struggle, One of the robbers, more
wakeful than the rest, fancied that he heard: some-
thing resembling a pistol report; but as he
heard nothing moré, .an¢ been drinking
freely, he supposed it might be merely the result of
imagination. Thré.40drs later, on the return of
Cap. Buckskin and his. party, they found the
body of their companion lying face downward on
his beat, his limbs already stiffened by the swift
doom that had overtaken him, :

Beaver Jim did not stop to examine the thorough-
ness of his work, for he was concern *d lest the re-
port of the’ pistol should awaken the robbers, sd
taking Miriam by the hand, he hurvied her into the
“Devil's Corridor.” It was so dark here that they
were obliged to pick thei@way through with great
eaution, and in time they entered the. ravine he-

yond. Here they found less difficulty in making
1endway, and Miriam found opportunity, as they
moved hurriedly along, to aequainther lover with
the full particulars ‘of her abduction, just as she
pas heard the story from the robber chief’s own
i

 

ps. :

“The villaint if I ever meethim!” cried Beaver
Jim savagely, it will be the sorriest time he ever
knew, Miriam. J] shall meyer rest contented a
minute till we ar@ married, and I have the undis-
puted rightto wateh over you nightand day. The
moment youare rested, [ shall insist on yourgoing
with me to Denver, or some other place wherethere
is aclergyman; say to-morrow afternoon, and we
ean be married in the @vening.”

I should rather have it in the miners’ town.
where we are known: and then father will hayethe
pleasure of giving me away inthe presence of his
friends. [will not objact.tothat, whenever you say
the word.. Idon’t cara ifit is to-morrow.”

“That suits me. Now you are talking business,
Miriam. Itshall be to-morrow evening. if I can
findanyone who will ge after a minister.”

Dropping the subject of wedlock, Miriam inquir-
ed what had been the result of his last expedition
into the mountains; and Beaver Jim, as they climb-
edup over the rocky ridge—the last they would
have to escape before reaching the Gold Valley
Mines—reeounted his adventures on the mountain,
his gathering the gold, the cxploits of himself and
friends inthe cavern, and his finally capturing the
young grizzly, which he had brought back with him
on his return tothe mines. But Miriam,trueto her
instinets, was more interested in the gold than she
eould ever think of being in the young grizzly.
When she found how abundant had been the yield
of this one isolated sample of the gold-bearing
quertz, she stopped right where she was, and threw
her plump arms impulsively around the neck of

 

 

 

whocame to the mines two or three months ago,

‘soft cheeks of the bride as red as a peony.

y since his hand-to-hand fight
With the jaguar, in that gallant.and daring defense
f his sweetheart at the springso fr fore.

         
 
   
    
 
 

again rescued her. from» le out-

Now he »roba
a dishonor at the hands of that notorious

  

 
   
  

   

    
 
 
     
  

   

rage and : bh
tlaw,-C uckskin; and all were Oyerjoyed at
> pre bi yetwedding so soon to come off in.
rr a - :

he aftdinoon! on

ag@on those conditions.”
Lhe Hermitage?”
Ay! that’s the name it. goes by; and the band is
called the ‘Secret Brotherhood.’ ” :

Here Houston referred to his watch, and then
asked Mr; Herbert, the express agent; if he would
join them in the pursuit. He signified that 1 was
nis intention aswell as desire to‘do 80.

Very well,” said Houston. “We shall mass in
front of this building at seven o’clock to-morrow
morning. Come armed and mounted. We shall
ride tothe mountains via Reno. I shall telegraph
to Wink Bassett to be ready with twenty-pieked men
to join usthere. I shall start thirty fromrdrera, be-
sides, picking up three or four specials on the
road,” . ‘ , e

Beaver Jim left the chiefs office in company with
Mr. Herbert, after promising to be round at the ap-
pointed tinve ia the morning..He reached the ap-
pointed rendezvous at a quarter before seven the
next morning, where. he found Houston, Herbert,

    

    
 
  

   
 

nity ~ware {had a large party.o% imo arm to the

faiigh “Now will we Te rire teeth, anc alt be id, PeHO! F ieliows. He
fun, dl, ands the reusiciaa, with a vroady WOUM, pot TiS Kas ange S@ s0 ho hg i pot

ms & Pveral display of the pures ‘me oH era
ivory, was-escoiged info the bloomiag presenés Day 9, yal

 
 

  
  

the bride-electgwhere BB was prevailed upon
» ti i d minsrcs a few specimens on the
banjo, which ie played with rare skill, and a most
inimitable foot accompaniment, which elicited
burst upon burst of applause. eae

“We'll have a break-down to-night,” said Sol
Pinkim) rubbing his “hands in high glee; “and
Beaver Jim has gotto do the plank reel.”

During the remainder of the afternoon their ne-
ero visitor afforded the miners an immense deal of
sport, till the arriva! of old Joe Mellows and the
Rey. Mr. Playfair a little before sunset, which
changed the current of affairs into a soberer chan-

i=)

el,

After the few necessary preliminaries were ar-
ranged, the marriage service was repeated, and
Beaver Jim and Miriam were pronounced husband
and wife, Phen: there was the bride-kissing by a
score and a half of bearded men, which left the

The negro was then ealled upon for asong, and
“Shoo Fly,” to the infinite amusement of all, was
the first effort. Had he stopped there, all might
have ended pleasantly; but_ the company insisted
on another, and he sang ‘‘ Weep No More For Me.”
Miriam. started and turned pale. She whispered
something in the ear of Beaver Jim, which caused
him to clench his fist and ‘stride toward the singer.
When he reached him, he made a grab at his wool,
which instantly came off. exposing to the eye the
dark-brown loeks of the Saxon:

“Hal you villain, we know you!” and Beaver Jim
attempted to grapple him; but the pretended negro
was too quiek for him. He gave a bound from the
box en whieh he was sitting, and before Beaver Jim
eould raise aguardto prevent, the banjo descended
on his head with aerash, and before any one could
intereept his movements, his assailant bounded
through the open doorlike an India-rubber ball.
Beaver Jim, who had been knocked down and part-
ly stunned by the blow he had received, leaped tio
his feet the next instant, shouting: Lie

“Where is he? Catch him! It’s Cap. Buckskin
the robber-chief!”

They all made a rush for the door, but the fugi-
tive had abready gained several. yards’ start, and
was now flying over the ground like a hunted deer.
The moon had just risen, and was shining 80
brightly as to render pursuit easy. The robber-
chief led the way directly over the same ground
where Beaver Jim had the day before trailed him,
disappearing from view over. an intervening knoll.
When the foremost of the pursuers reached the top
of thisslight eminencs, they saw the fugitive inthe
valley below just inthe act of mounting his horse.

In-wnother moment he was rushing away from
them Jike the wind. All saw. at a glance that it
would be useless to attempt farther pursuit, and the
party returned'to the shanty to discuss the matter
at JeiSure,

“Who knows,” said theelergyman, shrewdly sug-
gestive, “but this Cap. Buckskin, as you ¢all him,
is one ofthe express robbers?” 5 '

“When was thé robbery committed?” inquired
both Miriandand her husband eagerly.

‘About nine o’elock last evening near Hunteér’s
old erossing of the Truckes River,” answered the
clergyman, glancing at his two questioners with
the'eyeiof a.detective. ‘

“Then it was heand his gang who did it,” ex-
— husband and wife, both in the same

wreath,

Miriam then repeated what she had overheard
while a prisoner atthe Hermitage ; and Beaver Jim
also related how he had hidden in a fissure of the
rocks at the timethey departed to perpetrate the
robbery.

“And you know the haunt of these robbers, and
if required, could conduct an armed foree to it, 1
suppose ?” queried the minister, eagerly. |

“Yes,” answered our hero, confidently, “I could
almost do it with my eyes blindfolded.” ;

“Then Iean explain to you how you can obtain
a large reward for your services. The express
company has offered five thousand dollars’ reward
forall or any one of the robbers, and five thousand
additional for the recovery ofthe gold which was
taken from them. Added to this the merchants of
Denver and Reno have offered five thousand more.
So you see, my friend, ifthe money is not recover-
ed, you would get ten thousand dollars for simply
guiding Kit Houston and his vigijgnee force to the
rendezvous of therobbers. I thi > econtinuedthe
elergyman, “that you‘will do well% accompany me
onmy return to Denver, and r what you are
able to:do to Captain Houston.” ‘

“It is am easy way,” to make money,” said Beaver
Jim, “and if} Mr. Kavanagh will lend me his horse,
I shall most certainly go with you in the mcrning.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
BEAVER JIM, THE MOUNTAIN GUIDE.
utofrespectto the clergyman, who would re-
quire some rest in orderto start for Denver at a
reasonable hourin the morning, the party broke
Prekris.

 

 

        
 

yearried them.

datter weapons ty ba.
cbine, as all the resbof the
ew minutes after seven the order was given,

{ is thirty mounted men, exelu-
siveof the guideand Mr, Herbert, sailed forth on
the roadto Reno. On their-arrival there they found
Bassett and his*twenty mén-awaiting them. as-
sing in a body, they were now placed wader the
guidance of Beaver Jim; who conducted them bythe
shortest cut to the mountains. ba

» Gap, Buekskin in the meantime was’ not inactive
He had picked up enough, during the few hours in
which hehad pérsonated Ivory Snow, to satisfy him
that their retreat had been discovered by Beaver
Jim, who had shot the sentinel,and rescued Miri-
am; and woul) probably soon guide an armed fores
tothe spot. The moment he reached the Hermit-
age, he made imstant preparations to defend his
stronghold. He.ordered the howitzers to be loaded
with grape an’ canister, and stationed a mounted
guard, day and night, at the entrance of the Devil’s
Corridor. 7

The entire band, numbering thirty-three, were
now massed together in their strong log fortress;
and ready to defend it to the last. :

Aboutthe middleof the afternoon, the third day
following the re of the express, the guard was
suddenly driven in by a large cavaleadé of armed
men, who were now rapidly: approaching their
stronghold by'the ouly available pass, Cap. Buck-
skin had everythingin readiness for a most @es-
perate and bloody resistanee. It'was a part of his
stratagem to leave the impréssidn upon the invad-
ers that they were’ wholly unprepared, as well as
unconscious of the impending attack. The port
holes were closed; the mulesand horses were graz-
ing at will:and the sentinel, usually stationed in
front of the Devil’s Corridor, was-caliedin,

At the suggestion of Beayer Jim, the vigilance
foree had dismounted in thé ravine, and tethered
their horses before venturing intothe narrow pass.
Leaving the men behind to rest and refreshment}
Kit Houston, Herbert,and Beaver Jim, rode forwara
on‘ horseback to recornoiter, and arrange their
mode of attack. ‘ ;

‘"Phis, you think, is the only entrances?’ inquired
Herbert.

“Unless you can scale the surrounding ridge,
which has an almost perpendicular fyee”

“Then we shall haye to haye sigge-gyns, or eap-
ture them by surprise, for thirty armed men en-
trenched behind logs, or even massed in the open
space in front, would destroy us like rats coming*
out:of a hole. Ithink the best. thing we can do,
now, is to send back for a couple of eighteen-
pander. and plant them at the opening, or little

under cover, where we can batter their log struc-
ture at our Jeisure.”. 4 slg J:

“We will reconnoiter first,” said Houston, “and
see how the land looks, and whether there will be
any chanceto get them by surprise.”

view of the opening, where, without running any
great risk of being seen. they could reconnoiter the
building and surroundings,

“Things don’t look as though they were ex ecting
us,” said Houston, confidently, “I don’t believe

they have got any masked batterie’. planed for us,
They are now probably enjoying themselves Mmside
that pile of logs, and perfectly unsuspicious_ that
Kit Houston and his ‘hounds,’ as they eall us Vigi-
lants, are on their track, and nosing them. to the
the very door of their kennels, If my men were
here now, I would venture an attack, Those port
holes, I reckon, are more for showthan for service,
or they. wouldn't keep them closed. I don’t believe
they baer any bull-dogs for them, if they had
they would have them there to display their toeth.

Kit Houston little dreaméd that a pair of keen
eyes were there as a substitute for the bull-dogs,
watching them through the narrow -crevice. and
ready to spring a mine, on them the moment they
should emerge in a body from the narrow canon,

“T think if you will go back for the men,” he said,
addressing Beaver Jim, “and bring them here be-
fore dark, Herbert and I will remain where we are.
rather than run therisk of our necks by stumbling
over the road again. Besides we can keep an eye
on the place while you are gone, and report if there
are uny new developments. Our men once here, we
will wait till after dark before we open on them.
The moon doesn’t rise till ten, and we shall have
ample time and darkness to work in.’

Obedient to the command, Beaver Jim drove back
to the ravine, and led forward the mén, while Hous-
ton and Herbert dismounted, still keeping an eye
on the great lumbering-looking log edifice, where
they expected soon to. capture the express robbers
and their ill-gotten booty,

{TO BE CONTINUED.}

—__—_—>-9<+_—__—_—

Two of the solaces of life,as some folks think '
them, rum and tobacco, have never been used by
Frank Whetts, a colored man residing in Allegheny
City, Pa. He was born Jan, 16,1762. Though phys-

 

 

 

her loyer and kissed him on both cheeks,

 

nthe morning Beaver Jim and the clergyman
started for Denver together. On their arrival in

ically feeble, he still retains his mental powers.

 

“Lean visit you hfe, or you’ may Inqwifo for me ’

oeorarses”™

 

aren me
ME

 

 

RAT IRE eee an nen

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In about.ahalf hour the three horsemen canis 7i—

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SED

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

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wife;-you shall have all the honor and respect due

to your position.”

Sheshuddered, as though the words were 2 most

erue!l mockery. .

“You will tonor,* she questioned bitterly, “the

daughter of a felon ?” :

“IT will honer my wife, whe has been’ deceived

even more cruelly than myself; he replied. “Ihave

thought ofa plan,” he ¢ontinued} “which gan be

easily carried out. On our estate—not twenty miles

from here—there is a little house calied the’ Dower

House—a house where the dowagers. of the family

have generally resided, It is wea Winiston, a small

country town. A housekeeper and two servants

live in the house now, and keep it in order. You

will be happy.there, my darling, I am sure, as far
as possible, I will see that you havo everything
which you need or require.” ‘

She'listened as one who hears but dimly.

‘1 “You have no objection to raise, have you Mada-
ine

“No,” she replied; “it matters little where I live;
I can only pray that my life may be short,”

“Hush, my darling! You pain me.” ;

“Oh, Norman, Norman,” she eried, “what will
they think ofme—what willthey say—your servants,
your friends ?” oy

“We must not trouble about that.” said Norman;
“wwe must not pause to consider what the world will
say. We must do what wethink is right.”

He took his waten and Jooked at it. :

“Tt is eight o’elock,” he said; “‘we shall have time
to drive to Winiston to-night,” ; ;

There was a world of sorrowful reproach in the
blue eyes raisedto his. _

“YT understand,” she said quietly; “you do not
wish that the daughter of a felon shouldsleep, even
for one night, under your roof.” .

“You pain me, and you pain yourself ; but if you
will hear the truth, it is, my poor Madaline, just as
you say. Even for these ancient walls I have such
reverence.” es

“Since my presence dishonors them,” she said,
quietly, “I will go. Heaven will judge between
us, Norman. I say that yon are doing wrong. If I
am to leave your house, £ should like to go at once.
I will go to my room and prepare for thejourney.”

He did not attempt to detain her, for he well knew
that, ifshe made anotfer appealto him, he could
not resist fie MMiptiss to clasp her in hisarms and,
at the eostOf what he thought his honor,to bid her

stay.

ia or before him, beautiful, graceful, sor-
rowful.

“Is there anything more you would like to say to
me?” she asked, with sad humility.

“I dare not.” he muttered, hoarsely; “I cannot
trust myself.” - a ee

He watched her as with slow, graeefal steps she
passed down the long gallery, never turning her
fair faee or golden head 2a $5 him, her white
robes trailing on the parquétry floor. When she
had réached the end, he saw her draw, aside the
hangings, and stand fora minute Jooking at the
pictured faces of the Arleighs; then she disap-
peared, and he was left alone. ’

He buried his face in hishands, apd wept bitterly.

“T could ¢urse the women who has wrought this
misery!” he exclaimed, presently.

And then the remembrance of Philippa as he had
known ber years before—Philippa as a child, Phil-
ippa his mother’s favorite—restrained him. =

“Perhaps I too was to blame.’ he thought; “she
would not have taken such cruel vengeance had I
been more candid.”

* * * *

Lady Arleigh went to her room. The pretty
traveling costume lay just where she had left it;
the housekeeper had not put away anything. Has-
tily taking off her white dress and removing the
ewels from her neck and the flowers from her hair,

fadaline placed them agida, and then, having at-
tired herself for the jowfney 68a went down stairs,
meeting no one. ‘

Some little surprise was created among the ser-
ae when orders came for the ¢afriage to be got
ready. 4 :

“Going out at this timeé of night. What can it
mean?” asked one of them. 7

“They are going to the Dower House,” answered
a groom. :

“Ah, then his lordship ard her ladyship will not
remain at the Abbey! | H But there—
‘2

   
  

Far strange! ‘
rich people seem to hay@“othing to do but indulge
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Not a word was spokem by husband and wife as

 

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WIFE

In Name Only.

By CAROLINE M. BARTON,
Author of “DORA THORNE;” “REDEEMED
BX LOVE;” “LOVE WORKS WONDERS;

{Wife in Name Only” was commenced in No.6 Back num-
bers oan be obtained from all News Agénts.}

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“EVERYTHING EXCEPT LOVE AND HAPPINESS.”

Lord Arleigh raised his head from his breast.

His wife was kneeling and sobbing at his feet.
- “Norman,” s2e said, in a broken voiee, “T yield, I
submit. You know best, dear. In truth, I am not
worthy to be your wife. I urge no clatm‘on you;
but, my darling, must I leave you? You are the
very light of my life, heart of my heart, soul of my
soul—must I leave you? Can I not remain here
a8 your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your
house—somewhere near, where I. may, hear the
tones of your voice, the sound of your footsteps—
where I may stand sonretimes at the window and
see you ride away—where I may-render you little
attentions such as loving wives render? Oh, Nor-
man, be merciful, and grant me that at least.”

My darting, I cannot—do not tempt me. You do
not understand. Ilove you witha fierce, passion-
ate love. If you were near me, I should be com-

elled ‘to Show that love to you every hour of the

ay—to treat you as my dear and honored wife. If
you were near me, I might forget my resolve and
remember only my love.”

No.one should know,” she whispered, ‘‘that T
was your wife. I would take the guise of the hum-
blest servantin the place. No one should know,
love. Oh, darling, let it be so!”

Sho saw great drops of agony on his brow; shé
say a world of pain in his eyes which alarmed her.

It cannot be,” he replied; hoarsely. “You. must
urge me no More—you are torturing me.”

Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away.

I willsay no more, Norman. Now do with me
what you please.”

There was silence for a few minutes.” The ‘stun
was sinking low in the western sky, the chirp of
the birds was growing faint in the trees, She raised
her colorless face to his.

I submit, Norman,” she said. “You have: some
plan to propose. Do with me justas you will.”

It was cruel—no crueler fate had ever fallen to a
man’s lot—but honor obliged him to act as he did.
He took her hand in his. i

Some day, dear wife,” he said, “you will under-
stand what suffering t' is step has cost me,”

' noe, she murmured faintly; “I may understand
n time,

“While I have been sitting here,” he went on, “I

have been thinking it all over, and I have come toa

 

 

  

Lady Arleigh took fsr tin the carriage. What-
ever she felt was buried ji” Her own breast,.He
face shown marble-whitehundernéath bér vail,

     
   
 
 
    
  
   
  

her eyes were bent gowim td. Never
she speak as the carplage
puck, where the dey:
brights

Onege her husba
her hand in his, ba

“It will be etter a4
“Tecan bear if best ins
“So they drgve om $n
dew lay glisténing oi the £&
ture was hushed, trategtl, sav ¢
surely the strangest diive_t y
had ever taken together. Mpyfe Yhan . noting
the silent, graceful figure, Mord Arleizh was tem pt-
ed to ask Madaline to fly with him to some foreign
land, where they could ive and die unknown—more
than once he was temptettakiss4he beautiful lips
and say to her: \

“You shall not leave me,Madaline;” but the dis-
Rptiae attaching to his name caused him to remain
sient.

They had a rapid driw, and reached Winiston
House—as it was generally catled—before eleven.
Great was the surprise ard consternation excited
by so unexpected an arrival. The house was in the
charge of a widow whose hasband had been the late
lord’s steward, She lookerromewhat dubiously at
Lord Arleigh and then at hi8 companion, when they
had entered, .Madaline néver opened her lips.
Lord Arleigh was strangely pie and confused. ’

‘Mrs. Burton,” ie said, “Iean hardly imagine

that you have heard of my marriage. This is my
wife—Lady Arleigh.”
All the woman’s doubt and hesitation vanished
then—she became all attention; but Lord Arleizh
inwardly loathed his ‘fate when he found himself
compelled to offer explanations that he would have
given the world toavoid.

“Iam not going t6 remair here myself,” he said.
in answer tothe inquiries absut rooms and réfresh-
ments. “Lady Arleigh will lire at Winiston House
altogether ; and, as you_layé al Ways served the fam-
ily faithfully and well,i should like you to remain
in her service.”

The woman looked up at him in sueh utter be-
wilderment and surprise that he felt somewhat
aoe of whatshe might say; he therefore hastened

oadd— A
“Family matters that concern no one but our-
sélyes Soetee me to make this ar. angement. Lady
Arleigh will be mistress of Winston Honse. She
will have a staff of servants here. You can please
yourself about remaining—either as housekeeper
or not—just.as you like.”

“Of course, my lord, I shall beonly too thankful
to remain; but it seemsso very strange that—~”
Lord Arleigh held up his hand.
“Hush!?he saids “A well-trained servant finds
nothing strange.”
The woman took the hint and retired.
Lord Arleigh turned to say farewell to his wife.
He found her standing, white and tearless, by the
window. ; ~
“Oh, my: darling,” he erfed,“We now must part!
Yet how can I leaye you™so sad, so silent, so de-
spairing?, Speak tome, my own love—one word—
just one word,”
Her woman’s heart, so quick to pity, was touched
by his prayer, She smiled as sad, as sweet 2 smile
as ever was seen on woman’s lips.
“I shall he better in time, Norman,” she said, “and
shall not always be sad.”
“There aré some business arrangements which
must be made,” he continued, hurriedly—‘hut it
willbe better for us not to meet again just yet, Mad-
aline—I could not bear it. Iwill see that all is ar-
ranged for your comfert. You must have every
luxury and-——”
“Luxury!” she repeated, mockingly: “Why, I
would rather be the sorriest beggar that ever
breathed than be mysel{! Luxury! You mock me,
Lord Arleigh,” :
“You will be less bitter against me in time, my
darling,” he saidy ‘I mean just what I say—that
you shall have everything this world can give
you—’
aeneeDt love and happinéss,” she interposed.
ve you have, sweet; you have mine—the fer-

yent, true, honest, deep loveof my heart and soul.
appiness comes in time toallwho do their duty.

nk of Garlyle’s words: ‘Say unto all kinds of
happinese, "I can do without thee’—with self-re-
nuneciation life begins.”

“Carlyle had no such fateas mine in his thoughts,”
she said, “when he wrote that. But, Lord Arieigh,
Tdo not wish to complain. I am_sorry that I have
interrupted vou. I have aecepted my fate. Say all
you wish—I will be silent,”

“Thave only to add, my darling, that if. money,
luxury, comfortean give you happiness, you shall
have them all. You shall have respect and honor
too, for I will take care that the whole world knows
that this separation arises from no fault of yours.
Promise me, darling wife—oh, Heaven help me,
how hard it is!—promise me, when the first smart
of the pain is over, that you will try to be happy.”
She bent her head, but spoke no word.

‘Promise mee toc, Madaline, that, if.sickness or
sorrow should come to you, you will send for me
at once.’ 4
oe promise,” sho.anid.

A few words mores, and I have done. Tell me
what course you wish me to pursue toward the
duchess.”

*Lhave nowish fn the matter,’ she replied di-
rectly. “She was kind to me once; for the sake of
that kindness I forgive her. She forgot all that I

rela.”

Lretay all ue

 

ay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i
“And T,” he said, “will do the same; voluntarily
T willméver see her of speak to her again.”
There remained for him only to say farewell. He
took her little white hand; it was cold as death.
“Farewell, my love,” he said; “farewell!”
He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as
he would have kissed the face of a dead woman
whom he loved: and then he was gone.
Like onein a dream, she heard the wheels of the
carriage rolling away. Shestretched out her hands
with a wild ery.
“Norman—my husband—my loye!” she called;
but from the deep silence of the night there came
noresponse. He was gone.
Madaline passed the night in watching the silent
skies.’ Mrs. Burton, after providing all that was
useful, had retired quickly to rest. She did not
think it ‘‘good manners” to intrude upon her lady-

ship.

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during
the course of that night the best part of her died—
youth, loye, hope, happiness. Strange thoughts
came to her—thoughts that she could hardly eon-
trol. Why wasshe socruelly punished? What had
she done? She had read of wicked lives that had
met with terrible, endings. She had read of sinful
men and wicked women whose crimes, even in this
world, had been most bitterly punished, She had
read of curses following sin. But. what had she
done? No woman’s lot surely had eyer been so
bitter. She could not understand it, while the wo-
man who had loved her husband, whohad practiced
fraud and deceit, and lied, went unpunished. :

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did
love her. Daughter of a felon as she—Madaline—
was—poor, lowly, obscure—he had given her his
heart, although he could never make her the mis-
tress of hishome. There was some compensation
for human suffering, some equality in the human
lot, after all. She would be resigned. There were
lots in life far worse than hers. What if she had
learned to love Norman, and he had never eared for
her? Whatif she had learned to love him, and had
found him less noble than he was? What if, in the
bitterness of his disappointment and passion, he
had vented his anger upon her? After all, she
eould not but admire his sense of honor, his respect
for his name, his devotion to his race; she could
not find fault with his conduct, although it had cost
her so dear.

“I think,” she admitted to herself, “that in his
place J should have done the same thing. If my
parent’s crime has brought sorrow and disgrace
to me, who bave no name, no fame, no glory of race
to keep up, what mustit have brought to him? In
his place I should have done as he has done.”

Then, aftér a time, she clasped her hands.

“T will submit,” she said; “I will leave my fate to
Providence.” |

When morning dawned she went to her room; she
did not wish the household to know that she had
sat up and watched the night through,

Onee out of the house, Lord Arleigh seemed to
realize ior the first time what had happened. With
a geture of despair, he threw himself back in the
carriage. The footman-came to him.

“Where to, my lord—to Beechgrove ?”

“No,” replied Lord Arleigh; “to the railway-sta-
I want to catch the night-mail for London.”

Lord Arleigh was just in time for the train.
The footman caught a glimpse of his master’s face
as the train went off; if was white and rigid.

“Of all the weddings in this world, well, this is the
queerest!” he exclaimed to himself.

When he reached Beechgroye, he told his fellow-
servants what had happened, and many were
the comments offered about the marriage that was
yet no marriage, the wedding that was no wedding,
the husband and wife that were so many miles
apart. What could it mean?

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
“SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE.”

Three days after Lord Arleigh’s most inauspi-
eious marriage. the Duchess of Hazlewood sat in
her drawing-room alone. Those three days had
changed her terribly; her face had lost its bloom,
the light had died from her dark eyes,.there were
great lines of pain round her lips. She sat with her
hands folded listlessly, her eyes full of dreamy sor-
row, fixed_on the moving foliage of the woods.
Presently Lady Peters entered, with an open news-
paner in her hand.

“Philippa, my dear,” she said, “I am very uncom-
fortable, Should you'think this paragraph refers
to Lord Arleigh? Itseemsto do so—yet I cannot
believe it.”

The deadly pallor that was always the sign of

 

 

  
  
  
   
 
    
 

z pent emotion with the duchess, spread now even to
ali ps. ‘

iat does it say ?” she asked.

ters held the paper out to her; but her
died so that she could not take it.

P read it,” she said wearily, “Read it .

’

vs a
And then Lady Peters rend: ;
“SCANDAL oe Lire.—Some revelations are shortly ex
i picted in aristocratic &ircles, 7 A few. days Binge # noble lord
bearing one of{the most anctent titles in England, was warried.
The marriage tootr place unde? circunistances of great mystery ;
and the rhystery has been increased by the separation of bride
end bridegroom on their wedding-day. What has led to this
separation is at present a secret, but it is expected that in a few
days all particulars will be known. At present the affair is cans-
ing.a great sensation.”

Afashionable paper which indulgedlargely in per-
sonalities also had atelling article on Lord Arleigh’s
marriage. No names were mentioned, but the refer-
ences were unmistakable. A private marriage, fol-
lowed by a separation on the same day, was
considered a fair mark for seandal. This also Lady
Peters read. and the duchess listened with white,
trembling lips.

“It must refer to Lord Arleigh,’ said Lady
Peters.

“It cannot,” was the rejoinder. ‘He was far too
corer in love with his fair-faced bride to leave

1er.

“I never did quite approve of that marriage,” ob-
served Lady Peters.

“The scandal cannot be about him,” declared the
duehess. “We should have heard if there had been
anything wrong.”

The next day a letter was handed to her. She re-
cognized the handwriting—it was Lord Arleigh’s.
Shedaid thenote down, not daring to read it before
Lady Peters. What had he to say to her?

When she was alone she opened it.

“You will be pleased to hear, duchess, that your scheme has
entirely succeeded. You have made two innocent people who
have never harmed you as wretched as it is possible for human
beings to be.. In no respect has your vengeance failed. I—your
old friend, playmate, brother, the son of your mother’s dearest
friend—have been made miserable for life. Your revenge was
well chosen, You knew that, however dearly I might. worship
Madaline my wile, however much I might love her, she could
never be mistress of Beechgrove, she could never be the mother
of my childrem; you knew that, and therefore I say your revenge
Was adinirably chosen. It were useless to comment on your
wickedness, or to express the contempt_I feel for the woman who
could deliberately plan such evil and distress. I must say this,
however. AIL friendship or acquaintance, between us is at an
end. You writ be to me henceforward as an entire stranger, I
could rétaliate. I could write and tell your husband, who is a
man of honor, of the unworthy deed you have done; but I shall
not do that—it would be unmanly. Before my.dear wite and I
parted, we agreed that the punishment of your sin should be left
to Heaven. So I leave it. To a woman unworthy enough to

lan such a piece of baseness, it will be satisfaction sufficient to

‘now that her scheme has succeeded. Note the words ‘my wile
and I parted’—narted, never perhaps to meet again. She has all
my love, all my heart, all my unutterable respect and deep de-
votion; but, as you know, she can never be mistress of my
house. May Heavefi torgive you! “ARLEIGH.”?

She could have borne with his letter if it had‘been
filled with the wildest invectives—if he had re-

roached her, even cursed her; his dignified for-
pearance, his simple acceptance of the wrong she6
had done him. she could not tolerate.

She laid down the letter. It was all over now—the
love for which she would have given her life; the
friendship that bad onee been so true, the van-
geince that had beem so carefully planned. She
had lost his love, his friendship, his esteem. She
should see him no more. He despised her. There
eame to her a vision of what she might have been
to him had things been different—his friend, ad-
viser, counsellor—the woman upon whom he would
have Jooked as the friend of his chosen wife—the
woman whom,after her, he loved best—his sister,
his truest confidante. All this she might have been
but for her revenge. She had forfeited it all now.
Hétr life would be spent as though he did not exist;
and there was;no one but herself to blame.

Still, she had had her revenge; she smiled bitterly
to herself asshe thought ofthat. Shehad punished
him. The beautiful face grew pale, and the dark
eyes shone through a mist of tears.

“Tam not hardened enough,” she said to herself,
mockingly, “to be quite happy over an evil deed.
oe something more of wickedness in my compo-
sition,’

She parried skilfully all Lady Peters’s questions;
she professed entire ignorance of all that had hap-
pened People appealed to her as Lord Arleigh’s
riend, They asked her—

“What does this mean? Lord Arleigh was mar-
ried quietly, and separated from his wife the same
day. What does it mean?”

“Teannot tell;‘but you may rely upon it that a
reasonable exphination of the circumstance will be
forthcoming,” she would reply. “Lord Arleigh is,
eee know, an honorable man, and I knew his
wife.

eit what can it mean?” the questioners would
persist.

“T cannot tell,” she would answer. laughingly. ‘I
only know that we must give the matter the best in-
terpretation we ean.”

So she escaped; and no one ever associated the
Duchess of Hazlewood with Lord Arleigh’s strange
marriage. She knew that when her husband re-
turned she would have to give some kind of explan-
ation; but she was quite indifferent. about that.
Her life, she said to herself, was ended.

When the duke did come home, after a few pleas-
ant weeks on the sea, the first thing he heard was
the story about, Lord Arleigh. It astounded him.
His friend Captain Austin related it to him as soon
as he had Janded.

“Whom did yousay he married?” inquired the

 

 

1%)

 

o

of yours,” replied the captain; “afterward it prov.
ed to be some young lady whom he had met ata
small watering-place.”’

“What was hername? Whowasshe? It was no
relative of mine; I have very few; I have no young
female relative at all.”

“No—that was all a mistake; I cannot tell how it
Brose. He married a lady of the name of Dorn=
1am.’

“Dornham!” said the puzzled nobleman. “The
name is not unfamiliar tome, Dornham—ah, I re-
member!”

He said no more, but. the captain saw a grave ex-
pression come over his handsome face, and it o«-
curred to him that some unpleasant thought
occupied his companion’s mind.

(TO BE CONTINUED,)

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30,000 COPIES.

 

 

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PEERLESS CATHLEEN,
BY CORA AGNEW.

One of the best novels ever written, and one that all ef eur
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FAITHFUL MARGARET,
OR THE
Steuth-Hound of Castie Brand;

BY ANNIE ASHMORE.

 

 

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JUSTICE FOR PHE OLD MAN.
, BY MAX MOELER }

;

He wastall, and slim, and hungry-looking, and
his hair was long. He dropped in upon Colonel
Baigs at the Argus office, and after taking a Beat
and producing a huge roll of manuseript. he said:

“My tame is Simms. I’ve got something here
that t want you to publish. It’s a ‘Vindication of
Nebuchednezzar.’ ”

“A what?” asked the colonel, :

“Lsay lve gothere a ‘Vindication of Nebuched<
nezzar.’ The object of it is to set Nebuchednezzar
right with the public, to clear up his record, and
give him some kind of a chance.” :

“Mysedear sir, the public don’t care anything about
Nebuchednezzar. Our space is too limited for any-
thing so unimportant.”

“T think you are wrong. For about three thous-
and years people’s minds have been _ prejudiced
against that great and good man. I’ve found some
new records about him on some Babylonian bricks
in the Patent-Office at Washington, which present
the matter in a new light. My intention now is that
the Argus shall create a sensation by publishin
these facts, together with fac-similes of u cart-lo
or two of the bricks, and then I shall ask you to
head a subscription Ist for a Nebuchednozzar
Monument Fund. How much’ll I put you down
for?”

“Mr. Simms, you mustexcuse me. The subject is
too unimportant for my attention.” :

“Now I'll bet you it. isn’t!, You make a mistake,
I tell you the public mind is excited about the mat-
ter. Look at the frightful consequences of per-
mitting these erroneous impressons about Nebuch-
ednezzar to continue! Your young men are learn-
ing them in the divinity schools: They carry them
out into the world, into heathen lands. The ignor-
ant African upon the banks of the Niger is taught
to stay awake at nights in order to denounce
Nebuchednezzar. The deluded esquimaux amid
the frozen seus, paddles about ih his canoe har-
pooning seals with the conviction that Nebuched-
nezzar was_a tyrannical old fraud. The red In-
dian, bounding over his native plains or removing
the hair from the summit of his enemy, is insti uct-
ed to howl as he reflects upon the misconduct’ of
Nebuchednezzar. The almond-eyed children of
China mingle execrations of Nebuchednezzar with
their most ordinary conversations. The whote
race is down on him. «He is the victim of universal
disapprohation, now ain’t he?” :

“IT don’t think he is.” _. ;

“Now, how would you like it if for the next three
thousand years everybody was to believe that you
were a bald-headéd old reprobate who et grass?”

“T wouldn’t care a.eent.” 3

“O. well, may be,yvou ain’t a sensitive man, Nebu-
chédnazzar was. His feelings were easily hurf,
Ole Babylonian bricks all mention that. Now this
vindication of him will run through your oreee
about two years,and it’s bound to create such enthu-
siasm for the old man that people ’]} go without food
and underclothing to ccntribute money to run up
some kind of a tombstone for him. And when I get
through with him I’ve got another serial vindicat-
ing Belshazzar, that’li run for acouple of years
more, and then people ’ll be hungry to get outa
monument forhim. Now you mark me; this nation
"li not be ten years older before all those old chaps
*li have monuments strung. all along everywheres
tothem, There’s going to bean awakening on the
subject in the popular mind. I’m going to set it up
s0’8 when anybody Says anything against Nebu-
chednazzar the folks
the nearest tree. A popular idea, you understand,
Just wild about him,” 3

“[’m going to try to remain calm.”’

ix “Now, what ‘ll you pay me a line for this vindica-
on?’

“Pay you! Thunder! Why I wouldn’t print it if
you’d pay me a dollar aline!”

“What! Wouldn’t give a lift toan ole man that’s
been.im posed on for three or four thousand years?
Wouldn’t do him a good turn, now he’s in his grave

 

a conet ay rn

“Certainly not.”

“Well, well! I’ve heard a good deal about the Ifb-

erality of a free press, and about journalistic enter-

prise. but I can’t seesit. Ithought, of course, that

any newspaper ’d come to the rescue of an unfortu-

nate fellow creature, when he’s in trouble.”

“Well, I won’t.”

O, all right; all right; but mark me! I’m going

to scratch in a brick somewheres that you are a

bloody ole reprobate with the instincts of a hog and

the intellect of a shrimp; and I’m going to bring

that brick where it ‘ll be turned up in three or four

thousand years, so the people of those times ‘Tl

know wht 2 be of you. Til fix you, ole boy,
ou see i on’t.” :

. Then Mr. Simms rolled up the vindication,

rubbed his nose on his sleeve, cast a glanee ef scorn

at the colonel, and went down stairs warm with in-

dignation,
——__—_—>-94-__—-_——

Sur wouldn’t stand to have a tooth pulled for one
million two hundred thousand dollars, she said,
and yet she walked all day in tiny gaiters, two sizes
too small for her, and thought. nothing of it; but

 

 

 

 

164 ANY, a decision as to what will.be best for yon and for me. | must suffer in her wish to punish you. Ishall leave | mystified duke, then nobody saw that tooth, and several saw the
Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. | You are Lady Arleigh of Beechgroye—you are my | her to Heaven.” ‘ Rumor said at first that {t was a distant relative | gaiters.
Artiniiininits
S —~ < ——

ii turn out and hang him to ere

ey
yy,
—

Le Mare ey

eres

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. @3e=

 

 

 

 

Oe eee

 

OO eee

NEW YORK, MARCH 12, 1877.

POI

 

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HISTORICAL SKETCHES.

Small-pox in the Continental Army.

 

 

 

BY BENSON J. LOSSING, LL. D.

In the month of February, 1777, General Washing-
ton, then at Morristown, in New Jersey, wrote to the

renident of Congress: ;

* ‘he small-pox has made such head in every
qua.ter, that I find it almost impossible to keep
§ from spreading through the whole army in the
naturalway. Ihave therefore determined not only
to inoeulate all the troops now here that have not
had it, but shall order Dr. Shippen (medical direc-
tor of the hospital) to inoculate the recruits as fast
as they come to Philadelphia. They will lose no
time, because they will go through the disorder
while their clothing, arms, and accountrements are
getting ready,” ;

The small-pox first appeared in the American
army in Canada. in the spring of 1776. It prevailed
in Boston late in the fall of 1775, where the British
army was imprisoned by the Continental forces
under Washington; and the American commander-
in-shief issued orders that no person coming out of
the cityshould approach near the Continental camp
at Cambridge. He called the attention of the Gen-
‘eral Court of Massachusetts to the subject. Ina
letter to the President of Congress in December, he
wrote that he had recently been informed that Gen-
eral Howe, the commander of the British in Boston,
intended to send out a number of persons inoculat-
ed for the small-pox, with a design of spreading it
over the country, and so introduce it into the Amer-
ican army. Washington refused to believe that the
British commander would be guilty of such wicked-
ness; but a week later ina letter to the same gentle-
man he wrote: “I must now give some credit to it,
as it (the small-pox,) has made its appearance in
several of those wholast came out of Boston.”
‘Washington took immediate measures to counter-
act the nefarious design. oe

The small-pox first appeared as an epidemic in
the little American army puireloupd in the snows of
a vigorous Canadian winter, in February, 1776, at a

oint about three miles above Quebec, General
qatgapiony had been killed in an assault upon the

at

city at the close of the pending year, and his shat-
ter army was now under the comm d_ of
wounded General Arnold. Itavas but a handful in

comparison, of fatigued, exhausted, sick, and dis-
heartened men. .They were far from regular sup-
plies, and there was no means at hand for arresting
the disease, It spread so fearfully that at one time,
this and.other disorders reduced the number of
Arnold’s effective men to five hundred.

With these he maintained the seige of Quebec un-
tilhe was relieved by the inefficient General Woos-
ter, in April, ;

encral Thomas was sent to take the chief com-
taand of the\@rn.y forces besieging Quebec. He ar-
rivec the
one he
in the hospitals, sick, chiefty With the small-pox,
which they Sad tken in the natural way or by in-
oculation, whieh bad lately beer introduced. Two
hundred othe's had just been inoculated and would
soon be unfit for duty. In consequence of the re-
fusal of a large mumber to serve longer, their term
of serviee having expired, the number of Thomas’
effactive troops wes reduced to-about five hundred.
Mkese were soon driven up the St. Lawrence by
¢, bavy British force that had just arrived at Que-
bec, at%ie- they retreated tothe mouth of the Sorel
river, theoutietoi Lake Champlain. There General
Thomas, who had /orbidden any further inoculation
for ths smali-pox because it seriously weakened his
ariay. died. 6f the disease at the beginning of June,
and was sueceeded in command by General Sulli-
van. :
it-was now cvident that the little Republican army
could not maintain a foothold in Canada, and they
retreated, first to the [sle aux Noix inthe Sorel, and
thence to Crown Point, on Lake Champlain. The
ravages of the small-pox were then at their height:
“JT send on the sick,” Sullivan wrote General Schuy-
ler, ‘‘the looks and numbers of which will present
you with the most dismal spectacle ever furnished
from one army in this quarter of the globe.” Whole
regiments were disabled. One quarter of the whole
army were in the hospitals in Isle aux Noix at the
beginning of July. So Sullivan reported, and said:
“Colonel Wayne had sixty out of one hundred and
thirty-five taken down.” He mentioned a like
calamity in. other regiments, and added: “Iam
shocked to relate, but much more to see, this dread-
ful havoc among the troops,”

The remnants of the army were conveyed to
\Grown Point in leaky boats—the sick and the well.
They had no awnings to shelter them from the
“drenching rain and the scorching sun, and their
only food was raw pork and hard bread, and un-
baked fiower. The scene of distress at Crown
Point after their arrival, was so appalling, that Dr.
Stringer, the medical diréctor of the Northern de-
partment, wrote: “ At the sight of so much priva-
tion and distress I wepé till I had no more power to
weep.” -Alltroops going North to join that army
were ordered to halt at Skenesborough, (now White-
hall), at the head of Lake Champlain, for General
Gates wrote, late in July, from Ticonderoga, giving
reasons for evacuating Crown Point.“" Every-
thing about this army is infected with the pesti-
lence; the clothes, the blankets, the air, and the
ground they walk upon.” ie

The disease gradually spread to_other divisions
of the army, until, early in 1777, as Washington ob-
served, it “made head in every quarter.” Then es-
tablishments for inoculation were provided, one
rear Morristown (then the headquarters of the
txrmy) forthe troops in camp; another at Philadel-
phia for troops coming from the south; a third in
Connecticut, under General Parsons, for the sol-
diers of that. Btate,and a fourth at Providence,
Hhdde Island. The Virginians were opposed to the
practice,and the fear of having the disease by in-
oeulation. retarded enlistments in that State. In
1769 the Virginia House of Burgesses passed a law
prohibiting inoculation for the small-pox within
the Commonwealth, and imposing a penalty of one
thousand pounds onany person who should import
or bring into the colony the infectious matter with
a purpose of innoculation. Ina letter to Patrick
Henry in April, 1777, Washington said: ‘I know it
‘the small-pox) is more destructive to an army in

he neiurel way than the enemy’s sword;’ and to
‘Ws bro ther. John # eerene, ST aatiGeton. he wrote
\ Peaee ust following , that he believed “the amazing
jE oenie: ju: Must make converts of the
ost, rigid opposers, and. bring on a repeal of that
aos) im politic law \7hicli restrains it. in Virginia.”

Tue inoculation of the Continental army at
Morriston, in 1777, was not general, according to
an oral statement. made to me in 1848; by Dr. Eneas
Munson of New Haven, who was a surgeon in the
Continentalarmy, and assisted Dr. Thacker in the
inoculation of the troops at the “Cantonment in
“38 Highlands” of the Hudson, opposite West
» @int, in 178i. There all the soldiers who had not

ad the small-pox, with the women and children,
were inoculated. The old practice of ‘previous
preparation by a course of mercury and low diet

jwas departed from on that occasion, and the “‘ex-
{tract of butternut,” made by boiling the inner bark
of the butternut tree, was used with singular good
effect. Sometimes a single dose of calomel and
alap was administered, but the physician relied
more upon the extract of butternut, which was
en in common use among the people in the neigh-
borhood. It was administered previous to the ap-
pearance of. the symptoms. It operated without
creating irritation, and was found to be efficacious
in Gases of dysentery and bilious complaints. Dr.
Rush recommended it for.small-pox patients, as a
mild, yot sufficiently active cathartic, and a valuable
and economical substitute for jalap.

The general inocculation of the army in the Hud-
son Highlands, was attended with some circum-
stance adverse to success. The army was then un-
fortunately destitute of necessary comfortable and
wholesome articles of food forinvalids. Their diet

i. | thd ty F

   
  
 
 

      

 

8 Othe first of May, and found nearly)
f of the litt.e army of niz eteen hundred men }

 

consisted of the common rations of beef, bread, and
salt pork, For those who were dangerously sick,
a small quantity of rice, sugar, or molases, and tea
were procured. Dr. Thacker, in his “Journal,”
says that many of the patients were improper sub-
jects for inoculation, but the surgeons were com-
péelled, byiorders, to inoculate all, without exception,
whatever might be their state of health. Notwith-
standing their hindrances to success, of five hun-
dred who were inoculated therein April, 1781, only
four died. Thatcher says that ‘in other instances,
the proportion of deaths was much more consider-
able.” Medical writers say that one-fourth or one-
fifth of all persons who were attacked by pmaieox,
in the natural way, by infected atmosphere, died,
while only onein six hundred or seven hundred
who were inoculated for it, perished by that disease,

Some historians have asserted that vaccination,
or inoculation for the cow or kine-pox, was prac-
ticed in the Continental army during the revolu-
tion. In reply to a letter of inquiry written by me
to Doctor Munson, (already mentioned) in the fall
of 1849, he remarked that it was never practiced
during that period, to his knowledge, but that his
father (who was an eminent physician, president of
the Connecticut medical society and a practitioner
of the healing art for seventy years, dying in 1826 at
the age of ninety-two) first employed vaccination in
ve the year after the British armies left our shores

orever. )

Dr, Munson was undoubtedly correct in saying
vaccination was not practiced in the army during
the Revolution, but he must be in error about the
early use of it by his father; for Dr. Jenner, the
discoverer of its value as a preventive of small-pox,
was pursuing his experiments from 1770, until the
end of the closing decade of the last century. So
late as 1798, ‘the leading physicians of London re-
fused to employ the method, calling it “brutalizing”
the people by introducing into their sysTems dis-
eased matter from a cow’s udder; and it was de-
nounced from the pulpit as “diabolical.” Then
Jenner published a detailed account of many cases
of successful vaccination, in which its defensive
force against the small-pox, whether taken in the
natural way, or given by inoculation, was so posi-
tively proven, that there was a sudden and most re-
markable change of public opinion in its favor.
Less than a, ror after that publication, a recommen-
dation of the practice was published, signed by
seventy-three leading physicians in London, and
several of Jenner’s medical brethern tried to rob
him of the honor of the discovery.

Jenner triumphed over eyery obstacle. In the
face of much opposition, Parliament,in 1802, granted
him $50,000; and the next year the “Royal Jennerian
Society” for the encouragement of vaccination, was
established. In1807 a further grant of $100,000 was
made to him, and he received about $40,000 from In-
dia. Wherever civilization has spread, Edward
Jenner is regarded as a benefactor of hisrace. His
statue, paid for with money subscribed by men and
women of various nations, was erected in Trafalgar
square, London, 1868. Jenner may be regarded as
the conqueror of that dreadful scourge of Eurore
and America, the small-pox, which came out of
Arabia more than twelve hundred years ago.

The Blue Glass Cure,

Blue glass sun-baths are said to be a remedy for
nearly all fleshly ills. Several weil-authenticated
cures have been declared, and among them are
paralysis, rheumatism, neuralgia, hemorrhage of
the lungs, consumption, etc. Even bald heads, on
which hair has refused to grow for years, have de-
veloped an abundant hirsute crop after submitting
to afew sun-baths under blue glass. Those who
are anxious to test this novel cure will find it very
simple. In the window of a room having a south-
ern exposure, place alternate panes of ordinary
and blue glass. When the sun shines through
these windows, take a seatin the sunlight, expos-
ing to tae rays that part of the form which is the
seat of the disease. A half hour’s sun-bath, twice
a day, works wonders.

Def

RUINOUS PRICES.

Every day our leading advertising mediums are
filled with notices to the qaiine public, saying that
Jones, Or Smith, will sell this or that article of
merchandise at ruinous prices! _ a

The hard times, or the necessity for raising. the
money, or the desire to clear out the stock 80 a6 to
make room for the new goods, is given as the rea-
son for this terrible sacrifice on the part of Mr,
Jones or Mr. Smith.

We all read the skillfully concocted story, and
feel that Jones and Smith ought to be encour
in their philanthropic course of rine ,
for the public good, and we put on our best clothes
and our/most becoming hat, and sally forth te look
at these‘unfortunate goods, which are to be dis-
posed of at ruinous prices. i pt

The olerks put on their moet hugubrious eB;
and assure us that the sacrifice ig shameful, but
money must be had, and the goods must be sold;
but they are going for half their value, and it actu-
ally breaks their hearts to see the thing go on, and
the prices are so low that really they are ashamed
to mention them! :

Now the conundrum we wish to propose is: Do
Mr. Jones, or Mr. Smith, or any one of their num-
erous and gentlemanly clerks suppose for a mo-
ment that anybody believes this twaddle of theirs?

No matter what they may say, about “ reducing
stock,” “clearing-out sales,” “bankrupt stock,”
etc., etc., no regular dealer ever sells his goods
for less than their market value! Men.do not hire
magnificent-stores at fabulous rates of rent, and
employ armies of clerks in order to sell goods to
enxhody at a price less than their marketable
value.

if Smith offers you a muslin for ten cents on a
yard less than you can buy it elsewhere, you may
be sure that the pattern is out of style or that the
colors will “run.” 7

If Jones offers you poplin at twenty per cent. dis-
count, you may be tolerably sure that next season
that poplin is not to be worn, and Jones has “got
wind of it.” :

After the summer rush is over, their goods are
generally sold at their nominal value, and after the
cold weather winter fabrics are got rid of at re-
duced rates, but never at “ruinous prices.”

And whenever you go into a store, and the pro-
prietor tells you that there is not another place
in the city where you can trade so cheaply, and
that he is disposing of his stock at first cost, the
best thing you can do is to bid him good morn-
ing, for if you purchase so much as a spool of
silk of him you will, in all probability, get cheat-
ed. Kate THORN,

ey

Omana, Nebraska, Feb. 10. 1877.

FRIEND StReEet: I write you from the house of
Senator Hitchcock, where I am handsomely and
cordially entertained. The senator is at Washing-
ton, of course, but a part of his family is here. I
left New York, as proposed, Feb. ist, but have made
a four days’ stay in St. Louis and one day at Kansas
City. At St.Louis I received much attention at the
Mercantile Library. The superintendent told me
that I was very popular with the young people of
St. Louis, and congratulated me on my “brilliant
success.” He said my story of California would
sure to be read with avidity there.

At Omaha I have made some young acquaint-
ances, who were eager to see ‘the man that wrote
‘Ragged Dick’ and ‘Tony, the Tramp.’ ”

In the ears from Kansas City to Omaha, a young
man of 28 or 30, learning who I was, introduced
himself to me, and told me his story, At13 he sold
corn-balls and peddled papers. He attracted at-
tention, and while yet a boy, obtained the privilege
of selling papers and magazines on some of the
New Jersey railroads, hiring other boys to work for
him, as he could not attend to all. The result is
that now he is worth $75,000, and is junior partner
inalarge Philadelphia firm, and engaged to the
daughter of the senior partner, a milliouaire. His
career is quite as remarkable as that of any of my
heroes, and convinces me that I have not violated
probability in any case.

When this letter reaches you, I_shall be on my
my way to San Francisco, which [ hope to reach by
Saturday, Feb. i7th. I shall almost immediately
write you the letter agreed upon between us,

I bought the NEw_YoRK WEEKLY here yesterday,

avin ton cents. I saw your placards all about

t. Louis.

With cordial regards to Mr. Smith; and all my
friends in the office, I remain

Yours respectfully,
j _ Horatio ALGER, JR.

My address in San Francisco will be “‘care of An-
glo California Bank,”

—_—____— > @-«—

 

 

 

7

We take pleasure in calling the attention of the
business community to ‘The Commercial Law As-
sociation,’ an association recently organized in this
city by the law firm of Horne & Sanders, having
their principal office at 167 Broadway.

The object of this association is to afford mer-
chants and others a speedy and safe means for the
transaction of legal business in all parts of the
United States.

This firm is composed of Messrs. George E. Horne,
Charies B. Sanders, and William P. Williams—gen-
tlemen of energy and character, and, from our
knowledge of their tact and ability, we cordially
recommend them to all business men who desire

 

prompt, accurate, and careful. attention to their

 

collection or other business with immediate returns
of results. We feel confident that those of our
patrons and neighbors who make use of their ser-
vices, will find the Association free from the de-
lays and vexations that so often attend the collec-
tion of claims, and will agree with us that the firm
is Sever pam of the success its merits are sure to
acheive, ,

POLITICAL STRIKERS.

BY TOMAHAWE,

 

 

A popular proverb of Spanish origin says: “You
cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear,” and it
is equally certainthat we cannot expect office-nhold-
ers sans reproche, who owe their position to the
influence of such a class of men as I have described
in the category of Political Strikers, drawn from the
poisoned purlieus of society’s most degraded dregs,
where the standard of humanity is measured by an
inverse ratio, where honor isinyerted, what wonder
is it that the ruling motive should be selfish and
base. We cannot expect to gather figs on thistles,
and it is equally absurd to look for honor, patriot-
ism, orany other manner of manly virtue, among
men so utterly dead to every sense of decency, as
are the strikers, who, like a certain species of fruit
which is said to ‘tempt the eye and turn to ashes
on the lips,” fiourish best on the borders of the dead
80a of political iniquity. ‘

I wish it distinctly understood that I do not desire
to charge the sins of this political fungus to any
one of the existing parties, allhough I have no hes-
itation in asserting that the two great parties which
seek to mold the destinies of the nation are respon-
sible for its abnormal growth and pestiferous pro-

gress.

It isthe inordinate passion for place and power,
the utter annihilation of principle in the struggle
for office, andthe entire disregard of the means by'
which position may be obtained,that make it pos-
sible for this social pirate to exist, and prey on
every man who looks for, or who is induced to ac-
roe political honors,

o a disinterested observer,—if indeed, we can
suppose such a person when the interest of the na-
tion is at stake—it is oftentimes amusing to notice
how the striker plies his peculiar profession, and
the laughable tricks ard stratagems to which he has
recourse, The experienced striker, who is an
adept in the “ways that are dark,*warely ever se-
lects as his choice the man who is poor; Orwho can-
not afford to put money in the canvass, no matter
what his abilities may be. He makes it a point to
prevail on some wealthy person with a weakness
for prominence, that he is ye the man whom the
people want, and that he—the striker—is the voice
of the people in this matter; is in fact the pulse
which indicates the movement of the popular heart.
If he is a good’ str he succeeds, and having
once made an impression-in this way, he becomes
the leader and drive? of his political candidate, at
whose crib he is bound tof with all his huugry
friends and relations, until election time. Like the
old man of the sea whom Sinbad could not shake
off, he clings to his pretege—for such he constitutes
him—until the ballot-box assures the latter that he
has been the victim of misplaced confidence, and
cuts the gordian knot that has bound him to a most
disagreeable companion, whos@eonstant assurance
that he was “just the man the people wanted” has
proved adelusion anda snare, on many an occa-
sion when five hundred dollars were required to
“fix up” a certain ward, or a lesser sum to treat the
boys. That the wards had not been “fixed up” nor

the boys treated” turns out te be invariably the
case on election day.
But then it is too late to resede, and nothing is
gained by taunting the striker with his infidelity,
even if itturns ou’ that he is found to have gone
over to the ranks 0} theenemy,as he often does. It
is really surprisin;: to see that Some of the most
brilliant men of thi day will allow themselves to be
made the dupes of jueha oon system, even

 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
   
    
   
   

for the sake of engiing Ip area which affordsthe
possibility of attaining politic: wancement. It
was Only just before the late election that a gentle-
man with whom I am acquaijnte d who lives in
one of the most ina un in the interior
of Pennsylvania, alowed hi be victimized
by a notorious striker, and wes 60 far carried away
as to almost forfeit the good opinion of his firmest
friends. The striker was in @reatneed of money.
He knew that the jrentlem h guestion, who is
one of the wealthiest in his ad a hankering
after the office of prothonatory so the striker
devised the following pian of ing the wind.”
Presenting himself at a book-stegje, and assuming
an air of industry, he procuréd & Bible and pro-
ceeded to the residenge of the intenled victim. Hav-
ing obtained an audience, be ened into a general
conversation on cuergmt ter ie Put soon drifted

        
       
 
        
 
 
 
     
  
    
     
       
   
    
 

 
 

 
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
   
       
    
 

so fh
con-

necept the nom-
his success,
r of sincerity, men-
iy prominent politician
ngress—who had, he
fine ede gestion. This

         

and to give the matter &
tioned the name of a certa
—at present a Member of
said, heartily approved ; 1
information was rece Nundisguised satis-
faction, as was also the additional assurance that
anything the striker could do. among the boys—who
would do whatever he desired—would becheerfully
done. The striker was about te bid his elated friend
good-by, when he suddenly remembered that he
was in the book business, an a handsome
Bible which he wished to sell. The other said he
had a Bible already, but yeb, ding. ut was the striker,

 
 
 
  
  
   
 

  

 
 
 
 

 
  

he could not help patrogizing him. The bogus
bookseller asked double tlié pr®e of the book; the
political aspirant paid it withouta murmur. I be-
lieve he would have paid amy price for that book
just then, so anxious was he to encourage his in-
dustrious friend. He was quite enthnsiastic over
his prospects, and the nuxttime I saw him he told
me of his good fortune, a iding that he was sure of
the nomination and election, asthe most promi-
nent man in the county fad mdorsed him in ad-
vance, and all the boys intended “to go for him.”

Itold him there was no doubt of their “going”
for him and his purse if he entered the political
arena, but was candid enough, when he informed
me as to who was his infor t,to assure him that
I did not place any relia that source. Of
course he grew indignant. Men usually do if they
are told the truth to offset some tale of flattery. He
is undoubtedly a conscigntions man, but was suf-
ficiently impressed with his own importance to feel
that he was “justthe man the peopie wanted for
PES ORatory. He ‘ook occasion to call on the

ngressman alreac y referred to, and whom the
striker told him ws s0 strongly in favor of his
prospective nominations ~™.

“Til accept.” he said. “I expéeted something of
the kind, and was not altogether uprepared when
you sent to tell me that you wanted me to accept.”

“Accept what ?” said the other, in astonishment.

“The nomination for prothonatory.” .

“That is the first I knew of the matter.”

“Didn’t you send So-and-so to ask meif Pd ac-
cept, provided I got the nomination ?”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“And hesold mea Bible.”

“And sold you into the bargain.”

Then the truth dawnedon both, and they laughed
the matter over. But my friend) became a candi-
date for all that, and although hed not get half-a-
dozen votes in the conyention, he has learned ales-
son that will last him the rest of his life. He says
he never knew before that George Washington
fought forthe rights of the Republic for the pur-
pose of making them the heritage of secamps, pick-
pockets, and prize-fighters to sell them to the high-
est bidder. _

From the time his name was first mentioned in
connection with the office, he says, Ris house has
been the center of attraction forthe most promiseu-
ous lot of short-haired, smiut-faced, ragzed, wretch-
ed-looking pilgrims he ever laid. eyes on, or ever
hopes to see again. He did not do much more
during the day, or late into the night, than hold a
reception for political strikers of every stripe and
price; and very frequently it happened that these
men of mythical influence, claiming to belong to
each party, paid him a visit atthe’ same time, and
had to be received in separate rooms. He is glad
that he did not get the nomination, because he does
not think he could possibly stand the strain until
election day. The most amusing feature in connee-
tion with the affair, however, is the fact. that one au-
dacious fellow called on him the day after the elec-
tion, and said he had voted for him, and induced no
less than a dozen of his friends to do likewise. The
aspirant was too hardened by experience to be im-
pressed by such disinterestedness, and the stray
striker had for once reckoned without his host.
There is no extreme too absurd for such fellows in
some instances,

For robbing and jobbing, and juggling and lying,
Some fresh fish of “ mischief,” they’re constantly frying.

The striker is certainly a remarkable character,

nd his evil influence on the politics of the present

ay, which he threatens to gangrene and destroy.
demands the attention of all those who value that
bulwark of American liberty, the ballot-box.

————__>-9+4_____

Tw consequence of the great demand for “Pmmr-
LESS CATHLEEN,”’ G. W. Carterton & Co., have had
to postpone the publication day. until March ist,
when they hope to be able to fill all orders. Print-
ers and bookbinders are working as fast as they
can. Orders are flowing in from all parts of the
country,

  
 
  
 
 
 

To Corresvondents.

Ray GOEfSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—

A Mother writes: “Ihave been a widow six years, aml have
sewed for my living during that time. I have three sons. We
have had hard work to get along some ot the time. My oldest
son is nineteen years of age, and has been learning a trade the
past two years. He has always been a remarkably good boy in
every way, and a great comfort to me, always obedient, kind and
thoughtful of my comfort. My health has been very poor indeed
the past two years, andI have had ahard struggle to get along
while he has been learning his trade, I had hopes that he would
be able to make a home for me when his trade was finished and
he would earn good wages, but forthe past few months he has
been waiting on a girl whose company I do not approve of his

Keeping. She has been trying to get his company for over a year.
When I first saw that he was beginning to notice herI told him
that I did not wish him to notice her, and gave him some of my
reasons. This was before he had kept company with her, but he
commenced going with her right away. I do not oonsider her
my 80n’s equal, She is rough and makes use of slang words, and
her family are allthe same. She has a very bad disposition, I
don’t think that he had oughtto go with a girl that I could not
make an associate of. He says he does not intend to marry her.
but she tells her friends that they are going to get married; an
fam sure from what I heard her say one year ago that she would
have him if he will have her, and her people are willing. } y son
knows that his going with_her is grieving me to death. It has
worried me down sick. I really think it will kill me, and he
knows it. I have tried every way to reason with him. I have
always tried to be a loving, faithful Christian mother. I think he
has treated me hard and cruel; he says that he doesn’t care ior
her, and still he persists in going with her, and saysI have no
right to meddle with his company. He is pleasant and kind tome
in every respect but he will go with her. I wish you would ad-

me. If youthink Iam wrong tell me so,”” e can sympa-
thize with you in your anxiety in regard to the future welfare ot
your son, and therisk he runsin associating with a scheming
girl. It may be, however, as he says, that your fears have no
real foundation, a8 many young men keep company with giris
whom they like well enough as associates for the time being, but
have no idea of ever marrying. Besides, he is young yet, and be-
fore he arrives at @ marriageable age, he will have found out her
true character, and forsaken her society. Most young men of his
age resent parental interference in such matters, which in many
cases Only increases the infatuation. As he has been a good son,
considerate and kind in other matters, we think you might trust
him in this, as you can donothing but repeat your former pro-
testations.

Newspaper writes: ‘What will the fare from Columbus, Ohio,
tothe French Exposition, which opens May Ist, 1878 (not first
class passage, but comfortable), amount to? Please advise me
the best and cheapest route to take on leaving the above-named
city, to reach Paris. State the cities ot most importance gener-
ally visited in making @ continualtour? About what would be

the expense ofsuch a tour (with reasonable economy), and how
soon could it be accomplished, when time and money is an
object ? About how muc: would a visit to Paris alone (remain-
oa in the city a couple of weeks) cost? How long does ‘it gener-
ally take to master the French language? What books are ne-
cessary, and their cost? Please extend some general advice to
@ young person about taking the above trip, who wishes to ac-
complish it with asmuch economy as possible.’ Ist. It is im-
possible to say. a rates will be made by the various lines
of steamships during the continuance of the exhibition, 2d.
Write to Cook & Oo,, 262 Broadway, for a list of European trips,
with total expenses. They will give you all the information de-
sired. 3d. The French language may be mastered by an apt
scholar in a few months. We will send the necessary books for

P. F. D.—‘*Will you please tell me through the columns of the
New YORK WEEKLY the strength of the New York Fire Depart-
ment?” We crave the indulgence of our correspondent for not
having answered his question two or three weeks since. The
figures are taken from the official report, just printed. The uni-
formed torce consists of the chiet and assistant, 10 chiets of bat-
talion, 124 company officers, 557 firemen, and 54 hosemen and
laddermen—total, 747. In the various bureaus connected with the
department. are 122 others—total, he apparatus in service
consists of 1 marine steam fire engine, 38 steam fire engines
drawn by horses, 5 ditto, selfpropelling, 2 four-wheeled and 40
two-wheeled tenders, 9 chemical fire engines, 4 water tenders, 19
hook and ladder trucks, 13 hose pumps, 12 fuel wagons, 4 hand
engines, and 108 chemical fire extinguishers. There are beside
the above extra apparatus as tollows: 12 steam fire enzines, 7
two-wheeled hose tenders, 2 hook and ladder trucks, 6 hose
pumps, 4 aerial ladders, and 5 hose carriages.

Orange Biwssom.—I have been a reader of the New YORK
WEEKLY for three years, and wish you to answer a few questions.
Was not John D. Lee the Mormon leader in the Mountain
Meadow massacre, sentenced to death, and did he suffer the
penalty? How long will it take a person to learn short hand
without a teacher? Where woulda good telegraph operator be
most likely to obtain a situation? How to become a ventrilo-
uist?”’? Ist. Lee, the leader in the Mountain Meadow massacre
of 1857, was convicted and sentenced to be shot on the 26th of last
anuary, but a stay of proceedings was granted in order thata
bill of exceptions might be taken tothe Supreme Court of the
Territory. The Court, however, on 10th of February, overruled
the exceptions, and the lower Court was ordered to fix another
day for the execution. 2d. Phonography orshort hand may be
learned without a ‘eacher in from six months to a year, the
tere being more rapid under the instruction of a teacher. 3d.

ecannotsay 4th. We will send youa pamphiet on veutrilo-
quism for 15 cents.

@. BE. C.—Iist. We are unabie to account forthe annually recur-

 

BOO

pring period of mild weather known ag the “January thaw.” In

Our variable climate sudden changes of weather are not peculiar
tothat month. 2d. “The burner of the old-fashioned oil lamp is
perforated so as to admit air tothe body of the lamp as the oil
Surns out, thus preventing a yacudm and consequentextinguish-
ment or explosion, What Boras answers the same end in the
fluid or kerosene Jamp?” The action in the latter case is entire-
ly different. As the fimid the lamp is lowered, a, vapor is
enerated. Which nis e mu, aed if the lamps have 2, per-
ducted downward trom the fiame

eases the evapvration, and tre-
r this reavon, a kerosene or fluid
hem the fluid islow than when

ev
tly tight cap, heat y
through th metal, wich
Quently causes an explosion.
lamp is more apt to explode
full or nearly so.

J. W. &.—*T have been a reader of the NEw YORK WEEKLY for
eight years, and I wish to know howl can obtain some informa-
tion. Will you please inform me whether the U. 8. Government
has a record of every man who enlisted in the army during the
late war? Ifso, can they be examined, and to whom must one
eusty? Where the Eighth Pennsylvania colored hes pet ae dis-
banded, and where can I find some of the privates of Company
C?? Ist. The muster-rolls of the regular army are kept in the
Adjutant-General’s office, one of the bureaus of the War Depart-
ment. For the muster-rolls of the volnnteers or State organiza.
tions and other information connected with them, write to the
adjutant-general, at the capital of the State from which the regi-
mentcame. 2d. Ascertain trom the source named where re
company was recruited, and apply to persons in that vicinity,

Beaver Jim.—“‘Which is the highest part in music, alto, tenor
ortreble? Why are the tenor and alto sung on octave higher?
What is the reason there are so few male alto singers, and why
should their music be set higher in the staff than a female alto
singer?” ist. The highest partin musicisthe treble. 2d. They

are not. 3d, At the commencement of the present century the

alto ot the female voice was unknown here, the part when sung

being sustained bymen, Old singing books will show you the

alte written in counter tenor upon the high notes of the staff, an

octave above where it now stands for the female voice. In an-

swer to the second part of the last question, we would remind:
you that the pitch of the male voice is an octave lower than that
of the female,

Want.—What isthe military strength of the United States?—

that is, what number of men could be mustered in case of war?”
By the census of 1870, there were in the United States 7,570,487
males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. Of this num-

ber. probably one-half are exempted from military service by

te and national laws. In case of necessity, probably three

million good ting men could be mustered for the deiense of

the country.

@. N. Swan writes: “I have for some time past taken the NEW

YORK WEEKLY, and am much pleased with it. Please inform

me if there is such a town or village in Milam county, Texas, as

Oxford? Is the country west ot Austin much settled vet? We

can find no such town named in the Gazetteer, post-office list, or

U. §. ceneus report of 1870. It may be a new town, however, and
not yet arisen to the dignity ofa post village. 2d. The country

west of Austin, Texas, is quite thinly settled. Itis a stock-rais-

ing region.

Excelsior.—“T am twenty-one years of age, and have a good
English education. What course must I take to become a lawyer?
What course of solid reading would you recommend toa young
man who wishes to better his condition?” «Ist. A course of read

ing in a iawyer’s office, and a year or two at a law school will en-
able you to pass an examination for admission tothe bar. 24.

Read history, biography, works of travel, general information,

Gus.—When ‘‘Betsey and I. Are Out” and “Betsy Destroys the

Papers” were first published they were copied extensively by the
press of the country, and it was a comparatively easy matter to
get them without expense. We can furnish them in a small
bound volume of one hundred selections for 75 cents; in paper
cover, 30 cents.

T. Degnan.—“Suppose that two trains of cars were running on

the same track, so as to meet each other, each train to consist
of forty cars, having to pass each other on a side track, which
holds but ten cars, I think itis impossible, but a friend says it
can be done.” ist. You are correct. It is impossible for the
oo to pass without colliding. 2d. See foot of column for price
of book.

 

o

D. D. D.—“What is the longest river in the world?’ The
Amazon river, from its source to the outlet is 3,944 miles long.
The Mississippi river proper is 2,616 miles long; the Missouri,
from its source to its confluence with the Mississippi, 2,908 miles.
From this point to the gulfthe distance is 1,286 miles, making
the length of the Missouri-Mississippi 4,194 miles.

Tilly Slowboy writes: ‘Will you please inform me what kind
of crayons are used in drawing crayon portraits? Also, if any
drawing instruments are used to outline them?”? The ordinary
black and white drawing crayons are used in drawing portraits.
The tools required are a rule, compasses, triangie, and stump or
holder for the crayon.

L. P. J.—\ist. None of the serials published in the NEw YORE
WEEKLY will be republished in its columns. 2d. “Faithful Mar-

t,” uniform with “Thrown on the World” and ‘Peerless
athleen,” now ready, will be issued March Ist. The price is
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Jack.—Ist. The pay of a cadet at West Point is $500 a year and
one ration per day, against which are charged his board, cloth-
ing, books, stationery, and other items of expense. 2d. There is
no likelihood of your obtaining such an appointment, as there
are hundreds of applicants for every vacancy.

Herman.—‘TIs the poetry pnblished in your columns allowed to
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sons wishing to set poems to music should apply to Messrs,
Street & Smith for permission to do so, This is nothing more
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the office of daily newspapers. A knowledge of short-hand is not
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ance in making notes of occurrences. The pay is amall.

 

 

———aa : ee es
R. H, 6.—In the of all fours or seven up, if
many cards have Gan dealt, the cards mat Wie 9

dealtanew. It is optional with the opponent ofthe dealer.
whether the doal passes or not, as the dealer might purposely
make a misdeal, in order to get the “beg.” : ”

Cc. C.—All patent or proprietary medicines are subject to stam
tax, as also are those which are sold by any other 7 oy
that under which they are known in the pharmacopecelas or dis-
ne carer The penalty is fifty dollars for every omission to

P. 4.—We know nothing of the standing of the Phoenix Mutual
Sica to Sghes oe orca e agian sad te oe
will be forwarded, ae ee re
Rosa F. D.—New York city has over one million bitan’
with seyeral hundred dry goods stores. Po attem i ay
clerk in one of these stores, even with his name an description
ot personal appearance, would be ‘looking for a needle in a hay-

Smith.—"'Gone where the woodbine twineth,” ig ] .

pression, attributed to the late James Fisk, * It ia houally on

lied to 2 person who has mysteriously disappeared for reasons
st known to himself{—in other words, taken French leave.

John.—In the custom house the duties of the officialé are wide-
ly varied. The collector is appointed by the President, ood aed
points his subordinates, under the recommendation of leading
politicians and political associations, :

J. R.—We can get no work of instructions, with colored plates,
for. making wax flowers. The ‘‘Art of Preparing Wax for Flo ”
will cost 75 cents or $1.25, = =
i ae. Jee numbers en Bag. YORK WEEKLY are
orwar y mail at six cents each. € can furnish comple’
files from the commencement of Vol. XXVII. 7"

Clartce.—Ist. With a little careful practice you will make a
very good penman. 2d, The verses are crude in construction,
the measure being very faulty.

Georgia,—We cannot answer your geometrical problem with-
out the aid of adiagram. Any work on geometry will illustrate
how to ascertain the center and axes of an ellipse.

J.B. F.—“Tony the Trainp” was completed in No, 42. The
numbers desired will cost 30 cents, the whole story, eleven pa-
pers, 66 cents.

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edge, where your labor will be accepted as part payment for tui-
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J. J. S.—Get a ticket of membership in the Mercantile-Library.
and seleet the ae of books Soe preter—rudimentary works 0
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7, M.—\st. The fare trom Pittsburgh to San Francisco is about

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a lapse of several years, a

Jas. Bond and others.—The new series of popular sce”
eal by Prof. Rudolph will be commenced as sy as spate will
permit,

 

Subscriber.—We know nothing of the standing of the
Novelty Co. Parties Geaitiok tae the mang ing of Giobe
or corporations should address a mercantile agency,

New.—William H. Vanderbilt may be addresed at the office
gf oe New York Oentral and Mudson River R. R., Grand Central

epot. 4

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Rawiins.—We can send you a book containing the rudiments
of bookkeeping for 50 cents,

Waldemar.—The poem “La Coquette” was published in No.
43, Vol. XXXL P = *

Two Morris Canal Boys.—‘The Blunders of 8 Bashiul Man”
will be resumed as soon as space will permit.

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of column,
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subscriptions,

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4. D. Hart.—The story referred to is a tale of fiction.
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In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no
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Owing to the qeantits: ot letters in hand, and the limited space
e

devoted to this Gepartment, the answers to @ large number of
questions must be deferred until next week,

ETIQUETTE,

Opyt writes: “Iam a constant reader of your paper, and ad-
mire it very much. Seemg your answers to other inquiries, I
would like to have you help me out of the following quandary. I
have been taking a lady toa series of quadrille aasemibliesss Gn.
the holding of the last one we were late im getting to the hall—
the second dance had Deen called. The young ladyj getting her
fixings off. before I did, left the dressing-room on drm of an-
other tieman. When I came te ber she said bad waited
until finish ofthe dance. Shoujfd she not have Waited until
her proyer rt, or one of the ¢ , came to t#ke her into
tleman to be the first to

home with her—that he, the friend, saw
my name on another lady’s programme for the last quadrilie.
She, believing the friend, gladly accepted the gentleman’s offer
to see herhome. However, she had the good sense to inform me
of this. I was of course indignant, for the whole story was a
fabrication, and I succeeded at last in conyincing the young lady
that she had been duped; but she allowed the gentleman to take
her home, What I want to know is, what you think of the beha-
vior of the lady, and the other gentleman and his friend?” We

 

think the young lady did a very unlady-like thing in allowing
the gentleman the privilege of escorting her into the hall. She
should have allowed the gentleman that took her to have been
the first to dance with her, and also to have the honor of taking
her home. The gentleman that originated the falsehood that
caused the disturbance was conteniptible, and we think you
showed decidedly good sense in not taking any notice of him.
Such ungentlemanly tricks are much better treated with silent
contempt. The young lady has cause to feel heartily disgusted
eo re gentieman, and should apologize to: you for her
ehavior,

Neglected Wife writes: “Having been a reader of the NEw YORE
WEEKLY for twelve years, and seeing so much good advice given
to querists, I venture to ask for a little for myself. To come to
the point at once, is a wife absurdly jealous that remonstrates
with her husband for such conduct as the following? Holding

on his lap a young Jady evening after evening, laying his head in
her lap, asking her to do little acts that only a wife is expected
to do, making a confidant of her in all business transactions,
sitting up with her until 12 or 1 o’clock, never refusing to do any-
thing she may ask, and buying every article of comfort she may
express a desire to have? In the meantime his wife never gets a
kind word, and if she dares to ask for anything which is pur-
chased so promptly for the other, she is told it is all folly—she
does not need it. After months of this kind of treatment, I ap-
pealed to his sense of right and justice, and he said I was a fool,
it was nothing but friendship, and that he loved only me—that I
was absurdly jealous. We had such a happy home before this
discordant element entered it. Would I not be justified in seek-
ing to get a divorce?” The conduct of yourh d is shameiess,
and that of the young woman equally so. If you cannot bring
them to a sense of decency, you should order her to leave the
house, or give your husband the alternative of choosing which
should remain—you or she. You could not get a divorce in this
State without evidence of criminal intimacy, but you could ap-
ply tor a bill of separation. ‘

Daisy writes: “Upon being introduced to a person, and the
party introducing them saying ‘this is Mr. So and So, from New
York,’ what ought I to say to such aremark? Is it lady-like to
ask an introduction to a gentleman if he has not asked to be in-

troduced? After an introduction, is it improper to ask the gen-
tleman to call? Whose place is it to propose returning home
when @ gentleman takes a lady to drive, and whose place is it to
appoint the time or hour for starting? Don’t be frightened at
this array of questions, for by answering the above you will con-
fer an everlasting favor, and I shall be extremely grateful.’ Ist.
When introduced to persons of whom you have heard much, it
is proper to remark that you have heard your triends speak of-
them, that it is indeed an honor to have the pleasure of their ac-
quaintance. Although proper, it is by no means necessary to
make any remark; and unless itis a pleasure, it. would be far
better to acknowledge the introdutcion by a bow than any show
of cordiality that is not felt. 2d. The gentleman should be the
first to seek for an introduction to the lady, although there
would be nothing unlady-like to aska friend to introduce you to
a gentleman, even if he had not asked for the introduction. 34d.
It is perfectly proper to ask a gentleman to call.. 4th. When a
Desai asks a lady to drive with him, he may ask her what

our would be convenient for her to go, or he may mention some
hour, and ask if that would suit her convenience. The lady may
suggest the time to return. :

William Green.—“I would be much obliged if you would tell
me who administered the oath of office to each of the. Presi-
dents of the United States?” The oath was administered te

George Washington, at his first inauguration, by the Chancellor
of the State of New York; second term, Justice Cushing, of the
U. 8. Supreme Court; John Adams, by Chiet Justice Oliver Ells-
worth; Thomas Jefferson, first term, Chief Justice Marshall;
second term—there is no official record. James Madison, both
terms, Chief Justice Marshall; James Monroe, first term, Chief
Justice Marshall; no ‘official record of second term; John

uincy Adams and Andrew Jackson (both terms), Chief Jus-
tice Marshall; Martin Van Buren, William H. Harrison, James
Polk, Zachary Taylor, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, and
Abraham Lincoln (first term) were sworn in by Chief Justice
Taney, Abraham Lincoln (second term) and Ulysses 8. Grant
(both terms) were sworn in by Chief Justice Chase.

Geo, W. writes: “I am a young married man, twenty-two years
old, and have had some trouble with my wife through
my mother-in-law. I stayed out the other evening to
the armory until about two A. M. When I returned
home my wife took me to do for staying. away so’ late
and my. mother-in-law also interfered. I ordered her out
of the house, and my wife says that if her mother goes she will
go too. What shail § do—send her away or let her.stay? She will
always make trouble wherever she may go.” We are always
loth to interfere in domestic quarrels, and therefore suggest that
you try and settle your trouble amicably. the old lady inter-

eres in matters wherein she is not concerned, you should give
her to understand that you propose to regulate matters ‘in your
own household. Your wife may have been alarmed at your pro-
absence, and her mother was probably solicitous in re-

gard to the effect the nervous anxiety would have on her.

Fort Sumter asks: ‘‘When visiting, should I take off my gloves?
Is it necessary to bow more than once when promenading? Is
it impolite to stare at a lady, or ask to escort her when she is on
the street ??? Ist. When visiting you should take off the right
hand glove. 2d. When promenading it is not necessary to bow
but once to ple whom you pass. 3d. It is bad taste to stare at
any one, and indicates a Jack of good manners. 4th. Should you
meet a lady on the street, and wish to speak to her, it is perfoctiy
proper to bow and ask if you may have the pleasure of walking
with her, when, ifshe gives permission, you may turn and ac-

 

 

company her 3 short distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~_ wy

eee et Re oe ot > ie Bee. =
 

BY NATHAN D, URNER,

 

What do they live on, I wonder,
The enow-buntings, merry and bright,
Bhat follow the Northwind’s hallo,
And never seem to alight?
Ko weather so coki but they rough it,
Fallin the teeth of the gale;
As free as the snowflakes they butfet,
Awny they skurry and sall

They seem to rejoice as they wrestie
With the storm, and no respite to take,
Like the petrels that follow a vessel
When the toarn-crests dance in the wake;
Like the chickens of old Mother Carey,
° That herald thetempest below,
Fiit the snow buatings, cheery and airy.
Past before and just after the snow.

The beat of swift hoofs on the level,
The cutter’s light lisp o’er the snow,
The crash of the bells and the revel
Ot high hopes and beauty agiow,
Would searce be the perfect restorers
In rongh country-roads as they say,
Were it not for those winged explorers
That pilot the path ot the sleigh.
They're the life of the snow-muffied highways,
When the world is all brittle with frost;
They cheer a long walk in the byways,
When the hedges in ermine are lost.
And I never on lone lake or river ;
Snatch the splendor of speed from my skates,
But my heart dances higher whenever
A gnow-bird my coming awaits.

Blithe sprites of the storm! they mbherit
Such hearts for rude knocks from their birth,
That I wish for ourselves we couki merit
Sach meeds trom our toils upon earth.
Ob, ae world would be glad for abidanee,
Reant room for care and distress,
d mA but the taith in His guidance
Which the snow-buntings seem to possess.

 

THE

Forrest House;

OR,
EVERARD'S REPENTANCE.

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

 

['"The ForréstHigase was commenced in No. 12. Back nam-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent.]

CHAPTER X.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.

He had sent no word of his coming, for he did
not know just when he should reach Holburton.
His strength might fail him and he be obliged to
stop for the night on the road. But he kept up
wonderfully and arrived at Holberton on the
same train which had taken him there from EIlli-
cottville on that memorable day which he would
gladly have stricken from his calendar. There
was no one waiting for him now, no onein fact at
the little station except the ticket agent, who,
being new to the Pe scarcely noticed him as
he crossed the platform and passed down the
street toward the brown house on the common.
There had been a storm of wind and rain the pre-
vious day, and the hop vine, which in the summer
grew so tuxuriantly over the door, was torn down
ami lay upon the ground. A part of the fence,

 

wee

too, was nearly down, and a shutter hung by one|h

hinge and swayed to and fro in the autumn wind.
Taken as a whole the house presented rather a
forlorn appearance and he found himself won-
dering how he had ever thought it so attractive.
And still he felt his blood stir quick]
thought of meeting Josephine again, and he half
looked to see her come fiying out te meet him as
she had sometimes done.. But only the cat, who
was chasing a grasshopper through the unout
“rass, eame to welcome him by purring and rub-
ing herself against his legs as he went up the

4 let thn into same suri-bonnet on her
hac so many times, ber sleeves rolled
up, and bher\ywide apron smebling of the suds she
had come from. '

At sightof him she uttered an exclamation of
surprise, and for a moment her tired face lighted
up with someth like pleasure; then that ex-
pression faded and was succeeded by an anxious,
startled look as she glanced nervously down the
road as if expecting some one to whom she would
give warning. Mrs. Fieming was in Boston since
yesterday ut some mortgage on the house,
and Josey had gone to ride, she said, as she led
the way into the little parlor which even to Ever-
ard’s not very critical eye so an er eer
ance of neglect unusual in Mrs. Fleming’s house-
hold, Evidently it had not been cared for that
day, for it bad a close, shut up air, the chairs
were moved from their places, two standing close
Smet a where their last occupants had left
them. ere were crumbs of cake on the carpet,
and two empty wineglasses stood on the table
with a fly or two crawling lazily on the inside
and sipping the few red drops leit there.

Something Agnes said as she opened the win-
dow and brushed the crumbs and took away the
glasses, about not having had time to tidy up the
room, for she was not feeling well, and her wash
was unusually large. She was intending to come
in and right it up for the hear 7 before Jose-
phine came home, she said, and bidding Everard
raake himself as comfortable as possible, she left
him alone and went back to her work in the
kitchen.

Taking a chair near the window where he could
command a view of the street, the young man

lanced first around the room, wondering why it

ad never struck him just as it didnow. He had
thought it very delightful, sitting there night
“Gfter night until the clock struck twelve, laugh-
ing and jesting with Josey and partaking of the
nice little suppers Agnes prepared, and of
which wine, or coffee, or ale, and sometimes
lager formed a part. Then it had never oc-
curred to him, though scrupulously neat and
clean, the furniture of the room was meager and
r, and of that kind which the lower class
invariably select. ‘The Forrest House was not
furnished expensively, or in accordance with his
father’s means; but everything had a certain air
ol.refinement and taste, showing that a truce lady
was at the head, while here, he hardly knew how
to express it, for he did not care if the ingrain
carpet was thin and worn, and the cotton spread
on the table washed and faded, and the furniture
marred and old-fashioned. ‘(he Flemings could
Dopreip that, but they might have selected a dif-
“ferent patiern, and’ less gaudy colors, for the
pues and spread, he thought, and the daubs of
pictures onthe walls, which he noticed particu-

rly for the first time, were better suited to a
bar-room than a parlor. All this came over him
with a rush as hesat waiting for Josephine, whose
voice He heard at last in a ioud, long laugh which
was almost a shriek, and, looking through the
shutters of the’ open window, he saw first a cloud
of dust, and then a low buggy coming rapidly
across the common, in the direction of the house,
In the buggy sat Captain Sparks, the million-
aire and gixty-year-old widower, whose penchant
for young and pretty girls was well known

hroughout the entire county. Short, fat, and
grizaly, he sat with folded arms, and smiling
con. iplacentiy upon the fair blonde, who. in her

.._prown silk dress of two shades, with a long white
face seart twisted round her hat and fiying far
behind, held the reins of the high-mettled horse
and was driving furiously. In his surprise an
indignation, Everard failed to note how beautiful
she was, with the flush of excitement on her
cheeks and the sparkle in her eye; he only
thought she was his wife, and that Captain Sparks
lifted her very tenderly to. the ground aad held
her by the shoulders a moment, while he said
something which made her turn her head
coquettishly on one side, as she drew back from

him, and say:
You ought to be

“You mean od thing!
ashamed !’’

Everard had heard this form of expression
many times. Indeed, it was her favorite method
of reproof for liberties of speech or manner, and
meant noth at all, Everard knew it did not,
and Captain Sparks knew it did not, and held her
“hand the tighter; but she drew it away at last,
and ran gayly up the walk, be him a kiss
from the tips of her daintily-gloved hand. Then

<a THE NEW Y

say to Agnes, who was hurrying to meet her and
announce his arrival: ;

‘Upon my word, if you are not in that old
wash-dud yet! I'll bet you haven’t touched the

rior, and the captain is coming at eight o'clock
fo have a game of euchre. Wha-a-t?” and her
voice fell suddenly as Agnes said something to
her in a tone too low for Everard to hear.

That it concerged him and his presence there he
was sure, and he was not greatly surprised when
the next instant the door opened swiftly, and Jo-
sephine rushed headlong into his arms. He
opened them involuntarily to withstand the
shock, rather than to receive her; but the result
was the same—she laid her golden head on his

bosom, and sobbed like a ild. Josey could
en ac paralrelyy when she chose to do so,
and now she trembled and shook, and made it

seem so real that Everard, poor, foolish, but nat-
ural boy, forgot the watery-eyed captain, who
had lifted her so ee. to the ground—torgot
everything except that she was very fair and un-
deniably glad to see him. Very gently he soothed
her, and made her lift her head, that he might
look into her face, and hated himself for think-
ing that for such a thundergust as she had treat-
ed him to her eyes were not very red, nor her
cheeks very wet. But she was so happy and
gushing, and so glad he had come, and so sorry
she was not there to receive him.

“That sickish old fool, Capt. Sparks, had re-
cently taken to haunting her with attentions, and
as the easiest way to be rid of him, she had con-
sented for once to ride with him, and had taken
the occasion to tell him it could not be repeated.
But then it was rare fun to drive his fast horse—
she was so fond of driving, and Blucher was so
fleet and spirited, and had brought them up to
the house in such style. Did Everard see them—
and what did he think ?”

“Yes, I saw you, and thought you were enjoy-
ing it hugely,’’ Everard said; and Josey detected
something in histone which made her suspect
that he did not quite like the captain’s manner of
lifting her from the carriage. But she was equal
to the emergency, and made fun of the old man,
and called him a love-sick muff, and took him off
to the life, and then, in a grieved, martyred kind
of way, said “it was rather hard for her to know
just what to do, circeumstanced as she was, mar-

 

ried, and yet not married in fact. She would not
for the world do anything to displease ®verard,
but must she decline all attention aud makeanun
of herself, and how soon could she let her mar-
riage be known ?” :

“Not yet, J ees not yet,” Everard said, explain-
ing to her rapidly how much worse the matter
was for them now his mother was dead.

She might; and would, have helped them when
the crisis came, but now there was no one to
stand between him and his father, who was sure
to take some desperate step if he knew of the rash
marriage before his son was through college.

“We must wait, Josey, the two years, sure,’’ he
said; and, because she could not help herself, Jo-
sephine assented, eed sweetly, though with
posnoma ing. of an injured air, and managed next to
bring in the matter of money and ask if he hated
her for being such a i i

“You mustn’t, for I couldn’t heip it,’’ she said,
and she leaned on his arm and buttoned and un-

 

 

 

at the} be

 

 

 

 

buttoned his coat, and caressed him generally, as
she continued: “Maybe you didn’t know how
poor the bride was, or you would not have taken
her. Mother is in Boston now about some mort-’
gage on the house, and it takes so much to live
decently, and my French and music cost fright-
fully; but you are glad to have me take lessons,
dearest?” ‘

Yes, he was glad, of course; but he had no
means of getting money except from his father,
and if she knew to what depths of humiliation
he was reduced when he asked for funds which to
the close judge seemed unnecessary, she would
spare him all she could. By and by, when. he
ad money of his own, there should be no stint
or limit, but now she must be economical, he
said;and then she spoke of the seventy-five dol-
lars sent her by Rosamond, and asked who and
what that queer little old-fashioned thing could

“Such a lecture as she gave Mr. Joe Fleming
for gambling, and leading you wrong generally.
Why, Ilaugh till I cry every time I thi inl it
and of her mistake,” Josey said, pro e

of what she asserted by laughing hea:

- But the laugh grated on Everard, as in somie

way an affront to Rossie, and he shrs from,
saying much of her, except to tell, hed aed hd toa
Rr-t

betore, ‘who she was, and how she came
ing pe the Forrest House. ’

nd was it her very own money she sent 'me, fone hit faster than their won
open

or where did she get it? Has she the = 5.
ame to your father’s purse? If so, you had
better apply to her when in need,” Tosey said,
and in a sudden spasm of fear lest in some way
Rossie should become a victim of the greed he
was beginning they to comprehend, he blurted
out the story of the hair, withholding the name
of Beatrice from a feeling that he would rather
Josephine should not know.of her, and his ac-
quaintance with her.

“What do you think of a girl who could do so
generous a thing as that for a great lout like
me?” he asked, and Josephine replied, “I think
she was a little goose! Catch me parting with
a hair, though I am glad she did it, as it
relieved you, and was of great benefit to Joe
Fleming!’

She laughed lightly, but Everard was disgust-
ed and indignant at her utter want of feeling or
appreciation of the sacrifice which few girls
would have made. She saw the shadow on his
face, and, suspecting the cause, changed her
tactics. and became greatly interested In Rosa-
mond, and said she knew she should like her,
and that she must be a generous, self-denying
little thing, and she wished Everard would allow
her to write to her in her own proper character
as his wife. But to this he would not consent.
He was not deceived by this change in the role.
He knew Josey had expressed her rea! sentiments
at first, and there was in his heart a constantly-
increasing sense of disappointment and loss of
something, he scarcely knew what. Nor could
all Josephine’s wiles and witcheries lift the
shadows from his face,and make him feel and
seem just as he used to do when he sat alone in
the little parlor with her at his side. .She was
very charming in her brown silk, which fitted
her admirably, and Beatrice herself could not
have been softer, and sweeter, and gentler than
she tried to be; but there was something lacking,
and though Everard put his afm’*around her
slender waist, and her gol len head was pillowed
on his shoulder, his heart beat with heavy throbs
of pain as he spoke of her last letter to him, in
which she had asked for more money. It had
been his intention to give her all he had, and bid
her make it last the year, ix possible, but he
changed his mind suddenly, and handed her only
twenty dollars, and told ‘her it was by mere
chance that he was fortunate enough to eave it
to give her, and that he hoped she would do the
best she could with it; for, though he would
gladly give her ten times the amount, if he couid,
the sobs was impossible.

She thanked him» graciously, and said she
meant to be very economical, only things did cost
so much and somehow, as Mrs. Forrest, she felt
that she must dress better than Josephine Flem-
ing had done. If he said soshe would take in sew-
ing, or eyen washing if he liked—anything .to
show him she really meant to please him. «He
vetoed the washing and the sewing, of’ course,
and then as he heard the rattling of dishes in the
adjoining room, he hastened to say that he was
to leave on the half-past seyen train, so as to
reach Amherst that night. There was a gush of
tears, and a passionate protest, and a pretty,
pouting declaration that he did not care for her
any more, and then the weeping beauty allowed
herself to be comforted, and felt really a measure
of relief when she remembered Captain Sparks
and his engagement. for eight: o’clock. ‘There
were wafiles for supper—Everard’s favorites—
and Josephine sat by him and buttered them for
him, and made him tea, and heiped him. to
peaches and cream, and between times studied
the face which baffied and puzzled her so, with
its new expression born of remorse and harrow-
ing unrest. She had marrieda boy whom she
thoughtto mold so easily, but she found him
now a man, for whom she felt a little awe and
fear, and there was ‘something of real timidity
and shyness in her manner, when at last she said
good-by to him, and watched him through the
darkness as he went. rapidly from her to the train
which was totake him on his way to Amberst.

 

CHAPTER XI.
AFTER TWO YEARS.
Jt is not my intention to lingor over the inci-

she entered the side door, and Fverard heard her

PL SABI RP Sad

 

‘Mh. ~~

even tenor of their wey: and where Rosamond
Hastings laughed, and played, and romped avery
child about the grand old place, gaining each day
health, and strength, and girlish beauty, but re-
taining always the same straightforward, gener-
ous, self-denying, truthful character which made
her a favorite with every one. To Everard she
was literally a good angel, and never was a son
watched more carefully by an anxicts mother
than she watched and guarded him. She wrote
to him letters of advice and sage counsel such as
a Fe ere of seventy might have written,
and which es had in them some word of
warning against bad associates in general, and
Joe Fleming in particular. She knew he had not
broken with Joe altogether, for he told her so, and
more than once in his sore need he had taken the
money she never failed to send him when her
quarterly allowance was paid. Butfor the rest,
he was eee the pledge which she
had drawn for to sign. Only once in all the
two years had he ventured to ask his father for
more money than that close-dealing man chose
to give him, and the storm of anger which that
request had evoked determined him never to re-
peat the act. Hesent his father’s letter to Jose-
phine, that she, too, might understand how diffi-
cult it was for him to supply her constantly in-
creasing wants, and for a time the effect was
good, but an inordinate fondness for dress was
one of Josie’s weaknesses, and having onee in-
dulged it to a certain extent, she could not read-
ily deny herself, especially as she felf she had a

right to a yee least, of the Fortest money.
So she wrote to Everard again and 4 seme-
times for five dollars, sometimes foxrten, or twen-

ty, and when she found that soonef or later it
came she ventured to ask for more,and at last
demanded fifty dollars, which she heeded, she
said, for furs,.as her old ones weré worn out.
Then Everard sold the little diam@nd pin his
mother had given him, and, strange Puy, ney
ed-with it akmost without a pang, he was getting
so accustomed to these things. He had long be-
fore parted with his best suit of clothes, the one
he kept upon his bed so long when he Was sick at
home, and. from the best and most exquisitely
dressed young man in college he was fast becom-
ing the plainest, and was getting the reputation
of penuriousness in everything. His first-class
boarding-house was exchanged for a third-rate
club, where the poorest young Memplived; he
wrote articles for the magazines sold them
for whatever he could get, and hen the
janitor was sick for a week, he took his place, and
so earned a few dollars with which t@sywoll the
amount he found it necessary to keep on hand for
the woman who sometimes playfully signed her-
self a Leech, aad whos a handsomer ward-
robe than the greatest lady in Holburton.

_Of course the world must have some explana-
tion of this sudden increase in worldly goods, or
the girl’s reputation be ruined forever. And Josey
made the explanation, and said a distant relative
of her father’s had died in Ireland and left her a
few pounds to do with as she liked. And in this
story there was a semblance of truth, for a maid-
en aunt, who for years had lived in Port-rush, on
the northern coast of Ireland, and taken lodgers
during the summer season, did die and leave to

 

her grand-nieces in America the sum of fifty
pounds, which was ostensibly divided between
Agnes and Josephine, though the latter had the

    
 
  
 

greater share and_immediately ap
street in an expensive velvet sack whi
much attention and elicited a grea
marks from those who were wa
of the young girl. She was not
for with her fine dress she had 4
sorts of airs and arrogance, and her manner was
haughty and offensive in the extreme, while her

 

flirtations with gentlemen were, 80 Tharked as to
make her almost notorious as ess and
unprincipled coquette. Captain ks had laid
himself and his immense fortune 4t her feet only,
of course, to be refused, but she id him no

so sweetly, with tears in her liquid Biue eyes, that
he was not more than half conviteed that she
meant it, and dangled stillin her trgim of hangers
on. Dr. Matthewson, too, was thre frequently,
and people had good reasons forthinking bim the
favored one, judging from the lakes relations
in which they seemed to sian? 4
One in a great while Everard hina s
to Holburton, but hg never spoppes
day at the most, and was seldom
oe with the fair Josephine; wh¢

 

  
   
  
 
  
   
    
   
 
  
   
  
  
 

v9 her hoidon him,and gi 1h:
re his fancied love fot_hen@rs<
gi he thoucht horyory boantay
never moyed him novwyor mg¢o his 1

wite, and he accepted the fact, af
make the best of it, but. thS future §
bright in store for him, On
shrank from it with a kind of neryous
felt no throb of joy when his college days drew
near their close, and he knew that he stood first
in his class and should graduate with every pos-
sible honor. He had worked hard fox that, but it
was more to please, or rather noft) disappoint
Beatrice and Rosamond than fesany good to
himself that he had studied earlyjand late, and
made himself what he was. They were coming

valedictory, for that honor was ama. tm, and
he had engaged rooms for them at a private house
where he knew they would be more som fortable
than at the hotel. ssie was ail caper ess and
excitement with regard to the jouraey and the
commencement, and wrote frequently to Everard
about it, telling him once that if Joe Meining was
there not on any account let him speak to her or
know who she was, but to be Sufef point him
out to her, as she had a great desire ¥0 Know how
a gambler and blackleg looked! Shyhareeently
applied this last term to Joe Flemin, who, to her
mind, represented everything thatigvas bad and
disreputable, and Everard smiled when he read
the letter, but felt a great pang of fear lest Joe
Fleming should be there and thrustherself upon
the notice of his father and Beattice. He had
given her no hint that her presenee would be
agreeable to him, but he knew she need it.
She was capable of doing almost @myihing to
further her ambition, and, though  rribly an-
noyed, he was not at all disappointed when next
day he received a note from her saying that she
was coming to see him graduate, bub should not
trouble him more than she could help, as a friend
who lived about’a mile from town had asked her
to spend a few days with her, and g0 be present
at the exercises. She should expect him to call
and pay her any little attention which he consist-
ently could.

It was long since Josephine had attempted any-
thing like love-making with Everard, f¥ she felt
that he understood her perfectly naw, and had no
respect whatever for her. He had found her a
sham, just as Rossie had said she was, and had
accepted his fate with a bitterness and remorse
such as few men of, his age had ever experienced.
He did not believe in her at all, and wheneyer he
was with her, and met the soft, pleading glance
of the eyes which had once so fascinated and be-
witched him, heonly felt indignant and disgusted,
for he knew how false it all was, and that theeyes
which looked so beseechingly up to him would the
next hour rest as lovingly upon Dr. Matthewson,
or Captain Sparks, or any other man whom Jose-

hine deemed worthy of her notfee. Agnes had

ld him all this when he was in Holburton for a
day and had a few moments with her alone. Up
to that time he, had tried hard to have faith in
Jogsephine—tried to. believe that there was some
good, some womanly trait in her, but what he
heard from Agnes destroyed overy particle of
respect he had for her and made her almost hate-
ful to him. Accidentally he discovered that the
washing and ironing with which Agnes seemed.
always bus y were done to pay the music bills and
sundry other expenses, for which he had sent the
money, and in his surprise he asked a few lead-
ing questions and learned more than he had
dreamed of. As the worm will turn sometimes
so Agnes, who chanced tobe smarting under some
fresh indignity imposed upon her, turned upon
her tyrant and -told. many things which, for
Everard’s peace of mind, would have-been better
unsaid, for she dwelt mostly upon Josie’s free-
and-easy manner with the geantiemen who came
to the house to call, or chanced to be boarding
there.

“J don’t mean she doas anything bad,” she said;
“anything you could sue forif you wauted to,
but she just makes eyes at them, and leads them
on, and gets them all dangling omher string, and
wants to be their sister and: all that sort of stuff,
and when the fools offer themselves, as some of
them do, she rises up on ‘her - boes and wonders
how they could presume to do such a thing, as
she had never meant to encourage them—she was
simply their friend; and, if you'll believe it, they

 

 

dents of the next two years, or more than glance

ORK. W

at the Forrest House, where things went in the

)tiet be with her a great dea

 

business goes on, and she a married woman! I’m
sorry for you, Mr. Forrest.” ;

And oh, how sorry he was for himself, and how
after this revelation he shrank from the gay but-
terfly which flitted around him s0 gracetully and
treated him to the eyes of which Agnes had spoken
so a ee And still there was no open rup-
ture ‘between the two, no words of recrimination
or reproach on either side. He was always court-
eous and polite, though cold as the Bist sea;
while she was sweetness itself, and only the ex-

ression of her face told occasionaWy that she

fully realized the situation, and knew just how
she stood with him. But he was her usband,
and as such would one day be known to the
world, and she was far prouder of him now in his
character as a man than she had been when she
took him a boy, and she meant to see him on the
stage in Amherst and compel him to pay her
some attention which should mark her as an ob-
ect of preference. She knew he did not wish to
ave her there, but she did not care for that, and
wrote toa Mrs. Everts, who had once lived in
Holburton, asking if she could stop a few days
with her as a boarder, not as visitor. She wished
very much to attend the exercises, and greatly
preferred stopping with an acquaintance. Of
course Mrs. Everts signified her willingness, nay
her great desire, to receive Miss Fleming as a
guest, rather than a boarder, and_so it was ar-
ed, and Josephine wrote to Everard her in-
tention to be present at the Commencement, and
or ogg that he should pay her some little at-

ntion.

The old, weary, popes took, which had be-
come habitual to his face, deepened in intensit
as Everard read the note and then began to cal-
culate the chances of a meeting between his
friends and Josey. He was very morbid about
this secret, which he had kept so jong that it
seemed to him now that he neyer could divulge
not follow. And he did not want Beatrice and
haps he could. There would be a great crow
the church; they could not see her there; and,
as Mrs. Everts lived more than a mile from town,
they might not meet her at all, unless at the re-
ception given by the president, and to this Josey
would hardly be invited. So he breathed a little
more freely, and completed his arrangements for
his family, and wrote a line to Josey, saying he
would call upon her at Mrs. Everts’ when she
came, but should be so wey busy that he could

; - He hoped she would
enjoy the exercises, and was ‘Yours truly, J. E.
Forrest, Jr.” ;

To Rosamond he wrote quite differently, and
told her how glad he was that she was coming,
and how much he hoped she would enjoy the trip,
and that there was the coziest, prettiest room im-
aginable waiting for her in one of the pleasantest
houses in town. And Rossie was crazy with de-
light and anticipation, and scarcely slept a wink
the night before they started north. And still
she was very bright, and fresh, and pretty, in her
suit of Holland linen, with a brown straw hat and
long streamers, and never was journey more en-
joyed than she enjoyed that, her first long one,
pool everything, and appreciating eve ing,
and declaring that she was not a whit tired when
at last they reached Amherst, and found Everard
waiting for them.

{TO BE OONTINUED.]

DUBLIN DAN;

OR

THE ROSE OF BALLYHOOLAN.

BY BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG.
AUTHOR OF THE POPULAR
“JACK HARKA WAY STORIES.”

” (“Dublin Dan” ¥ Sorangenced in No. 15. Back Nos. can be
had of any Rowe Deales the United States. }
CHAPTER VI.

“WITH A NEW FRIEND.

 

 

on from Rothsay—his father, and Beatrice, and | ¥
Rosamond, to see him graduated lear his

in the opinionof Harlem Joe, the new friend,
whom. Dublin’ shad acquired at such an oppor-
pune moment, the first thing to be done was to buy
yp odd boot, and aBecon-dhand hat, to replace those
hich had been stolen by Peter Mahoney,

Not that it an extraordinary thin for ac-

* sae ninness of ariem Joe to go about without any

ots or socks, and with tangled locks, hatless or
eapless, which vanity tried to flow in the breeze.

But Dublin Dan was, as Joe thought, well dressed,
Outside the loss of ag and boots, and being well
supplied with money, there was no reason why he
should not be fully togged out. ee.

The want of finish about our hero’s right foot and
head, did not trouble him much,

He was thinking of his loss.

Without a murmur he would tramp miles in the
mud and rain if he could thereby have set eyes upon
Peter Mahoney, and recover the letters which Cap-
tain Moriarty had sent him all the way from Ire-
land to deliverto his trusted correspondents in New

ork,
“Let’s hurry up to the Five Points, sonny,” ex-
claimed Harlem Joe, “There’s a dealer in Baxter
street, by the name of Sol Israel—* Uncle Sol,’ the
boys call him—and I guess, for fifty cents we can
get you what you've lost of your rig.”

“Thank you,” answered Dan, “But can’t I do
something to fina out the thief ?” ‘

“We'll attend to that shortly. I ain’t much on
head-work myself. but there’s a boy I know, we
call the ‘judge,’ because his head’s so clear, and
his mind works so well.”

“What will he do for us?” _

“Give him ten cents for his opinion, that’s what
the *judge’ charges; just like any regular law-

And he will advise me ?”

(ou bet: he lives, that is to say, he lodges reg’lar
at Judy McDermott’s, not far from Uncle Sol’s,
We'll have to hurry, though, or we'll be late for sup-
per at our hotel.” . : j
“What do they give you?” inquired Dan, abstract-

+f
sé

y,
“Only bread and sirup, andtea. It don’t amount
to much, but it’s good, as far as it goes; and I tell
you, sonny, a chap’s precious glad to get that and
& warm, clean bed, and have his: clothes dried in a
hot room on a cold, rainy night, when he’s no home
and he’s out of work, and hungry, and the eops
keep rousting him out of doorways.’ My word! I
ge you,. it’s been the salyation of many a poor

OY;

oat shuddered as he pictured tc himselt the
miseries that many an outeast boy had to put up
with, and whieh he in his comfortable home, far
from the sin and turmoil of a great city, had never
dreamed of. He did not know how cruel, and stern,
and black, life could be, even to the children.

They passed through the City Hall Park, and
crossing Center street, dived through thoroughfares
eae BaCwe to Harlem Joe, until they reached Bax-
ter street.

The store kept by Uuele Sol Israel was a general
utility shop, for he sold almost everything, from
wearing apparel to candy, and broken chains and
anchors, to second hand books and common
jewelry, ;

He was noted for buying everything that was
offered to him and asking no questions, if he got
the article at his price. : ;

“Say, Uncle Sol,” eried Joe, addressing this
broker, who was standing outside his shop.

“Vell, Joe,” replied the Jew, recognizing a cus-
tomer, “How’s my goot poy to-day ?

What ye
yant to puy he y?”

“My friend here, want’s to buy a boot and a cap.
Only one boot, mind, Can you fix him? Don’t stick
on any of vour fancy prices, we’re dead broke, and
when a feller’s bank’s busted he can’t be as gen-
erous as he could wish.”

“Only von boot! dat is a curish thing,” answered
Sol. “What game you poys been up to?” d

“Nothing at all, uncle, Some coward struck Dan,
—that’s my friend here—and ran off with his cap
and boot,”

“Hal E guess I’vo seen that man, not more ’n five
minutes ago.” ,

“You!” exclaimed Dan, in a tone of the utmost
astonishment.

“He came along vith Zebulon, von of our peoples.
Joe, you know Zeb, of the market?” . ,

i Ha as peddles peanuts in Washington Mar-
et?”

“Goot poy, dat’s the man. Ipuya poot from him,
anda poy’s cap. ‘Shelp me gootness, I give him a
tollar for the two, without a word of a lie.” r

“Stack your nibs, Sol,” replied Joe. “That’s
plaved out.”

“Vell, vat’ll you. give ?”

“Fifty cents, and no more.”

“Holy Mosesh! I’ma loser on the deal. I never
vill have anything to do vith poys. They’re the
yout I always said sho. Poys can peat the

eck.”’

Going into his store he came back with the iden-
tical hat and boot which Peter Mahoney had stolen
from Dan, after quitting the steamer.

Dan had no sooner .beheld his property than he
hastily thrust his hand into the boot.

 

mostly stick to her just the same, and the sister

Nothing there. f
Then he tried the hat with thesame result.

BEKLY, S2=50-

it, even if sure that his father’s bitter anger would,
Rossie to see his wife, if he could help it, and ies do it
in

 

It was
ee b ed see
nele observed his action, and seem
tremble lest some bills or gold should be soineeds
bat mae rr coke at Joe, faid, with a weary
nd a blank expression. “ Nothin if
Jew’s face brightened. ee

.. 4 at you expect to find there ?” he asked.

Only some papers,” replied Dan, handing him
the money agreed on for the purchase,

Anything elsh you vant ter puy, my young shen-
tleman ?” exclaimed Uncle Sol, who saw Dan had
er a and was much better dressed than his com.

{Not now, thank you,” replied Dan.

Let me shell you a shoot of clothes. Look at that
coat.. It will fit you like a glove, and closher than
paper on the wall. If it vas made for the President,
or Prince of Walesh, it couldn’t be finer.”

eing Dan was unmoved by his “patter”? he
went on another tack. “Puy anice pistol? wvakea
look at my stock.”

He pointed to the front of the shop, which, as we
have said, presented a very miscellaneous appear
ance, there being a little of all sorts, without any
attempt at arrangement or classification,

,Over the door was suspended a large bath, by its
side three bird cages; some brooms, fishing-rods,
and foils were close by some Indian spears, and a
couple of old chairs. A

“Ye have everthing the mind of man or poy can
desire. Puy a little dagger, a merschum pipe, a
little giant steam-engyne, an iron bank, or a house
for to keep white mice. I’ve got’em all, and sheep
as dirt. S’help me Aaron.”

But Dan laughingly refused all his inducements
to trade, and promising to call again, he having put
on his cap and boot, started with Harlem Joe for
J ay McDermott’s, where they expected to meet the

judge.

“Was’nt it queer, our finding my lost things at
uncle Sol’s ? remarked Dan. 7

‘Very. What did he do with your valise, I won-
der? Going somewhere to see what it contains, I'll
bet, before he parts with it.’

“SBhouldn’t be surprised. Peter Mahoney was
always an artful customer. If there was an
illicit still tobe rooted out, Peter was the boy to

1

“Here we are at Mrs, McDermott’s,” said Joe,
stopping before a low looking house, dirt-begrim-
ed and weather-stained, in a street reeking with
mildew and decay. 1

Pushing open a crazy door which was standing
ajar. Joe, closely Sollowed by Dan, entered a room
oe poe seemed to be the common property of the

odgers.

Through the smoky glare of a kerosene lamp,
Dan discovered a dozen or more persons, men,
women, andchildren, |
_ Some were eating at a rickety table, others cook~
ing at a stove, some smoking, talking, and playing
cards, while one man was lying drunk in a corner,

It was a striking, if a repulsivescene, and the not
least remarkable character in it was the Widow Me-
Dermott, who sat in a rocker near the door, to re-
ceive the money of the lodgers as they entered.

Hers was a system of cash payments, and she
would declare, as she waved her blackened
pipe in the air, that those who couldn’t pay for one
night, would be less likely to pay for two.

She no soonersaw Harlem Joe than she recog-
nized him, for he had been a frequent customer of
hers, he being a poor boy with no home or friends,
a moahen and father having died with the fever at

arlem,

“Ah! is that yourself, Joey, honey ?” she exclaim-
ed. “Sure and it’s I that’s glad tosee you mabuochal.
What’ll yer ate? There’s lashings o’ white bread
and swate milk, with tay galore.”

“We've not come to stay to-night, santie an-
swered Joe. ‘‘It’s the judge we want to see, but my
friend’s willing to pay the lucky penny for crossing
your door.” pil

Dan looked inquiringly at Joe.

“Give her a quarter,” said the latter,

Dan was about to do so, but having no currency
he produced a shilling which he tendered her.

“Thank ye kindly, me darlint,” exclaimed the
Widow McDermott, “sure it’s yerself that has full
and plinty, but a poor lone cratur’ like me can’t af-
ford to be proud these hard_times, an’ the way ’m
chated, too, by the bhoys. They’ve grown s0 cute
there’s no holdin’ wi’ them at all, at all. But,” she
anaes, owhere'll ye be afther gettin’an English
shillin’?”

_ Don’t ask questions, aunty, and you’ll hear no
lies,”” answered Joe. “If we can come in and see
the judge, all well and good; if not, say so.” _

“Wisha thin, Joe, it’s me heart bates double joy to
see you this minit, an’ ye can do as ye plaze here.”

“That settles it; so wipe down your chin, and tell
us where Davy is.” :

“Where should he be, but in his ould place. Isn’t
he all the time rading his books and papers by the
lamp? Lift. up yer eyes and go to see him elose
forninst ye.”

Davy, or the “judge” as he was nicknamed, was
aepeereryd in the place indicated by Judy McD x.
mo

ea.

He was about fifteen years of age,thin and deli-
cate in appearance, having a high forehead,a hard,
stern face for one so young, and altogether looking
spiritual and intellectual.

His occupation was that of errand boyin a mer-
cantile house. He had been a bootblack, and hay-
ing neither home nor friends, hs made Mrs. McDer-
mott’s house his abiding place, bringing home a
piece of meat for his supper, cooking it himself,
and afterward amusing himself by reading and
keeping his aecounts.

In addition to being the adviser of other boys, he
was a money-lender, and would lend. out smail
sums. of ten and fifteen cents at a large interest for
a few days.

This paid him,and_ the little fellow was worth
money, as his savings bank book could testify.

“Good evening, Davy,” exclaimed Joe; “let me
make you acquainted with my friend, Dan.

“Glad to. meet you,” replied the “judge.” ‘Do
you want a loan, or only advice ?”

“Only advice, thank you.”

“Fifteen cents, please,” exclaimed Davy, holding

out his hand for his fee, which was promptly paid
him in advance. »
, Dan could searcely help smiling at the old-fash-
ioned manner and the business habits of the little
fellow, who was as grave as any counselor learned
in the law.

Resting his head on his hand and looking earn-
estly at Dan, the “judge” continued:

“You can speak here. It is my office at present.
Some day Ishall have a better one, perhaps, but
boon penis have to make strange shifts.”

So Dan began to tell his story, relating how he
had come from Ireland to New York to deliver a
letter, how he was robbed, and the strange circum-~
sane of his buying back his own things at Uncle

ol’s.

After taking a little time to consider, Davy said:

“You have your ticket home, and you have money
to live on here.. Harlem Joe is good, and it’s lucky
you met with him, for he won’t see you robbed. So
far you are all right, but you don’t want to go home
without the letter. Therefore your best course will
be to seek help from the police,”

“What can they do?” asked Dan. _

“A great deal. They will go to Zeb at the market,
who brought Mahoney to Unele Sol. They will
search everywhere tor Mahoney. If they are unsuce-
cessful, go to the person to whom your letter was
addressed, and state all, Never be a coward.”

“Thank you!” responded Dan. “I think yours is
very good advice,andI’m glad to have met with
you and Joe in a strange city, and under such eir-
cumstances.”

“Good-night,” said Davy, taking up his account-
book again, and making rapid calculations therein,

Harlem Joe motioned to Dan to come away, as the
interview was ended, and they stepped out of the
den as quickly as they had come in, Mrs. McDer-
mott’s attention being temporarily taken up by a
fight between two women at the upper part of the
room,

“Now where are we going ?” inquired Dan.

“To the lodging-house for. newsboys, corner of
Chambers and Duane,” replied Joe,

It did not take them long to traverse this distance,
and in conjunction with numerous other boys, it
being now about seven. o’clock, they entered the
spacious, clean-looking brick-built edifice.

Going up stairs their names were registered in a
book, their ages taken down, and a note made as to
whether they could read or write,

Then they had the key of a numbered locker
given them, where they could put their clothes or
anything they had with them.

The ordinary bed with supper costs ten cents, but
there is a special room with about twenty-five beds
in it, which is ten cents extra. as

This the boys eall Fifth avenue, and Joe paid for
that on this particular occasion.

Then there was a_rush to the laboratory. where
they washed their hands, afterward partaking of
supper, and that being finished, they went up stairs
again to the gymnasium, passing the two big dor-
mitories, each containing a hundred and fifty clean
nice beds, one being placed above another in ranges
of two, like bunks on board ship. i ‘

After amusing themselves in the gymnasium for
a brief space, Joe took Dan out to go to the theater,
remarking: .

“They charge a fine if we’re not in after nine, and
if we're later than twelve we can’t get in atall. Mr.
O’Connor, the manager, is very kind, but he makes
no exception to this rule.” i

“We've got money—at least I have,’ answered
Dan. “But I don’t suppose we shall be out late.”

“I guess not,” replied Joe. 5

When they reached the theater they took a modest
place and enjoyed the performance immensely.

It was intensely exciting. being a drama of fron-
tier life, with scouts talking in what we may callthe
western dialect, and Indians sealping soldiers. -

Pleven o’clock was passed and gone when the in-
tellectual feast was over,and Harlem Joe suggested
the propriety of indulging in an oyster stew. ;

This repast, with the accompanving relish of cold
slaw and tomato catsup, delayed them half an hour
longer,

 

 

 

 

 

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<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

They had regaled themselves ata large restau-

rant in the Bowery, flaming with gas and looking }

very grand. . f
On taking their checks from the waiter and going
to pay at the counter, Dan saw some one whose
features he could not mistake.
It was Peter Mahoney. :
Touching Harlem Joe on the shoulder, he whis-
ered:
““fPhere’s our man!” : ¢
Turning his eyes in the direction pointed out, Joe
as of the same opinion. a c
WENO doubt of it? he replied; “and that’s Zeb with
”

m. :
‘The marketman who went to Uncle Sol’s with
m age
**Yes.”’

*What'll we do now?”
“That requires, consideration,” answered Joe,

“It might be best togo and look for a cop.”

“But while wedre looking he will have time to
escape, and weean’t pass him without his seeing
93

“That's so.” 2 : ;

*T always like to acton firstimpulses,” exclaimed
Dan, whose blood was all aflame, *‘and—just look!
he’s carrying my valise with him!”

*The son of agun!” ejaculated Joe,

Dublin Dan could restrain himself no longer.

He walked quickly up to the cigar stand, where
Mahoney was lounging with his new acquaintance,
Zebulon, and seizing him by the arm, cried:

“You seoundrel! howdare you robmoe as you
have dome ?? ’

The spy was terror-stricken, he let fall the cigar
ho had been smoking, dropped the valise, and his

livid lips} bew@amoto twitch nervously.

Dan quickly picked up the yalise, and clutching it
firmly; said:

*Now give me the letters you stole.”

Several people who werein the restaurant became
interested im this scen6,and a little crowd soon
formed around the two.

As for Harlem Joe he contented himself for the
present with watching the course of events.

 

CHAPTER VII.
THE STOLEN LETTERS,

Peter Mahoney was at first taken aback by the
totally uexpected appearance of Dublin Dan on the
sopne.

Seving, however, that it was necessary to preserve
his presence of mind and doe _ something at once, or
the was utterly lost, he braced himself forthe emer-

noy. 4

“What ails the bhoy?” he oxclaimed, appealing
to the bystanders. “Sure an’ Iniver saw him before
in my life.”

“You don’t know me?” asked Dan. f

“No, sit. May the bhoys’keen at my berrin’ ef I
do, an’-that’s an oath’

“Amd not Dan Deering, of Ballyhoolan ?”

“Ye may be for: what Iecan tell, but, holy Mary!
Fm not to be robbed like this. Give me a howld of
mé bag aguin, ye limb of Satan; ye born villain.”

“ft won’b,”. replied Dan, resolutely.

Mahoney’s eyes twinkled cunningly,

“Where is the money ye took out of my hand?”
hesaid. J

“What money ?”

“The gooldand the silver,. I’m a poor emigrant
gust landed at the little place below they call Castle

arden, andit’s hard if ’mto be robbed in this
Way. r

The landlord of the saloon, seeing that there was
@ row in progress, which wasn’t an infrequent oe-
curreneé at thie place, had come up.

“Nowy see here, young fellow,” he exclaimed, "I
want youtostop.. This thing is played out. I’m
good at bouncing, and keep a couple of heelers, 50
if you value your hide, you'll git, an’ mighty quick,

“lL won'tibe imposed upon,” said Dan,

' “No more won’tI,’ replied Mahoney. “Ill jest
tel! ve the rights of it. e’s stole my money an’
got mybag. I nivir seteyes on him before. It’s
colloquing agin me he is, with some other spalpeen
or omadhaun.: Oh! by the howly rimnants an’ it’s
a wicked eity this is intirely. Plaise Heaven, Dll
gitout of it soon, an buy a farm out West. Arrah!
be jabers an’ it’s too bad he’d take me money as well
2s me bit o’ clothes and things.”

“Oome,’ now, give the man his yalise,” said the
proprietor.

“Tt’s mine,” replied Dan.

“Oh, the lyin’ eratur!’ eried Mahoney. “I ax your
pardon, gentlemen all, for the expression, an’ for
Bayin’ such a word. It wasn’t from the heart, only
the temper, but as I shtand herea poor man, it’s
my bag and my money.”

The landtord seized Dan and threw him on his
back on the floor inspite of his resistance and earn-
6st protestation,

“Dari out your pockets,” he exclaimed.

“7 won'tdo an ything of the sort,” replied Dan.

“Then Pll do it for you.”

“The man is a cheat and an impostor.”

“And who are you ?”

“Dan Deering, of Ballyhoolan.”

“Ah, pshaw! You can’t come these skin —
here,” replied the landlord, who emptied Dan’s

oecket of his gold and silver, which he handed to

aboney, leaving the boy withouf a penny.

“Now, you clear out,” he said, “and think your-
self almighty lucky that you’ve got off'so well, and I
Gidn’t give you to the police, who would have sent
you to the House of Refuge on Randall’s Island till
you were twenty-one, sure pop.” ‘ :

Pan rose up from the flood, redin the face with
indignation, and suffering from a terrrible sénse
of injustice. :

“Pll make you pay for this,” he exclaimed,

“Oh, get out. Do you want me to have you locked

>?

**¥er, I do.” + y
The landlord looked at him in surprise.

Peter Mahoney put the money in his pocket,
seized the valise eagerly, and whispering: some-
thing hurriedly in Zeb’s ear, got away through the
crowd. :

“Oh, my,” said the landiord, “‘ain’t you a harden-
ed young one?”

“T want justice.”

“Well, you won’t get it here.”

“Til eall the police myself if you won’t,” said
Dan.

*“Not you.”

“Why not ?”

“Because I'll bet they know your record too well,
and don’t forget it sonny,” replied the landlord,
with a sneer, adding: “Butelear outof here. This
is my busy time, and Tean’t have no slouches of
boys raising Cuin in my place.”

Dan did not move.

Gradually Joe had been edging his way to the
front,and addressing the angry proprietor, he

said:

“What the boy says is true. That fellow is a
fraud.”

“Oh, you’re another of them. I'll bounce the pair
of you,” eried thelandlord, taking hiold of both Dan
and Joe, and throwing them into the street, where
they fell on their hands and knees, amid the laugh-
ter of the spectators. ;

In all that crowd there was not one to take their
part.

Every one thought the boys were bad boys' who
had been trying to rob a stranger inthe city; con-
sequently public opinion was against them.

Scareely had they recovered’ themselves than
they were accosted by a policeman who told them
te move on.

“We've been robbed and thrown out of that sa-
loon,” answered Joe
“That's too thin.

robbed of ?”

“Why, he-——” began Joe, pointing to Dan.

“Ah, pshaw! stop your chin music,” interrupted
the policeman, “and skip lively or I'll haye to help

ou.”
ee Phis is the most rascally injustice I ever met
with,” said Dan, ‘and I’ report you at headquar-
ters.”

The officer made a threatening movement with
his club, and knuwing more about city life than
Dan, his friend dragged him away. .

“T won’t go,” replied Dan, struggling. “Let him
take mein. [ean prove whe Lam.”

“No, you can’t. Whoknows you here? He’llonly
hurt you with his locust. _Hurry oe

Reluctantly Dan allowed himself to be persuaded
to quit the spot, and he walked pensively by the
side of his companion.

“This is too bad,” said he.
money.” Ff
“It was ahard crowd. Got your ticket home?”

“That's safe. Itwas in another pocket, but all the
«ash ig clean gone.” 16

“Too bad. It’s rough, bub, to tell you,” said Har-
jem Joe. “But we've got to take the luck as it
comes.” od

All at once the solemn tones of old Trinity start-
led the night air. It was twelve o’clock.

“Thunder!” exclaimed Joe, ‘‘we’re locked out; of
our hotel, and I guess we'll find Judy McDermott
shut up.” f

“Let us go and see anyhow,” said Dan, shivering.

He did not like the idea of walking the streets all
nicht, or sleeping in a doorway.

The night was cold and raw, and the streets felt
damp and slippery. Both wero fatigued with the
events of the day. +

Retracing their steps to the Five Points they
reached the Widow MeDermott’s only to find it

“What did you ever own to be

“I’ve Jost all my

closed.
“All shut_up, tight as wax,’ exelaimed Harlem
doe; “and Vi -bhet that you might hammer away

till daybreak without making Judy hear.”

“What’llwe do?” inquired Dan, yawning wearily.

“Might find aecouple of ash-barrels,” replied Joe.
“T slept bully in an ash-box one night; felt a little
cramped, but didn’t wake tillthey dumped a lot of
stuff on me inthe morning. Or we might go down
on the docks and make out under some freight if
the watchman didn’t setthe dog on us. It’s awful
to have a big dog sicked onto you.”

“So I should think.”

They were noar Uncle Sol Israsl’s store, and the

bath hanging over the door arrested Harlem Joe’s
attention. ; :

| 'That’s a big bath.” he remarked; “and I guess
we could make out to sleep in it, if we could only
get up.’

”*T could climb up the shutters,” said Dan. “Look
at those bolts; they’d help a fellow.” :

“Pry ijom Where you lead IV follow,” replied
J0e.

Dan. was accustomed to climb trees after birds’
nests, and, without saying another word, he was
soon shinning: up the shutters, much to Joe’s ad-
miration, and, having once reached the iron rod by
means of which the ‘bath was suspended, he found
no difficulty in getting inside.

“All right,” he cried out.

“I’m a comin’,” replied Harlem Joe; “and we'll
be allhunk in:Jess timethan it takes a flash of
lightning to cut down a hickory tree.”

He followed Dan, and the pair found room enough
in the bath to-lie at full length and make themselves
comfortable, :

Certainly they had ROR over them but the
broad canopy of heaven, but being side by side, and
having them clothes on, they kept warm enough,
and, rapidly falling: asleep, slumbered till morn-
ing. :

It was) about.seven o’clock when they awoke at
thé sound of voices beneath them. Uncle Sol was
bargaining with a customer. ,

“Til give you five, tollars, my goot, friendsh, for
this valeesh,”’ he said, “There ish nothing in it of
value but the closesh and trapsh of a poy. Vat yer
shay, now?”

“Give it here,” was the reply.

“You take the monish?”

“Ves ~~

Dan heard. the, bargain concluded, andi felt sure
that the man who was selling was mo other than
Peter Mahoney. ;

The valise was nodoubt Dan’s. own, and Peter,
feeling uneasy at. having it. in his possession, was
anxious to get rid of it. s ,

Where should he beso likely to go to get rid of it
as to the man who the preceding night had bought
the cap-and boot. : :

To becertain.he raised himselfup gently and
lookethover the side.

He was right. Ste .

Peter. Mahoney was standing immediately under
the bath, and holding out his hand for the purchase
money.

“Joe,” exclaimed Dan, “‘that’s Peter. What will
we do?”

“Oop him,” answered Joe,

He, too, pressed to the side of the bath to! take a
peep. : :

The pressure oh the somewhat rusty and time-
Ee irae heok which supported the bath eaused it

o break.

Theré was 4 rush through the air, a heavy thump,

and a bang.
They had broken down, but, fortunately for them,
the bath struek the head of Mahoney, leveling him
with the ground, and the boys rolled’ out on the
sidewalk, with only a few bruises.

Peter, however, was. badly hurt to all. appear-
ances, for, he lay motionless.on the ground, breath-
ing heavily,

The Jew was thunder-stricken.

. What could the meaning be? Was the housecom-
ing down, or ‘had there been an explosion some-
where in the neighborhood? :

"Holy Mosesh |” he cried. ‘‘Is thish the end of
the vorid? ) What are ve coming ‘to? Say you, Joe,
where did you spring from so mighty quick?”

“That's the secret,” replied Joe: “We're sky-
high detectives, we,are, and we want, you to. help us
secure this man. Gimme a hand to hold him?’

“What's he done?”

“Stole that valise you’ve gotin your hand, and
we can prove it.”

“Who from?” »

“Dan Deering here,” | ;

“Vell,d keeps the, bag till you prove it,” replied
Unele Sol, shrugging his shoulders. ae

Dan had knelt down bythe side of the injured
man. who was badly stunned fromthe blow on the
head, and did not want any one to prevent his run-
ning away.

searched his pockets.
He found the gold which hehad lost the night
before, but could discover no trace of the letters.
What had become of them?
That was the mystery.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

> O-4--- ,

tle Queen.

A Li

By Mey Agnes Fleming.

 

:

[CA Little Queen? was commenced in No. 44 Back Nos. cari
be obtained from any News Agent.]

CHAPTER XXXTIL
A FOREGONE CONCLUSION,

*-And so Longworth and Reine are married!’ ex-
claims the ‘gentle reader,” looking up. . “Well, we
knew they would be: And now tell us what the
bride wore, and how she looked, and who were the
bride-maids, and how they looked, and who ‘stood
up’ with the bridegroom, and where they went, and
all about it.”

There is not much to tell... It was the simplest of
weddings, and the bride wore white, of course, but
only white Swiss, and the traditional orange wreath
and vail, and looked lovely. And the only bride-maid
was Miss Hariott, and she looked stately and. hand-
some, and very happy. As to the bridegroom—but
who ever is interested in the bridegroom. Mr. 0’Sul-
livan was not best man—who was, does not matter.
Why he was not signifies nothing either. There was
the Phenix—it was impossible to be absent so often
from the post of duty.

There was a wedding breakfast, and then they
went to Quebec, a city where there are always
zephyrs and breezes (for it was warm weather in
New York that August) and where the thermometer
never mounts up among the nineties, and saw the
Thousand Isles and Montmorenci, and the Plains of
Abraham, and Wolfe’s grave, and were happy!

Miss Hariott went home, and said nothing about
it, and perhaps that was the most sonderful thing
of all. So quietly was it kept, that in all Baymonth
only two people knew it, and one of these two was
Miles O'Sullivan, from whom wild horses, or yet
thumbscrews could not have torn it,

And it fell out, some’ six weeks later;~that Miss
Harioltt gave a party. Andaseieect company of the
cream of the cream of Baymouth were bidden and
came, for this lady, despite her sesthetic tendencies,
was a very queen of hostesses. And the little rooms
were well fitled, and Miss Marie Landelle, in trailing
black silk and jet ornaments looked fair as a star,
and white asa lily, and cold as Anderson’s delusive
Iee Maiden. And Mr. Frank Dexter, newly arrived
from “doing” Europe for the second time, bronzed
and mustached, much improved and quieted by
foreign travel, looking: tall and handsome, and
rather superb, was there, but he held aloof it was
noticed from Miss Landelle the whole evening.

He had outgrown that old folly, Baymouth said;
the disgrace of her sister and cousin—by the Ly,
was he her cousin ?—still clung to her. How singu-
larly that sister had vanished! said more than one
Baymouthian—for all the word as if the earth had
opened and swallowed her, Still, Mr. Miles O’Sulli-
van might have told tales, no doubt, if he chose;
and as for Mr. Longworth—and here ladies turned,
with a smile, to their hostess—-where was Mr. Long-
worth, and now that he was a millionaire, was he
ever coming to Baymouth again?

Miss Hariott, in sweeping silks that became her
well, scarlet flowers in her profuse dark hair, smiled
as she listened, a quizzical and rather puzzling
smile. Oh, yes, Mr. Longworth was coming back—
she expected him here to-night, in fact. Did not she
know? Why, he arrived this evening from Canada
by train. It was partly to welcome him, and that
he might be greeted by many familiar faces, she had
invited her friends on this oceasion,

A slight sensation went through the rooms at this
unexpected ‘announcement, and a taint, amused
smile passed over the face of Marie Landelle as she
listened.

Among the changes these months had wrought,
one of the most notable, was that which had made
this young lady an inmate of Miss Harioit’s home,
and a pensioner of Miss Hariott’s bounty. For, one
July night, some three weeks before, that great and
gracious lady, Mrs, Windsor, had elosed her eyes
upon all things earthly, and had gone forth from the
Stone House in gloomy and gorgeous state, to return
no more. Two days later and the reading of the
will electrified all Baymouth. The Stone House,
liberally endowed, was le!t to the town, to be used
asa Home for Aged Women; there was a legacy to
each of her servants, and the remainder, an enor-
mous fortune, to a distant cousin, 2 merchant of
Boston, Neither of her granddanghters was 80
much as named in it, nor her friend, Mr, Longworth,
and it bore date but a fortnight before her death.

it was a willthat perhaps might have been con-
tested by the lawful heiresses, but one of these
young persons had disappeared from mortal Ken, and
the other felt little ‘disposition to dispute it. She
had battled in vain, her efférts to secure this fortune
had brought nothing but misery upon them all—it
was retribution, and she bowed her head and ac-
cepted her fate. Miss Hariott oftered her a home,
and to Miss Hariott she went, Other homes might
have been hers, were proffered indeed—but tha‘
was impossible, It was about this time Mr, Frank

 

} cisms !

Without waiting for thetadvent of the police, Dan!

Dexter returned from foreign parts, his tour of

many years resolving ilself into. precisely five
months. That hearing of Durand’s death from
Longworth’s Jetters, he should go straight to Bay-
mouth, that being in Baymouth he should, of course,
visit Miss Hariolt, goes without saying. fe met
Marie seldom, alone never, but still they did meet,
and if the young ady was silent, and shrinking, and
a little cold, all that was natural, and—Durand was
dead, and he could wait.

Mrs. Laura, Sheldon, large, mibk-white, blonde-
haired, sweetly smiling, came late—after Miss Hari-
ott’s announcement—andso did. not hear it. Next
to Mile. Landelle, she was the prettiest womanthere,
She could wear green, and wore itpale-green silk,
with quantities of tulley pink. roses, and green
grasses in hair. and corsage. She was latey but not
the latest; half an hour after, there was a momentary
stir and thrill that ran like electricity from room to
room, and turning reund to discover the cause, she
found herself face te face with Laurence Longworth.
For six months she had not seen him, | With a iittle
exclamation, so Bind ihat it was not to be repressed,
she turned to him, her eyes kindling, her cheeks
glowing, and held out her hand.

“Oh, Laurence! what a surprise this .is! How
glad I am to see you again! I began to think you
haddeserted us forever.” ;

“Would you have minded much? he gaid, laugh-
ing: ‘‘So Miss Harieti has not told you either.”

“Told me what?” be

He laughed again, Hw well he was looking, Mrs.
Sheldon thought—how handsome, how happy!

“Tt was nottiee in other days we met;
Hath time snd absence taught thee te forget?”

‘Reine Landelle,” shé mighthave quoted. Once
again, she thought, asshe had 80 offen thought be-
fore, how had itever been possible for herto refuse
this man? Andin addition to all, he was now a
millionaire, thoughse-@e this charming young widow
justice, she wouk? have gone with him‘te beggary.

“Miss Hariott®s taste for private theatrieals will
never be outgrewn.. I fanéied every one knew all
about me and my affairs... 1 find. I come among-you,
and startle you as mueh as if [ were the marble
guest. Ah! here is our fair hostess now—that mod-
era marvel—a Woman who ¢an keep a secret!”

‘And who never indulges in-second-hand eyni-
Mrs, Sheldon. -you are.old acquaintances, I
krnow—butin her tew character, let me present you
to Mrs.‘Laurefce Longworth.”

It is the coup ce theatre--whether prepared-with
maliéommengensbe shall say? And ‘turning round
Lanra Sheldon seesa vision! A bride-like ‘figure in
trained white silk, and delicate haces,a white’ rese
just over the left ear, and two dark upraised eyes

she has never thought to see again, ‘It is Reine
Landelie. Nay, Reine Longworth surely, ‘for Long:

worth stands beside her, and looks at her as men

the delight of thebtife.
wife!

Something of what she feels perhaps is in her
face, and those sweet dark eyes read it. All sinall
animosities “fall to the ground, and Reine holds out
her hand.

“T shall be very glad if my husband’s cousin will
count me ameng her friends,” she says, simply. And
then she drops Miss Hariott’s arm, and takes her
husband’s, and turns away.

One Jast glimpse. :

An interior. Gus jets, softly shaded, pouring their
subdued light ever Miss Hariott’s parior. Mr, Long-
worth lying haxaseusiy back in his traditional chair,
Miss Hariott near him, Miss Hariott talks, Mr. Long-
worth listens. Mrg Longworth ‘sits at the piano,
and plays an exou®ite song, withont words, faint
and sweet as the silvery ripple of a summer brook,
Her husband’s eyes'are upon her, while his ears are
at the disposal of hig hostess.

“So the héir cametyesterday. continues Miss Ha-
riott, ‘‘and solid the Windsor Mills: He got a fabu-
lous price for them. And that is the end of the
Windsors,” r :

“Take her for alin all,* qnotes Longworth, “we
shall not look upon her like again.”

“And onee you weré the heir, Larry! Only think
of the moral cunrage You-had—to resign a fortune
of five or six millions! :

“And all for me,” 5
and standing behiggy
it was A) fordtegirs

£5.

Itis Laurence Longworth’s

 
       
    
 
    
  
 
     
  
   

his wife, suddenly, rising,
s chair—-** Laurent, mon ami,
snot? I wonder if I was
Arn i »
%

- Ad i think you were
v ae The market value ofa
Li shouid shy her price was

with 4ayes-of lazy

  

Worthy, Acay
Littig Queen iy
ADS VR TIMES, yoy,

A Phase —yncastl
that gne is pieying 4
walt

geome Loe

“Sing tor.* me
have not hear@yo
hight for song and m

x *

os for Mis: if riott, who fedls
svosebersy.” Madame Long-

“ s . .
" she Seys, Caressingly; “T

} * * % *

A garden scene. ‘A night likea grest crystal, full
of limpid moonlight, sett winds, and sparkling stars.
A lovely lady sits ia 4s garden-chair, wrapped in a
fieecy white shawl, ber perfect face upturned to the
radiant night sky. NPar her stands a gentleman,
and to him\not a prs all those golden clusters is

   
 

halfso fair as that ujraised face. They are silent,
listening to the music from within.

“Cnever kirews Sater was beautiful until last
night,” says Frank Dexte¥; ‘though I admired her
always. Happiness is an excellent cosmetic. As
she once said herself|of love, ‘it isthe very best thing
in allthe world.’ Yau remember that day, Marie ?”
‘*T remember,” sh¢ answers, softly.
And then ‘there is silence again. Nothing has
been said, nothing has been done, but they are
friends, these two; and though there is much to be
mourned for in the past, one does not mourn for-
ever, and one cen ope so much for a beautiful
widow of twenty-one.} So, Frank Dexter, standing
here to-night beside Marie Durand, does not despair,
though his day may be’yet afar off. Listening to the
song that comes through the open window, he
knows that all life holds for him in present or future
is in the words Hester Hariott sings:
“And I know that at last my m ge

Has passed through the Golden Gate,

So my heart is no longer restless,
And lam eontent to wait.”
"THE BND.
————_—___>-6 << —__—__—

ELO W

She Loved Him

By Mrs. Lowise ©, Reynolds,

{How She Loved Him’ was commenced tn Na 60. Back Nos.
oan be obtuined of any News Agent.}

PART THIRD.

CHAPTER VIIL.
IN THE VILLA AT KENSINGTON,

It was Sophia's intention to spond the firat night
of her return to London at some convenient hotel,
from thence to write a letter to Mra, Martindale ac-
quainting her of her arrival, and in the course of
the following day proceed, as quietly as possible, to
her step-mother’s house near Lancaster Gate.

What her life would bo to her there she could
never dare to think of. 5

To find herself settled down again at home with
Georgie and Florence, after all the pleasures and
enjoyments of the Continent, was something beyond
Sophia Deveril’s powers of realization.

ne thing, indeed, was_new and bsautiful to her
existence now, and sufficient to charm away tho
long, monotonous hours she so dreaded at home,
and that was the thought of Emile De Fontaine's

ove.

She knew that he would be with her in London,
where she could see him as often as she chose, for
her time had always been her own to do asshe
pleased with, and no one had ever questioned her
as to how it had been spent. She remembered
Mrs. Martindale’s last words to her when she had
bade her good-by—that the home was always hers
whenever she liked to make it 50.

She had. never_been able to forget them. try_all
ane might—nor Florence’s blessing, nor Georgie’s

ears.

8he would like to have ect them out of her mem-
ory if shie could, for they brought so vividly back to
her all her past unkindness and the cruel blow her
hand had dealt to Florence. And she was going
back tothem! |

Oh, but for Emile’s sake she could now dare to
faeces them—she could now snffer thesame roof to
eee? head which also sheltered Captain Mar-

indale’s.

Sheshuddered at the thought and tried to banish
it, consoling herself with the récollection of De
Fontaine’s love, and how soon she might probably
be his wite.

“Sophia De Fontaine;” she smiled as she re-
peated the names to herself—how well they saunded
—so different to that English one her gentle step-
mother had made so hateful. .

If she had only known the truth—if she had dared
} to dream that it was not his name at all—that it was
j one he had adopted to conceal a heinous crime!

Bat we will not longer dwell upon this ill-fated

 

 

only look upon what is the apple of their eye, and}

love of Sophia Deveril’s; but having seen her safely
started on her way to England, we will return to
the lonely occupants of Myrtle Villa, Kensington,
Estelle, and her friend, Mrs. Seymour, of whom we
have heard but little sinee the death of Cecile,

It was toward the decline of a charming sum-
mer afternoon that we behold the fair and un-
‘happy wife of Emile De Fontaine seated at an open
window, looking upon the lawn at the back of the
house. She was sorrowfully bending over a scrap
of embroidery, upon which her fingers had long
been at work.

Estelle was much alone now, Mrs. Seymour, who
had been ailing ever since little Cecile’s demise, was
almost completely confined to her room, while Es-
telle and the faithful Susett, divided between them
the requisite attentions toward her,

Estelle almost began to fear that she might, before
long, be left alone altogether, and wondered what
her life would be to her then.

A mist of tears came between her and her wish,
as there she sat looking back upon the past, and
fearing and planing for the future.

She has grown paler and somewhat thinner since
last we beheld her, and her great beravement a few
weeks back is still weighing heavily upon her,
Everything around her reminds her-of the dead
Cecile—the garden on which her window opened,
and. where her gentle footsteps were wont to fimor
The tiny summer house, suitable only for a fairy’s
house, which Andre, out of love for the little one,
had erected, and the monthly rose tree she had
planted near it, and which was now bearing its first
young blossoms, the Virginia creeper her hands
had helped to train along the garden wall, and the
plaintive coo of the doves, which pained Estelle
more than all as she sat and listened, seeming as it
did to. her but their sorrowful ery for the gentle
hand that could never caress them again.

And eyerywhere within the house there were sad
memorials of the past. Her bright little room with
the white curtained bed. in which Estelle has only
dared to enter once, and then it wasto fall upon her
knees and pray for strength to bear the heavy blew,

Oh, how everything there reminded her of the
little one’s presence, scattered as it. was with trink-
ets that only children delight in,—simple. valueless
things in themselves, and yet how precious, how
beautiful to the eyes of Estelle.

How sacred the room was to all,—how soft and
subdued the footsteps of those who entered there,—
how quiet and hushed the yoice that breathed her
name within its silent walls!

_The doves flew up and perched upon the window
sill; waiting for her to open ‘it and scatter their
‘morning meal; and Estelle shuddered ‘each time
she heard the rustle of their wines, and turned her
head away to seek for something to distract her
thoughts.

And now, we behold her seated in the window,
pale and sad in her somber dress of crape, the cool
breeze fanning herncheeks, and bringing with it the
ordorous breath of flowers. ;

Presently she hears a sound withott like the
rumbling of carriage wheels stopping at the front
door which looks upon the dusty road.

Her nieedls stops, she bends her head to listen,
anda faint streak of color rises in her cheeks.

“Wan it he Florence 2.’ she said to herself. “I had
been Wishing and hoping she would come to-day.”

At this moment Andre entered, announcing Miss
Lyndon; and Estelle, rising joyfully, threw aside
her work, and hastened to greet her.

“A thousand times welcome, dear Florence!” she
exclaimed, with a smile. “I -haye been so lonely
and dull poe all day, and I wanted you so much to
come and cheer me up.”

Florence smiled in return, and drawing near the
window, looked out upon the lawn.

“The earriage is waiting to take you back with
me,’ she answered, after a minute’s pause, “Anntie
said I was not on any consideration to take a re-
fusal, You know, darling,” she added, approach-
ing her, with a half-subdued voice, “by and by Li-
onel will be home, and then I know you will not like
to come.”’

“And that is the principal reason whyI have kept
away so long asit is, Floy,” she said, sadly. “Partly
ri +a and partly on account. of our dear little

eeile.’

The tears Came up into her eyes again, and Flor-
ence pressed her hand in silent sympathy.

“You see itis because you are always alone that
vou think so much about her, and—and—all in con-
nection. with the past,” she said, somewhat timidly.
“A change now and ther would do -you so much
good, dear Estee.” _

“But madame is so ill, you know. I hardly like
to leave her,” replied Estelle, doubtfully. ‘

“And yetif she knew how beneficial a change
would prove to you, Lam sure she is by far too un-
selfish to wish you to remain, There is Susette,”
Florence continued to urge, “to whom she: seems
oer much attached, thereforeshe will not be utter-
ly deprived of eompanionship.”

“And vet it sedms almost selfish of me te wish to
go,” rejoined Estelle, thoughtfully.

~Selfigh! Oh, how can you say so, when your life

Susette had withdrawn: to offer her misttess as-
sistance as usual, so that they Were enabjedto talk
without the least reserve. ‘ ; i

In a very short space of-time Extele reappeared:
beautifully and becomingly dressed: in mouing.
and, having taken an affectionats leave obMrs.
Seymour, she descended the stairs,and a ;
ied Florence into thé carriage.

If she had only known whom she Was to seethat
night, ifshe had only known what Was to happen
before she returned home,.would she haye beehso
anxious to accept Florence’s invitation?

CHAPTER IX,
FACE TO FACE.

The drive from Kensington to Bayswater began
pleasantly enough for both, owing to the lively
eonversation Which Florenee’ tontrived "te intro-
duce at the outset, so as to divert her friend’s
thoughts as much as possible away trom her eares
at_home.

We have already saidit was’ toward the'ddclihe
of a delightful summer. day, and the eool, deli-
cious air which fanned them as they drove along
in Mrs. Martindale’s open carriage had already
brought a faint streak of color to Estelle’s pallid
cheeks, and revived herspirit, which had too long
been drooping.

Florence observed the:thange with feelings of
gladness; her own heartseemed to botilled with an
almost incomprehensible joy, and altogether she
was in anticipation of a most delightful evening.

It was 50 long sinee Hstelle had visited thém, for
apart from having her tim’ mie engrossed with
piuigesionn duties,the grief which Cecile’s death
1ad caused her, was atleast. sufficient to. excuse
her from entering into society, atleast for. a time.

But she alrhost seemed to hay6 forgotten lier grief
as seated by Florence’s sid6 th@¢artiags dashed
along. Many persons turned to gaze Nfter then as
they passed, having. recognized ae of tho fair
occupants of that vehicle the Chafniing Parisian
songstress who had won the hearts of all who had
heard her voice.

But although Estelle worshiped her artpand was
grateful for the gift which was ders, she Wass never

 

excited, %

It.was a pleasure to her togive pleasure to others,
and a still greater one wasit to find that her blight-
ed life, of no value to herself,avas at leastef value
and importance to others.

Florence smiled as she observed how eager the
public were to catch a glimpse of her companion,
and looking into the beautitul face was u]most sur-
prised to see how utterly indifferent she wppeared.

‘I could almost envy, you your life, Estelle,” 6he
said after a moment’s silence. “Not that I should ever
wish to court admiration, forI hate the hollow flat-
tery of the world,” she added,with something lilce
bitterness in hertono; ‘‘butitsurely must be pleas-
ant to feel that thesound of your-voice sets the
pulses of. its. hearers throbbing.”

You need not envy me my life, dear Florence,”
Estelle interrupted her. “Nevertheless, as you say.
itisagreat thing.to-feel that -one’s»existeneo is of
value in some wily or another. But thén we must
bear in mind that we each hav¥é some peculiar part
to perform in this world, dear Florence, whether
for good or ill. And,oh! thank Heaven, that I have
had my art to make life sweet to me’

She spoke so strangely that Florence gazed up
again into her companion’s face, a pea pain
had convulsed every feature, and. Florence won-
pared what could be the sécret that rankled in her
reart.

_Estelle had spoken too often ina similar way for
Florence not to‘undérstand that-some great grief
had at. some? éarly period of her life thrown an
overwhelming and awful blackness upon it.

What it was, however, Florence had. never dared
to dream of; but, though she. had often wondered
how iteould be that one so lowe'x, beautiful, and.
gifted as Estelle had never married (as she sup-
posed), her heart could never devise the real cause
of her suffering.

“Oh! it-is sueh a grand and wonderful talent,
Estelle; you ought to be so proud of it!” said Flor-
ence, at length.

Estelle smiled, and looked half amused.

“I am very, very thankful for it, dear,” she an-
swered, softly. “But when you reflect that it has
grown up with me as I have grown, yor cannot be
surprised if at times Lalmost fail to notiee it. One
thing at least I cannot forget—thatit enables mé to
earn my own livelihood, and always will, whether
Tam left alone in the world or not.” q

“You will never be alono in the world while I am
left in it,’ Florence exclaimed, lovingly, pressing
her friend’s hand,

Estelle smiled and shook her head, :

“Ah, Florence, dear, I know you mean it inyour
heart,’ she said, almost sadly... “But your life and
mine nrust eyer be strangely divided. You will ere

 

 

long, doubtless, be a wifc,” she added. faltering
and drooping her beaatiful eyes, “And yon wi

be so -happy, so blest iu the love of your husband,
that you will almost forget the sorrows 6f your

 

 

 

 

is bn6 jong act of devotion and self-denia: to hear
ard every.one ? “exclaimed Florence, warmly. “Yoy
eveht fot to be 66 much alone. It is wrongto your
self as well as to Mrs. Seymour, who has your wel-
fare so.much at heart, and whose spirits depend 50
much pon your own cheerfulness.” :
Estelle smiled.

_ “You plead your cause nobly, Florence,” she said,
in those soft, sweet accents peculiar to herself. “As
regards my life, it is nothing; sometimes I am al-
most wicked enough to wish it were ended, and
that I were lying in the grass by the side of Cecile.

ft

 

aL don’t look so shocked. You have not suffered
as I have suffered. But, there! if I am togo with
you, I must net be unhappy. Come up stairs to
madame’s room, dear; she will beso pleased to see
you.”

She threw off her fit of gloom, and led the way up
stairs with a cheerfulness in her manner that Flor-
ence rejoiced to behold.

Estelle conducted her up stairs, to_a large and
luxuriously furnished apartment, where Susette
was Seated at needlework, and Mrs, Seymour was
half dozing upon her pillows, She looked up
languidly as Estelle drew_near, and half raised her
head as her eyes fell on Florence; but it drooped
immediately afterward with an air of pain and
weakness. j
“Lam glad youare come, dear Florence,” she said,
at length. ‘Estelle is miserable down stairs by her-
self, [ know. She has never recovered her darling’s
death, and I am sure I never’ have,” she added,
raising her black bordered handkerchief to her
eyes. “She was so like my Gertrude—so like my
dead Gertrude!’

This, the poor old lady bad always declared from
the very first, and although Estelle had failed to see
the resemblance, she nevertheless allowed Mrs,
Seymour to cherish the fond delusion uneontra-
dicted. The bereaved mother always found a re-
semblanee to her daughter in everyone. As she had
told Lionel years ago, that she saw it in Florence,
so she had managed to trace a likeness in the child-
like features of Cecile,

Estelle now hastened to change the topic of con-
versation.

“Florence has kindly asked mo to return home
with her for a few hours, if yeuthink you can spare
me, dear madame,” she said, bending over Mrs.
Seymour's pillow. and gently taking one of her
wasted hands.

“Nothing would please me more than for you to
go where I know you will be happy, dear Estelle,”
murmured the matron, earnestly. “I shall be well
eared for, in the handsof Susette,and Iam feeling
wonderfully well this evening, although [am weak,
and still in a little pain.”

“Tam delighted to hear you are better, Mrs. Sey-
mour,” Florence said, pleasantly.

“Tam better, love,” she whispered, “ and as well
as I shall ever bein this worldagain. Oh, Florence,
[ often think how lonely dear, dear Estelle will be

 

when Iam gone!”

Florence trembled aj the words, and looked fear-
raby. round, wonderirfg whether Estelle had heard
them. :

She was busy giving some instructions to Susetie,
and the whispered words had reached the ear of
Florence only. BY :

“You must not talk ofleaving her just yet, dearMrs,
Seymour, she said, consolingly. “But inanyeyent,
rest assured that there is a certain quarter where
Estelle wonld find loving and sincere iriends, who
would do everything in their power to insure her
happiness.”

“A thousand thanks, dear Florence, for that as-
surance. In the enjoyment of such friendship I
know she would be happy, for she is devotedly at-
tach to you all,” continued the invalid, affection-
tionately pressing Florence’s hand; “and I sup-
pose you are daily expecting your cousin home,”
she added, abruptly turning the conversation as
Estelle approached the bedside. ‘Ah! if] mistake
not, there willbe a grand wedding before the year’s
out. LIonly hope I shall be well enough to see it
when it does take place, You will make sucha
prey bride, and he is so handsome, s0 noble look-
ing ”

Florence colored, and the tears came up into her
eyes; the thought of that hateful letter still envel-
oped in mystery flashed like lightning through her

rain.

They all believed in him except herself, after all,
she thought.and she was angry with herself for
doubting him, 4

She had never thoroughly brought herself to be-
lieve in Captain Martindale’s views. upon the sub-
jeet, and her gentle heart was still the least bit re-
bellious against him. : :

How hard it is to any of usin anxiety or trouble
to be convinced that all will ere long be made
straight and clear; our hearts are ever prone to
picture the diamal side of fate.

“Florence will_not believe anything of the kind
madame,” said Estelle, smiling. “Yet it is what I
told her months ago.”

“Will not believe sheisto be Lionel Deveril’s
wife?” rapeated the old lady. petulantly. “Then
who else will be, I should like to know?”

Estelle left the room to change her dress, and in

 

friend Esielle,” ;

 

accomMpan- ”

 

 

 

vain of the admiration and enthusiasm WN |

 

 

 

Florence burst ino tears.
“Oh! how can
cried, putting her hands to her face,

“It is not selfishness, darling—it is nature,” re-
plied her companion, soothingly.

“And why should you not bea happy wife one of
these days?” asked Florence, with a sudden flash of
light illuminating her countenance. ‘‘You never
think of yourself in this way, Estelle.”

An expression of internal. suffering again crossed
the lovely features of her friend; asudden sick-
ness came over her,and she put her hand to her
heart as if to ease its pain. :

Had she never thought of it—never thought of
being a happy wife? Yes; foramoment there had
been a. gleam of such happiness, and then gloom
and darkness for eight long weary years.

“It could never, never be realized in my case, dear
Florence.” she said, gently; “therefore it would be
little use my wishing.”

“Never, Estelle?” repeated Florence.

“No, never. Do notask me whyI speak 60 6m-
phatically. A'day may come when I maytell you
all—the awful secret of my life; and—~ But/here
we are at our destination, therefore: forget what I
have told you, dear, and let us endeavor to be very,
very happy.” . F
Florence smiled, and asigh escaped her lips as
she alighted from the carriage, while she could not
sy wondering whether this secret had anything
to do in connection with Emile de Fontaine.

She thought—nay, it was almost a dread—weighed
painfully upon her mind for a few moments; and
despite her endeavors. she could not dispel it, until
she was seated with Estelle in the drawing-room
when the latter at once entered into a lively conver-
sation with Captain and Mrs. Martindale.
Florences’ thoughts were thus directed into a
pleasanter and a happier channel; and she once
again felt intensely glad atthe changé which she
observed to have already been wrought in her be-
loved friend. :

_The dinner hour passed away with merry chat-
ting and laughing; Mrs, Martindale in exuberant
spirits in anticipation of Lionels return, Georgia,
too, was one of the gayest of the party, she bein
almost as fond of Estelle: as Florence herself. and
ae no less delighted at haying her again among
em,

Georgie Deveril was no longer the plain-looking
young Jady to whom we first introduced the reader,
although at the same time her features could boast
of very little pretention to actual beauty. Her ex-
pression, however, was now soreplete with amia-
bility and good humor, an observer would forget
the face was anything but a faultless one when
meeting Georgie’s smile. '
The figure was as perfect in formas it wasgrace-
ful in its carriage; and standing as we see her now,
under the glare of the drawing-room chandelier,
Georgie looked pretty enough to captivate any sus-
ceptible heart, juiss

he had become a favorite with every one, and
more especially with Estelle, who had learnt to love
Mrs. Martindale’s merry-hcearted step-daughter,
Andon her part, Georgie was so fasin with
Estelle that she had taken her into her strict confl-
dence and whispered)in her ears all her reeret
trouble with regard to her sister Sophia.

In spite of all Georgie had been deeply attached
to the elder Mrs. Deveril, she had admired her, and
looked to her for advice in all things, littie signify-
ing to her (in those days) whether it was good or

ia.

She had hoped, even against her own connections,
that Sophia would not prolong her stay upon the
Continent for any considerable length of time:
Every day er heart had seeretly yearned for a let-
ter announcing her return, but although she heard
from her at long intervals. yet not a single word
did she write upon the subject which was, so troub-
ling Georgie.

She wanted herto come back; she had fold Es-
telle, almost with tears,to make amends to Mrs.
Martindale for all the past unkindness of her child-
hood, nay, even of her womanhood, and she could
not bear to think of their being perhaps, eternally
separated without one word of sorrow or regret
having issued from her sister’s lips, :

It was the bitter drop in Georgie’s cup of happi-
ness, which she began to fear might never be re-
moved; but if she had aay known how soon the
end was coming—how soon her doubts and fears
would be put to rest!

The evening passed pleasantly to all. Estelle was
prevailed upon to sing some of their favorite songs,
which she did in a voice soft and. tremulous with
emotion. She begged, however, to be allowed to
leave early, promising to visit them again at an
early date; and in compliance with her request,
Mrs. Martindale ordered the carriage to take her
home at ten o’clock, precisely. She was the least
thing anxious eoncerning Mrs, Seymour, she said,
it being the first time for so long a period that she
had left her alone; so that her friends would not on
any account press her to remain.

Florence pocempeied her_ when, she went .up
stairs to dress, while Captain Martindale, with his

 

 

the meanwhile Florence remained in conversation
with Mrs, Seymour,

wife and Georgie, descended to the dining-room.

The carriage had not yet been announced, and it

 

you think me so sélfish?’ she

a, a

 

 

 

atentttty

se

nv

 

 

 

— eS
 

a

 

fara

 

|
.

4
amano

Vege

——

 

 

picking.wp the music that Florence had let fall,
Pray. beg your auntand -uncie to excuse me, and

 

Pee

 

 

 

 

- Bt him witli a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

still wanted five minntes to the hour, when Estelle
again Gesee..: i tue saurs, Florence having left her
to feteh her music trom the drawing-room,

She came down the broadimarble staircase, beau-
tiful in her.somber dress of crape, and as she
reachad the last flight she paused somewhat irreso-
lately, for she heard a lateh-key grate in the lock

f the door.

g Tt was too late to go back, but 5 -9 stood, wonder-
ethic it could be, with her hands clasped in front
©o

 

 

er, With @ mystic and indistinct presentiment
t something was about tohappen. |

The door opened, a figure stepped in from the
darkness—a figure she knew, and recognized with
& stified ery of pain and surprise.

He was on the threshold, looking into her face,
the glare of the hall lamp falling full upon his own,
which was white and agitated.

It was Lionel Deveril who had thus abruptly en-
tered, thinking only of the joyful surprise he was
about togive his mother, little suspecting whose
face would be the first to welcome him home. |

Tt was only fora moment that they thus remained

azing upon each other, astrange and_paintful con-

ict surging upin either heart, for Mrs. Martin-
dale’s yoice, as she emerged from the dining-room,
same almost immediately to their relief.

“‘My deur Estelle,” she began, on obserying her

vests-but hereyes turned upon another face and

orm, the sightof which madeher grow giddy, and
she reeled forward. into#er son’s open arms.

“Mother!” hemurmu as he kissed her brow.

“Lionel! Lionel!  Isi ream ?’’ she burst forth,
tremblingly.

The name fell on other ears, .and Georgie and
Captain Martindale rushed forward to welcome him,
Meanwhile Estelle sped lightly back to the dra-v-
ing-room, where Florence, unconscious of all, was
rolling up her music.

~ oe
I — _ oe

 

“Florence, it’s: Lionel! he’s come,” she ejacu-
iated. clutching the arm of the girl,who was terror-
stricken at beholding Estelle’s white face.

Florence dropped the portfolio and sank upon a
chair at Kstelle’s ‘side. F536

“Hark! there is the carriage!” cried the latter;

letme hasten away unseen. Oh, I dare not meet
-xeptowhi@htt» Ll dare not méet him to-night!”
Toregce, with astrange calmness rose and took
Estolles hand. Rie
“Let us go down together,” sha said, in tones that
were hoarse and unnatural “You shall not meet
im, if I can possibly prevent it.”

even to the lips, and sad as the face of a grieving
ehild. “LI eannot realize it, Clinton. I thought—l
believed that we should never partagain. I cannot
understand it.”

She walked on, and he followed, drawn to her by
the foree of his passionate love, even though his
wife jay sick unto death, and he had never seen his
littlieson; he followed her, andthey walked through
the quiet, secluded path that led to the shrubbery.

Had he nothing to say to her? she wondered, ina
passion of anguish and grief. Now, at ‘this last
moment, would he notelasp her to his heart, kiss
her face, tell her over and over again how dearly he
loved her, pray her to be his wife? This is what
she expected; that is surely what he would do. He
could not leave her in that cruel uncertainty, at a
loss to tell whether he eared for her, and whether
he wanted to marry her or not; whether he wished
her to settle their wedding day or not, Surely, now,
in this last hour, he would break the mysterious
silence that surrounded him. Slowly and sadly
Lady May walked by his side, her wonder amount-
ing to keenest pain; but never a word said he.

“Clinton,” she said, gravely, “I haye often ;won-
dered as to whether I did right or wrong on the
evening when [ paid that visit to you. Sometimes I
think that if I had not sought you, you would never
have sought me—am [ right ?”

She was indeed so near the truth as to startle

 

m,

“T never dared to hope that you could forgive
me,” hesaid. “Lam notsure I should have had the
courage to speak to you had we met accidentally.”

“But now,” she said—“‘now that you see I um sor-
ry—I did not mean it—I repented of it ?”

“Now,” he replied, sadly,. “I should never be
afraid of you again. Ishall write to you, May and
you—well, perhaps, you will be busy ?” :

“Neyer too busy to write to you,” she said, with
some little indignation. :

“My address will bo uncertain for some time; I
shall be traveling about. If you write to me, send
your letters,” addressed to me, fo my solicitors,
Messrs. Cooper & Co.; they will forward them with
their own.” ‘

She was more indignant than she cared to own.

“Is this going to be another mysterious absence?”
she asked.

He looked confused,

“No, not mysterious, certainly not; but, May, I
must go; my train starts atone; I have barely tiine
to eateh it.” ‘ ;

“You will take some lunech—some refreshment be-
fore you go, surely, Clinton ?”

 

Florence had a hard battle to. fight, with her own
heart: butshe was determined to go through the
ordeal bravely, and she hadso schooled herself to
it within the last few weeks, thatshe felt she could

o it. ‘ 7
Estelle bade them all a general ““good-night,” like
one in adream; she searcely knew, and never re-
membered. afterward, what she said or did.. The
endeavonr to escape, however, had proved useless,
for she felt her hand rest for 2 moment in Lionel’s,
the touch of his fingers vibrating through. her
frame, and she was conscious of nothing more un-
til she found herself alone in the carriage, being
borne away from himn she loved—oh, how dearly,
far,more dearly than she had ever yet imagined.
: ’ {TO BE CONTINUED.} :

nn ee
THE CHILDREN COMING UP. °

BY MRS.

 

M. A. KIDDER,

We sow with a hand unsparing,
From dawn till the set of sun;
We reap.of the yellow harvest }
From light *till the day is done.
We share in the wide world’s dangers—
We drink of the bitter cup—
And all for the untried future
Ot the children coming up!

While we sow, and reap, and gather,
While we garner, and count, and hoard,
For the tender olive branches
That cluster about our board.
While we treasure the gold and silver,
And lay the bank-notes by,
Let us not forget the treasure
To be Jaid up in thé’ skf. '

Not cant with its pious seeming,
Ts the lesson to be taught—

Not prayer on the open house-top,
In the cloak that hideth naught,

But to sow in the ready tarrows
When the little heart is young,

The seeds of an honest purpose

- And the germs of ¢ truthful tongue.

fen the precious Inds and lassee,
| Whene’er other homes they fill,
. i neveT forget these precept __
: et them worship srherethey will
And the faith that brings salvation,
Will be easier farforhoid,
Por him on this firra foundation,
Truth’: mountain grand and bold!

wee
’

 

 

BETWEEN
TWO LOVES.

By BERTHA M, CLAY,

Author of “A BITTER ATONEMENT;
“PHROWN ON THE WORLD.” PUB.
LISHED IN BOOK FORM, BY GQ. W.
CARLETON & CO. PRICE, 81.50.

{‘‘Between Two Loves” was commenced in No. 6. Back Nos.

ean be obtuined of any News Agent in the United States}

 

GHAPTER XXXTY.
A MAN OF MYSTERY.

Sir Clinton read that letter with the airof aman
suddenly recalled from another world—he was
dazed and bewildered..Daisy lying sick unto death,
and he thefather of alittle son!

Mr. Fildes watched him narrowly, saw his face
changetrom its expression of eareless indifference
to one of wonder and tear, saw the lips grow white,
and the strong limbs tremble,

“T hope, Sir Clinton,” he said, “that you have no
bad news, Mr. Gooper thoughtit must be some-
thing very urgent.”

“I hopeit may not-turn outiso. bad;* he replied
hardly knowing whathe said. “Iam much obliged
to you for your kindness in coming so quickly.”

“Mr. Cooper wished:me to.askif. you would. ba in
London tis week, Sir Clinton; he has some papers
for youtosign.” »

*“No; I start for France to-day. It.may be some
time before Lam in England again—business must
wait untilmyreturn. I will write a letter of in-
struction to Mr.Gooper before [ go.”

Some refreshment was brought for the clerk, and
Sir Clinton took his leave of,him. He went haek to
the garden, and it seemed to him ‘that he must be
walking in his sleep, must be dreaming. ‘There
Was the smooth, green lawn/;tle broad terrace with
its cool shade of trees; there -was Lady Lewis and
Lady May. He had not been away from them very
long, yet aworld. seamed to lie between then; he
returned witly the Knowledge that Duisy was in
danger, and he had adittleson,

Hp looked in’ the *tateof lis fatr yoting love. I
think, if.he had been alone with her that moment,
femee d have told her all; but Lady Lewis was
with hev,and the chance was lost. Lady Maylooked

“You have not been long away,” she said. “Here
— hook—I have kept the place, you see,”
etook it from ther, hands gravely, and laid it
down upon the grass; then she noticed that he had
the dazed, dreamy air of a man whose faculties are
stunned. He was gazing at her, uncértain what to

say.

"“Glinton,” she asked, gently, “have yon had any
unexpected news-any unpleasantness ?””

“Lbave had very unexpected news,” he replied,
“and, May, lam _yery sorry, but Iam compelled to
leave Treviyn. ‘Iam most grievously disappointed,
af Bt Hote died t her lovel

ow the lig ied from her lovely face, leavin
ow Ss care behind; her eyes drooped eadiy

r is,
“Going!” she said, and he never forgot the pathos
ier voiee--"‘going! You cannot mean it, Clinton.
But <e you will return—you will not be long
away

“iam afraid not,” he replied, “not just yet, I fear.
Ido not know quite when I shall be in England
again. :

“In En land! Are you going abroad, Clinton?”

Yes,” he replied, briefly; “Iam going to France.”

She looked at him, her eyes swimming in tears,
her lips quivering. They had walked some little
distances from where Lady Lewis was sitting, .. °

“Olinton,”’ said Lady May, “do not be so reserved
with me; you punish me too cruelly: you are too
hard; you keep me outside your life. Tell me
where you are going, and why.’ :

I am going,”*he replied, ‘‘on some business that
I left when. I was in France before—business that I
—I naye neglected, and I haye been suddenly sum-
moperinieg pee 2
3 that a she said; “I was afraid—I. do not
know of what. When are you going?”
Immediately ; that is if. you will permit one of
our grooms to drive me to the station. I will re-
urn as:soon.asI can.”

“No,” he replied, “I canot; I want nothing; Iean
only think of one thing now, and that is I have to
say good-by to you.”

“But why need you? You eould surely go to
Franee and return soon; you need not beso long
away—and you-oh, Clinton, you. make me say
what I should not say; but this vague restraint
and coldness that seem to have arisen between us
ever sinee our reconciliation is all of-your doing.
None of it is mine. You are changed, eold, re-
served; you keep me outside your own life, out-
side your heart; you punish me too cruelly for the
wrong I did—you might forgive me now.” ‘

“Tt forgave yoa when you asked me,” he said,
hoarsely; “do not tempt me too far!”

She stopped him with a wondering ery.
urea you! Oh, Clinton, how strangely you

“I do,” he said, hurriedly, taking her hand.
“You must forgive me, and notthink of it when I
am gone. Lam anxious and half-scared by this sud-
den news.” ;

“Is it loss of money, Clinton ?” she asked, “be-
cause, if it be so, you can have all mine.”

“No, it is not loss of money; but another. time I
shall be able to teH you more. I must go.”

She stood quite silent and motionless,

“Are you really going to leave me inthis fashion?”
she asked, something of the old, proud spirit flash-
ing through the whiteness of her face. She looked
steadily at him. ‘Do you really remember,” she
asked, with sudden passion; “do you remember
that you are Clinton Adair and Iam May Trevlyn ?
What has come over you? What has changed you,
Clinton? If you have eeased to loye me, for Hea-
yen’s sake teli meso! Even your hate would be
better than this unnatural calm, this dreadful in-
difference.” :

“There is neither carelessness nor indifference in
my heart, May, believe me; there 1s nothing save
eruel love and cruel pain.”

 

 

“Whyshould you call love cruel?’ she asked,
bitterly.
thancruel”

“May.” he cried, “do not say a word of reproach
to me! Oh, my love! my love! believe me, I care
for youasIeare for no other woman under the
broad blue heavens!—believe me thatIiove you
with my whole heart! I[eould not, if I would, love
you more!” é

She relented at his words, for she defeeted.the
true ring of pain in them; she held out ker Hand
with a smile, . : fe)

“Then, if itbeso, Clinton, why are you reg)
with me?”

“Tam a wratched, despairins, storm- 56-1

   
  

he-eried ; _* syen when be vitered those so ms
Reane lis sanity rather than # ruth fad
elity. . :

“T'must go, May,” he repeated, in thesame Guiled
voice of pain; “every moment is precious now!”

For half a minute she was temipted to ask himsf
he wished to renew the old tie between them—if He
wishell to- make her his'wife; but prudence re-
strained her; she had humbled herself enough to

im. !

“You will say good-by to Miss Lockwood in the
house?” she said.

“Yes, and you will, make my farewell to
friends—i have not.time. Wesheall have to
post'to the station.” . :

’'There is a great difference between this parting
and the last,” she said.

“Ah! Heaven! how great,” he muttered between
hig teeth.’ He took her hand in his; he held itfor
one minute, looking at it, “Good-by,” he said, ina
voice broken by pain. “I would to Heaven this
sweet, white hand could stab me where I stand!”

“TI do not,” she replied.

His eyes were fixed with a burning, passionate
gaze on her face—a long, lingering look that she

our
rive

 

 

 

 

 

“Tt cannot realize it,” she said. She was standi
against the great rose-bushes, her eyes, ohinite
through her tears, to his. her face blanched |

never forgot.
“Good-by,”’ he said; “

this world can give you.

“And that will be none without you,” said Lady

Muy.

She did nottry to check her tears or her sighs.
He bent down and touched her face with his lips,
and the ery that eame from them was like the cry
of a lost soul.

“Oh, my love—my fair, young love, good-by,” he
said, and the next moment he had left her.

She never remembered how the time passed un-
til, with a dull clang that fell startlingly on the quiet
air, she heard the elock strike one. He had started
by that time, and she should perhaps never see him
again.

It was Lady Lewis who aroused her; she came
Walking slowly down the quiet path.

“Are you here, Lady May ?” she asked. “I could
not find you. Where is that man of mystery ?”

“Whomdo you mean?” asked Lady May.

Her friend laughed.

“T mean Sir Clinton Adair. Heis aman of mys-
tery; he is likethe maninthe iron mask—no ono
Gan make him out.”

i ann has he done ?” she asked, trying. to speak
ightly.

“He has
any of us.’

“He left his adieux to me,” she said.
meé to make them for him,” :

“Then he did not quite forget us,” said Lady
Léwis. “it seems strange that he should be sum-
moned in such haste. Where has he gone ?”

“He has important business in France,” she re-

wish you all the happiness

gone away, and gone without a word to

“He begged

lied. ;

“In Pranece ?” laughed Lady Lewis. “It is not
often that an English baronet has such particular
business in France.”

Miss Lockwood was bitterly annoyed.

“TL cannot understand him, May. There are no
seerets between us, and you say that he has never
even mentioned the word marriage to you ?”

ehas never even ever so distantly alluded to
said
A

xt,” Lady May.

‘And yet, do you know,” continued Miss Lock-
wood, “that I should be tempted to say he loves you
better than ever. He gives me that impression.
Well, men are diffienlt to deal with, even the best
of them, and Sir Clinton is one of the best,”

. Phat was Lady May’s only consolation in all the
bitterness of her disappointment, in all her sorrow
at parting with him; in all her long:hours of bit-
ter, dull pain. it was her consolation to remember
that she had fancied he loved her better:-than ever.

That was the secret of his strange eonduct. She
should know some day, and she said to herself, no
matter what it was, no matter whether he eyer re-
turned to claim her love or not, she would be true
to her love—true to him until her life’s end,

CHAPTER XXXyY.
COMPLETELY BEWILDERED.

Before evening that same day, Sir Clinton was on
his way to France; he was fortunate enough to be
intime for the Dover boat,and the journey was
made. as speedily as possible. As he left England
and drew near France, the beautiful image of his
fair, young love, seemed to fade befere that of

aisy.

“You held a daisy in your hand, and you flung it
away.’ Great Heaven! how fatally true the words
had, been. Poor, pretty, simple Daisy, who had
loved him so well that she was ready to die for him.
How had he repaid her sweet, simple love? how
hadhecherished and guarded the innocent fleld-
flower that he had gathered for himself? How
dearty she loved him! Heremembered the expres-
sion of her face as. she looked at him that last day,
and he had hardly thought of her since.

He had written to her at times, short letters with-
out one word of the love that she craved for; he
had tokd her to send her letters addressed to Mr.

“Itis men who are cruel; they are worse’

4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

he told her in all good faith, and never asked why
it was to be so. She had written to him; his con-
science reproached him most bitterly as he reamem-
bered long letters, unread and unanswered. It was
six montussinieée he iefther. Ab, Well, there was no
excuse, for him,no. palliation'ef his offense, ‘He
never delayed one hour until he reached Seville.
He remembered their visit to the pretty cemetery
and Daisy’s sad words. He prayedto Heaven they
might not be fulfilled, that she migkt not be laid to
sleep near the grave of the man who had died for
love. His, poor, pretty, young wife, whose only
fault was that‘she had loved him too well. The very
wheels of the carriage, as they turned go swiftly,
seemed to repéat the refrain of the quaint, simple

song he had heard jer singing:
“Oh, mother, mother, make my bed
And spread the milk-white sheets.”
He remembered.the plaintive voice, the teuder face,
and he cursed himself for his own hardness in leay-
ing her alone so long. As the hours wore onsand
he drew.-near,.to hisjourney’s end, his fears in-
creased; he dare. not, raise his face to the distant
heayens and pray, He did not disguise his own
sin.

“Lam not worthy,’ hesaid to himself; “no bless-
ing from Heaven can rest upon me I would “fain
pray for her if I dared.”

Would he find her living or dead? Daisy in dsn-
ger of death |—vbe sweet, simple, child-like facetiin
and eoldin the still, white majesty ofdeath! Itwas
terrible. Le had but htetiethought forthe unknown
ehild, his son and heir,

“She never told me,” ‘he thought to himself, with
a deep sigh—'she. never told. me;.Lsuppose she
thought Pshould not care, And this little child,
whom I hive never seen, is the heizgithe Adairs of

Exstwold.” :

He thought»but little of the»¢hild—much of its
mother. When in the far distaneé he saw the pur-
ple, vine-€lad hills, the rieh, green éliyes, and the
tall trees, he knew thathée was near his home, and
he sigh d deeply. He was afraid, Would she be
living or dead? If she were deads *e shouid feel
; kg her murderer; if living; he sheuld- be thank-

ull ;

Once more hestood in the pretty, artistic room
where so many dreary months had heen spent, al-
most a stranger in his own home. Te him, as he
sa neem Pe a ieee anil pe. ee nyt
great his fear had been when his temp ips al-
most refused to sperk the words: = ’

“How is Mrs. Clifton ?” hye eer 24

The nurse was one of those qulek, ready-witted
women who scem to have every sent abl

~This is madame’s husband,” shet ght te her-
self; ‘and by his agitation he loyés lier.” ——

**How is madame ?” he asked. a,

The woman’s quick, sym pathedtetiea MAMeMcnt
a rapid change,

Madame is very ill, but nodonubtshe will be bet-
ter now that monsieur has argiyed.. She is always
talking of monsieur.”

“And—the little one ?” y

Another change of the expressive faa.

“Phanks to Heaven! the litle one is well, charm-

ing—everything that could be desiwge 4 beuutifal
He said to

boy. Will monsieur see madam# new?

He followed her like one in a dream.
himselfthat it was Daisy whom he Was going to see
Roe wife, Daisy, and his little son, fhe heir of Hast-
wold. ; : ;

The room was mene, hushed} the whole house
was strangely silent. 6 looked ingayerly. There
lay'the sweet face on the white pillows--gyreet as
ever, but wasted and wan, without the lovely bloom
and the lovely dimples—a white Daisy, indeedpand
as he looked. nt her, the same werds teturned to
him—)You-held a daisy in your hand, and ‘ung it
away. ,

“You will be very quiet, very tianguil, mon jieur,’”
said the sweet-voiced nurse; “aly Aiton would
kill madame,’’

Yes, he would be quiet. Poor, pretty Daisy! Had
he been kind to her after all? 6 i@d married her
to save her life, but she was dying m6™ He looked
at her pnle, sweet, face, So) pale Wh Merent dark
circles round the.eyes; then he Sa y4 suddenly,
for the sweet eyes were open and lookaag earnestly
into his, ae

* Caro,” whispered a faint yoice,
come at last ?”

Andthen, although he loved.
who: lay there was his unley
Adair knelt by the bedside and

“Oaro,” whispered the sweet yoiee, “Ihave a. vittle
son—did you know?” He Kissed}the white band
that trembled as she tried to raise if, “Sach a pretty
little son. I did not tell you; 2 tittgeht you would
not be pleased.”

He controled his emotion, an@gficd to speak
ealmly. i

“Why did you think that, Daisge? asked,

“Mrs..De Grey told me {at diy
children when they loved pric ¥

aes imagine then, Vaisy,

uw its she re ety

 

“Cs. ro, are you

   

 

y. May. and she
ie, Sir Clinton
Cin silence.

   
  
   
      
     
    
 
      
  
    
  

  
  
      
     
 
  
 

  

  
 

 

  

whén they have a Tittle son—do thi
sweet, sad eyes were lookime som
“FT prayed to die that you might be free; for it was
a mistake, Caro, that marriage of Olfirs—such ater-
rible mistake... I saw how. hushatds joved their
wives when I knew Mr. and Mrs. Dé Grey.:’

She lay still and silent. for somefew minutes, then
she looked at him gently. J

“You have been away some time, Caro—a long
time. I began to thing you would Beyer return.”

Heayen help him! no lash of & Whip eould have
been harder to bear than those few®ords ~so lone
uway.. And what bad he done ha Fad ke sp nt
his time while his wife was fading) droop ng, and
dying here?

“Oaro, would you not like to S66 ait Little son?”

It struck him as being so strange that she did not
say “ourson.” Indeed, itwas @ petularity of hers
that she never alluded to the child exeept as her
own. Thenurse came, carrying the tittle one in
her arms, At first it seemed to Sip@linton that he
saw a bundle of white lawn and liges them alight,
sudden and beautiful, came over Daley's face as she
held out onefeeble arm. With h@r ‘wa hand she
uneovered the little face—a sweet, rier, iunhecent,
holy face, charming as a, pictured angel.

“Thisis my boy, Ciro,” she said, “I have given
him no name; I would not until you came.” y

Her wistful young face and wistfal eyes were
turned toward him; they seemed to say, “Do praise
my buby.” All a mother’s gentle pride and gentle
pleading were in those sweet, sad eyes. Sir Clinton
eould not resistthem. The chiliwas really beau-
tiful, with pink, rounded limbs, and a lovely little’
dimpled face, with something like golden down in
the place of hair. He praised him until the young
mother’s eyes filled with tears,and she began to
sob; that was exactly opposite to the effect he had
intended to produce, and it bewilderé® him.

“Why, Daisy, why do you ery?” he asked, with all
& man’s ignorance of a woman’s feelings.

“IT was soafraid that you would not like him,”
sobbed Daisy.

“Not like him! Why, how could you think so? A
lovely, innogent little child like that, who could
nee liking him?”

“Burt,” said Daisy, still unconvinced, “they say
that his faces is just hike mine.”

- * So itis,” he replied; “I can see the resemblance
myself,” ‘

“And yet you like him?” said Daisy, in a kind of
rapture; “how good of you, Caro! J wish that he
had besn the very imageof you.”

Then came the nurse. Madamehad talked quite
long enough. She must rest now.

“One word more,” said Daisy. Shetried to raise
her hand and draw her husband’s face down to
hers. but she could not.

“T want to whisper to you, Caro,” she said.

He bent down until his handsome face téuched
ae but he did not kiss her-—even the nurse noted

int:

Shall you go away again?” she asked, faintly.
No,” he answered, and when he spoke he meant
what he said.

Then the doctor came, who saluted Monsieur Clif-
ton, gravely, wondering what kind of man this was
who could go and leaye so fair a wife for long
months together. He did not give a very favorable
report of Daisy.

“She was very weak,” he said, “nervous and low-
spirited,”*

He did not spare monsieur, but told him how he
used to come day after day, and find her always the
same, weeping as though her heart would break.

I used to tell her that she would dissolve altozeth-
er, that sho was a fountain of tears; it-<rievyed me
much to see her; the color is.all washed. from her
face, the light from her eyes by tears. If madame
should be left alone again I should recommend a
famale companion, *

“I willsee to it,’ said sir. Clinton, hastily, “Ma-
dame will not be left alone just yetat least, Do you
think she will recover?”

“Leannot give a decision yet. I should say my-
self, from what I have seen of madame, that a little
gleam of happiness will do more for -her than all
my medicine.”

Sir Clinton thought to himself that she should
have it, at least if it were in his power to give it,

Then the dector went away.

The nurse gent a message to the effect thatthe
house was to be kept very silent, for after long wak-
ing hours madame had fallen into a deep, peaceful
slumber.

Once more $ir Clinton Adair.stood out under the
stars.alone, No longera half-cloudy English sky
over his head, but one so bright, so far away. gleam-
ing with the pale, pure radiance of a thousand
stars. He was completely bewildered.

He walked up and down between the rows of
orange trees,

“If I were to tell my story to any one,” he said,

   
    
   
 

 

 

6
“se

 

Olifton, care of Messrs. Cooper. She accepted what

“they would think me the greatest villain under the

ishe would be content.

mater
E wikhad to die,” ~ 4 ‘
“Ght Daisy. Daisy; you torts f
fo, Tdo notm 15 do ti “>
suppose. other n, hap s
| bands love.them, pray to hive

 

ee os Be S-
iH ee

sun, yet I have not done wrong purposely; circum-
stances have been aguinst me, have drawn me into
a labyrinth...No one hates sin—hates evil doing
more than. I; yet who has done worse? I did not
intend it. I liave gone wrong because I had not the
ecoutrage-to look into: my Jove’s face and tell her I
had married another. had not the courage to'un-
twine her Sweet white arms from my neck and tell
her they had no place there, Ihave suffered since
for my cowardice.” ;

What was’he to do? To writeto Lady May and
confess the whole truth to her?—tell her he had a
wife and child living herein France, throw himself
on her merey and pity, always so great, then stay
away from England until it was forgotten?

That would have been the right, honest, honor-
able, loyal course, and for some time he felt that he
would pursue it; then the temptation of his idola-
trous love came over him again, and he persuaded
himself that to receive such news so abruptly would
kill Lady May. :

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.
A WIFE’S SUSPICIONS.

It was a long, lingering illness; more than once
the ‘doetor gave upall hopes of Daisy, believing
that it was quite impossible for her to recover. But
she rallied after all; @ faint, lovely color crept back
into her beautiful face; her lips took a faint tinge
of red; her eyes lost their dim, dreamy look—she
was to recover,

Sir Clinton was unfeignedly'thankful for it.. If
she had died, he would have thought himself her
murderer; as it was, he was grateful to Heaven for
its mercy. Her recovery was long and tedious: he
could not leave her even for one day. - If he spent
many hours away from her, on his return hé6 was
sure to find her worse. her face grown paler, and
her trembling lips would say:

“Where have you been, Caro?”

He would tell her how he had spent his time, and
she would reply: 0 Se

“Tam always so afraid of losing you again; but
you will not go, will you?”

He assured her no, he would’not leave her; then

He wrote to Lady May, telling her his business in
France would. detain hiny, and left it a matter of
great uncertainty when he should return. “He
wrote it, knowing full well that he was guilty of
fraud and deceit, yet not knowing howto extricate
himself from the difficulty.’ After that hé had but
little time for writing, It was not Duaisy herself
who made suelr continual demands on him, but her
nurse, who, choosing to believe: Monsieur a model
husband, was always! asking hini to do something
for madame. ‘*Would hetalk to madame alittle, she
félt melancholy and dull? Would he read to her?
Would: he give madame his arm while she walked
across the room??? : Then he found himself search-
ing the country side for dainties. ‘Daisy wanted
the sunniest fruits, the sweetest wines, the ireshest
flowers; and through it all he was patient and kind,
attentive; as though he loved her.

He could not help admiring her, when Daisy held
her lovely little son in her white arms; she looked
like a picture; there was a ‘serene beauty in her
face, new to it; the beauty of the young mother,
happy in the possession of her first child: she was
so sweet, so gentle, so patient, that he grew inter-
ested in watching her. Hesaw that she never ‘vol-
untarily made any demand on his services. Very
often when thre nurse asked some little help from
him, she would declineand say, “pray don’ttrouble
Mr. Clifton so much.”

It was embarrassing to hear the nurse reply,
smiling as she spoke:

“It is no trouble to him, madame, but a pleasure.”

She herself never made any demand upon him;
sheseemed toshrink from giving himtrouble. She’
would often decline his assistance, or if she ac-
ed it, apologize forthe pain she wus giving
Yim,

“Why do you seem to think that everything I do
for you is afatigue to me, Daisy?” he asked her
once,

“Ts it not, Caro?”

“No, far from it; I like to wait upon you and this
young heir of ours,” p 3 i ‘

The words slipped from him unthinkingly; Daisy
looked up withasmile, _

“What is he the heir of ?* she asked; ‘‘this home
among the olives and vines, it is not ours, Caro, to
give him.” ‘

Then he asked himself, should he tell Daisy his
real name and position ?—tell her that the little
babe: lying in her arms was heir of Eastwold?—a
deseendant of the Adairs ? that. he would hold his
own with the noblest men in a nobleland? Should
he tell this to his gentle, lovely young wife ?

“No,” he decided; he would speak of his affairs
to no one until they had been told frankly to Lady
May; his marriage should bé kept secret until she
knew it. When Daisy was quite well—well enough
for him to Jeave her, hea would return te England,
and then, dfiven to bay, he would confess all to

y. May... He knew now how she would re-
esive his: confession: he coul:l pee the’shadow fall
over her beautiful face: she would say good-by to
him for ever; they could not be friends; he loved
her, she loved him, teo well for mere friendship;
h@ry sould Wye ns ctcansovs; but TORE as sne did
a. he Knew she would be true and faithful to

™m™.,

“L have wrecked her life as well as my own.” he
said aloud, forgetting Daisy’s quiet presence,

She looked up at him, :

“Whose life have you wrecked, Caro ?
spenking of me?” she replied quietly.

“No,” was:the hurried reply. “I was merely
thinking aloud,’

“But have you wreeked any one’s life?’ sheasked,
with straightforward, earnest gravity.

“No, no; it is but a figure of speech—a quotation,
Daisy, it means nothing,”

“It has a terrible sound, even if it be without mean-

Are you

 

They sat in silenee some little time, then ehe
looked up at him with the eagerness of a child,

“Caro,” she said, “should you be angry with me if
T asked a favor from you?”.

eh Ishould be pleased te grantit,” he replied,
quickly.

“f want my mother to come! and live with me,”
she said. “You see itis very dull for me, Nurse is
going;:f cannot talk to Bedina, and Thave no one
to speak to.”

“Why, Daisy, you have me—I am there,” he said,
Oe perce

“But you do not care for my conversation. Ahf
Caro, Caro, do you think that I am blind, dear?
How often, even when I am speaking to you, a dis-
tant, far“off look comes in your eyes? “And then I
know that your thoughts are far fr6m me. You.
smile and answer at random; you do not hear one-
half that I say’

“At least I hear every word, now; Daiisy.”

“Yes, because you are paying attention. I should
like my mother, to liye here... I want.some one to
whom [ could talk about my baby!”

“Can you not talk to me about hint?”

No,” replied “Daisy, frankly. “'L:eahnot because
T have a certain:feeling that you :are (nét really in-
terested, thatyyou only pretendto listen. Then your
twisting round my baby seems to me the very pivot
on which the whole worlditurns: And do you know
What you have done—notenee but. mamy times?”

on o% I must plead guilty. Havel been very rx

iss?’ :

“You will be the best judge of that. You hay
spoken of baby’as though he were a little girl—you
have said ‘her’ instead: of ‘him, ‘shé@’ instead o
‘he’ Nowe-think,” said Daisy, withsudden gravi-
ty and sudden dignity, ““I think that, there must be
aac te very wrong when a man forgets his own
child. ; os

Sir Clinton laughed—he could not. help it: but his
eyes drooped before the tender, earnest gaze of tha’
young mother; so brave in defense Of her child.

“Then,” resumed Daisy, ier fair head bending

other mothers, very proudofmy daxrling, and I
want some one to help me admire him,
little, dimpled hand, and there is no one for me to
show it to; when he looks fair and ‘platid, I eannot
oy, to any one: ‘Come. and. see,.how, lovely baby
ooks.’’

“The factis,” said Sir Clinton, “you“want a baby
worshiper, Daisy.”

“IT want a baby lovery’ she ‘replied j"and her hus-
band laughed good-humoredly.

“You shall have your wish,and. desire, Daisy; af-
ter all itis a very natural one. You shall have your
mother to live with you. Will it maké you hap-
pier ?’

“Yes, much happier,” she replied.

“Then itshall be done. I would do anything in
the world to make you happy; Daisy.”

“That I believe,” she'said.

“Why do youspeak in: that peculiar tone then 2?”
heasked. -

“Because.”? shéreplied, “you are good to me; yon
will give me kindness, you will give me happiness,
because you cannot give me love.”

And the words were so perfectly true that they
struck him with wonder. She was growing quite
clever, this simple field-daisy of his.

- [TO BE CONTINUED.)
e

 

Our Knowledge Box.

Sa We take pleasure in responding to every cee addres-
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These questions are almost uniformly important ones, costing,
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reason all persons in future wishing their Tae replied to by
mail, will please inclose 59 cents to detray the expenses
necessarily incurred.

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.

Phil. MacM.—To get thin, see No. 11 of volume 82...... Jimmy
Jonson, St. Louis, Mo., and P. E, T.—For a recipe TO CURL THE
HalIr, see No, 12 of volume 32.,..Am Old Subseriber.—The NEw
York WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will supply you with a work
ok pigeors—one containing ail the infermation you desire......
Ohio.—Write direct te the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency.,,. Bald. Head.—To PROMOTE THE GROWTH OF THE HAIR.
—This recipe has been highly recommended: Best cologne wa-
ter, two ounces; tincture of cantharides, two drams; oil of rose-
mary and oi} of lavender, each ten drops.,....4 Readey.—MAR-
‘BLED CAKE.—Light part: Of white sugar use one and one half
cupfuls; butter, one-half cupful; sweet milk, one-half cupful;
soda, one-half teaspoonful; eream of tartar, one teaspoonful;
adding the avhites of four eggs beaten up very, light. Dark part:
Ofbrown sugar take two cuptuls; butter, one-half cupful; seur
milk, one-half cuptul; soda, one-half teaspoontul; cream of tar-
tar, one teaspoonful. Sitt two and one-haif cupfu joffloup, and
add the yolks of four eggs, together with cloves, c Inanron, and
nutmeg, of each one teaspoontul. When ready, di pa teaspoon
tul of the dark, and then one of the light, and s\) Om until Me
an is full....Silverbrand.—Pure fresh milk will, | Ip you te
at. Teke aglass-et every Diest, aad one at nig - afore
going to bed.. Constant Reader.—THE CHEMICA). BAROMETER
OR STORM-GLASS.—Take a long narrow bettie, such as an old-
tashioned cologne bottle, and put into it two and a hali drams
of camphor and eleven drams of spirit of wine. Whe the cam-
phor is dissalved, whieh it will readily¢do by slight agitatic
‘add the following mixture: Take water, nine drams; uitrate «
potassa (saitpeter), thirty-eight grains, and muriate of ammo-
nia (sal ammonac), thirty-eight grains. Dissolve thesésaits in
the water betore mixing with the camphorated spirit; then
shake the whote wel together. Cork the bottle well, and wax
the top, but afterward make a very small aperture in the cork
with a red-hot needle, The bottle may then be hung upor placed
in any stationary position, By observing the different appear-
ances which the materials assume as the weather changes, if be-
comes an excellent dy Sy aden G8 of a coming storm or a sunny
BhyW Sos William.—To be had of any respectable druggist......
Roy Lockwood.—t. IMITATION RASPBERRY STRUP.—Dissolve fifty
ounds of white sugar in ten gallons of water; then make an in-
usion ot halfa pound of powdered orris root in halfa gallon of
boiling water, in acovered vessel, stirring occasionally as it cools,
and when cold, filter through flannel; stir this infusion into the
sirup: then stirin half a pound of tartaric acid previously dis-
solved in one quart of water. Color the mixture with a quarter
to half a gallon of cherry juice, using more or less, as required to
produce the desired color. This produces a fine imitation of
raspberry sirup at a comparatively trifling cost. 2. GINGER

   

 

 

 

 

ing. You have not wrecked my life, Caro; you
meant to make me happy when you married me.”

“And have I not.sueeceeded?” he asked, gently. |
“Are you not happy, Daisy ?”

“Tn one way,” she replied. “My little boy makes
you happy; but you do not love me, Caro, and [
have found it out.”

“Why should you say that I do notlove you— |}
have 1 over shown you anything except kindness,

iusy ¢

“No; but kindness is not love. Ihave read of love
that had little kindness in it; I have known kind- |
hess that had no love. I am kind to Bedina, be- |
cause she is a faithful servant; you are kind to
me,

He looked at her wonderingly. Surely a new life
was coming to his simple, fleld Daisy. Here were
sentiments and ideas with which he had not even
imxgined her to be aequainted,

“Daisy,” he said, curiously, ‘tell me how did you
first ofall come to think that I did not love you?”

She looked at him wistfully, as though wondering
whether he would contradict it; then she said:

“Thave watched other people. At first—that is,

when we were first married—I thought you loved } ?

a and I believed that you had married me for
over

“And afterward?” he said,
paused,

“Afterward I read a great deal about love; and I
found that yours for me was not like anything that
was in books. In books all true love is eareful and
continuous. Then we met the De Greys. Now Mr.
De Grey loves his wife very much indeed: I watched
him and I watched, you-—I compared the two; there
was a terrible difference.”

He looked up in an amuséd sort of way,as though
she were speaking of some third person in whom
he was but slightly interested.

“What was the differenee?” he asked.

“Tt showed. itself in a thousand different ways,”
she replied, her pale, sweet face flushing and her
lips trembling: “he used to kiss her when he went
out and when he came in.”

He eould not resist a smile at this naive remark,

*“Have I never kissed you, Daisy ?” he asked.

“Not that I reamember—yes, I think you did when
you were going away; but it was just such a kiss as
you would give baby here, not such asa husband
gives tothe wife he loves.”

“But, Daisy, who has taught you all this?” he
asked.

“Love is a
had no other.
Her face was patient, so resigned, her voice so

sad, that he could not smile again.

“You bring a terrible array of evidence against
me, Daisy,” he said—‘terrible!”

“The worst part about it is its perfect truth,’ she
replied; “if Thad imagined or exaggerated it would
be quite different. You know, Caro,” she continued.
“T have been so many long months alone [ have
had time to think over all these things. Two ques-
tions have especially puzzled me.”

“What are they ?” he asked, quickly,

“The first is, why you married me?” the second
is, whether you have ever cared for any one else ?”

“And what conelusion has my pretty little wife
arrived at?” he asked.

“Noné at all, Caro. If you did not love me, why
did you marry me? [ had no money, no influence,
nothing that gentlemen like you value.” ;

“You will not denythat you had oneea very pretty
face, Daisy 2?” hesaid, lightly.

She looked pitifully at him, §

“You have seen prettier,” she said. “You called
me a field-daisy once; you have seen far more bril-
liant flowers. It could not have been for my
beauty.”

“Men generally marry for one of those things,”
he said, “either bor beauty, for love, or for money.”

“Tt was not for either of the three that you mar-
ried me,” said Daisy, gently. “What could have
tempted you, I wonder? You would marry me.
remember my surprise and wonder quite as vividly
as [1emember my delight,”

“You were delighted then, Daisy.”

“Yes. certainly I was; but it is useless.” ;

“T will tell you what is even. more useless. Daisy,
when people are married—speculating asto what
Uh married for,”

“But you do not love
that makes me wonder,”

finding that she

 

quick teacher,” she replied; “I have

me, Caro,” she said, “and

| Uniess you wish to dye a number of articles you will find it
| cheaper to have them dyed ay, S

: often suggested for catarrh; if
} injurious......J. Z H—THE TEETH.—We know ot nothing better
| to arrest the decay of teeth than good toilet soap.

CoRDIAL.—Can any ot our correspondents furnish us with a good
recipe ?. ........ Du T. L.—1l. Many cosmetics and perfumeries are
patented articles, and we cannot tell you the ingredients. 2.

  
 

an experienced dyer, 3, Suulf is
it is used in moderation it is not

 

Use it witha
brush every night. Noone should ever go to bed without clean-
ing the teeth....  .Frank K.—We cannot recommend any depil-
atory for removing superfiuous hair—especially from. the face.
The skin may be seriously injured by the operation. Besides,
the hair will grow again, and come ont coarser than before...,..
E. C. L.—The CAMERA OBSCURA used by photographers, consists
of a rectangular box made of two parts, one of which slides into
the other, so that it may be Jengthened or shortened, according
to the distance of the object. The rays of light from the object
pass through a conyex lens, and are reflected from a mirror
placed at an angle of 45 degrees. upon a horizontal plate of
grouad glass where they form an inverted image, which may be
traced witha pencil...... LL, M. C,—TO MAKE VARIOUS CANDIES.
—l. EVERTON TAFFy.—Into a brass kettle put a quarter ofa
pound of. fresh butter; as soon as itis just melted add a pound
of brown sugar; keep these stirred very gently over a clear fire
tilla little of the mixture, dropped into cold water, breaks be-
tween the teeth without sticking tothem. Whenit has boiled to
this point, it must be poured out immediately, or it will burn.
The grated rind of a lemon added when the tafly is half don 1-
proves it; or use a teaspooniul of powdered ginger, mois

  
  
  
 

with a little of the other ingredients, so soon as the sugar is dis-
solved, and then stirred tothe whole. If dropped upon.a but-
tered dish, the taffy can, when cold, be raised trom it easily. 2.
ScoTtcH BUTTER CANDY.—Take one pound of sugar, one pint of
water; dissolve and boil. When done, add one tablespoonful of
butter, and enough Jemon juice and oil of lemon to flayer. 3
MOLASSES PEANUT CANDY.—Boil the molasses over a moderately
hot fire, stirring constantly.. When you think it is done drop a
little on a plate, and if sufficiently boiled it will be hard. Add
any flayoring ingredients you prefer.. Strew your peannts in
buttered tin-pans, and pour out the candy.........6.csececeseeeee
B. C. S.—To make apple butter, see No. 4o0f volume 32.,..dfark
Smith.—To mend rubber shoes, see No. 9 of volume 32..... Bar-
ney.—ZINC STAINS TO REMOVE.—Ordinary stains in sheet zine
may be removed by washing it with a solution of diluted sulpbu-
ric acid and water—one part of acid and three partsof water.
After using this preparation, the acid should be thoroughly
cleaned off with soap and water. To scour or brighten zine, use
giycerine mixed with diluted sulphuric acid. Try, at first, &
small quantity of both, and practice will soon enable you to em-
ploy the proper proportions .... Alice Grey.—ARTIFICIAL CoRAL.
—It ismade as follows: To two drams of vermilion add’ one
ounce of resin, and melt them together. Have ready the branches
or twigs peeled and dried, and paintthem over with this mix-
ture while hot, The twigs being covered, hold them over a gen-
tle fire, turning them round till they are perfectly smooth, White
coral may also be made with white lead, and black with lamp-
black mixed with resin....J/. P. S.—To make chocolate caramels,
see No. 9 of volume 32,

 

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT,

Uno-Guess.—-TOBACCO-SMOKING.—“Uno-Guess,” writes: “I have
been a reader of your valuable and wide-spread paper for over
three years; and noticing how much information you give to
the public, I take this opportunity to lay my case before you.
Iam now nineteen years old, and quite a smoker of cigars,
smoking two or three a day. My trouble is, that I spit a great
deal. This being the case. do you think smoking injures me ?’
We have no doubt of it. Weregard tobacco-smoking as injuri-
ous under any circumstances: but to one who ex orates
much while smoking it is very hurtful, often causing indigestion,
loss of appetite, and emaciation of the body. Tobacco in itseli
causes numerous perrans disorders. You are too young to’
smoke. Give up the practice, é

Inqurer.—We fave no faith in any such nostrums. Abundance
of outdoor exercise, substantial living, regular habits, and syste-
matic reading will do you more good than all the so-called “ brain
food” ever manufactured.

E. O. ar ge pears PERRY. ae No. 4, vol. 32,
icted,—Druggists keep them prepared, ; ai

F seh De, Rattlesnake Ned, Longing for Health.—Bathe night
and morning in cold water, and try the following receipe: Rose
water, six ounces, sirup of orange peel, one ounce,tincture of mu-

‘ riate of iron, one ounce; mix. Dose, one teaspoonful in a wine-

giass of water atter each meal. 4 ‘

Lord Kerston.—Consult a good family physician,

Mr. B.—We cannot aid you. , ?

Wheeve ana Haler.—You need the services of a physician who
can give you his personal attention,

J. V. M.—We think not.

A Subscriver to N. ¥. Weekly.—Write direct to the N. Y.WkBRKLY
Purchasing Agency,

Seven Years’? Reader.—Consult a regular physician. The remea-
dies ordinarily recommended i: such ‘eases we do not think
would be safe for you to use. Diseases like yours generally re-
quire skillful treatment; and you need the advice of one who can
attend you in person.

O,Sullivan.—KNOCK-KNEBS,—A correspondent some time
wrote us that he had strengthened his knees by pursuing the
following plan. We trust it may benefit you: ‘I commenced the

ractice of placing a small book between. my knees, and tying &
pandkerchief tight round my ankles. This I did two or three
times a day. increasing the substance at every fresh trial, until I
eould hoid a brick with ease breadthways. When I first com-
menced this practice, I was as badly knock-kneed as possibie,

 

but now I am as straight as any one. I likewise made it a prac-
| tice of lying en my back in bed, my legs crossed, and my knees
| fixed tightly together. ‘This, I believe, did mea great deal of

good,”

 

 

over the little onedn her arms, "*then (Bam like ali |

i open the }

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK

WEEKLY.

a 2 at Wo C t
(ese a<e

 

THE CHURCH IN THE VALLEY.
BY MRS. saan FISHER,

here's a moss-green church in the valley,
And ivy climbs over the wall;

The tall grass waves o’er the threshold,
When the silent night dews fall.

The oid bell lies there in the turret,
And its musical chiming is still;

Where *twas wont to wake the glad echees
Through valley and towering hill,

Where Is the rosy-cheeked maiden ?
And whece is the wrinkled dame,

Who every Sabbath morning
From over the meadows came f

And where is the gray-haired sexton,
Who stood on the belfry stair,

And rang the old bell in the turret,
While the worshipers gathered there t

Go out in the silent church-yard,
For there they are all laid low,

And there is the white-haired preacher,
Of fifty years ago.

And there is the good old deacon,
Who sat by the chancel rail,

And prayed the Lord to gather the grain,
And burn up the wayward kale.

There are grand churches up in the city,
The city that rose in a day,

And the old stone church in the valley
Is now but a ruin gray.

And the simple village people,
As they pass on the other side,

Wul warn you in awe-struck whisper
To give it a margin wide.

As you stand in the gathering shadows,
And list to each sound that you hear,

There’s something indefinite stealing,
And fancy is morbid with fear.

The wind rustles vague through the ivy
And over the tombstones bare,

And the spirit of buried ages
Seems keeping you company there.

You look for the white-haired preacher,
With text-book in his hand,
And the rush of a night-bird past you
Seems a guest from another land.
The rats in the beliry daze you,
‘And you go with a quickened tread,
And leave the old church in the valley,
Alone with its slumbering dead.

LISETTE’S MISTAKE.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

__ Of course Ishallnot marry him!” said Lisette
Norman, haughtily.

_lisette was just the kind of girl upon whom a
little hauteur sits with not unbecoming grace; tall,
well-developed, and featured like a Greek statue,

Ernestine Grey, blue-eyed and soft-voiced, was
as unlike her as possible, as she sat there, her deli-
cate cheeks flushed, and her restless fingers work-
ing vO Uaee at the fringe of her scarlet cashmere
shawl.

,. But why not, Lisette?” she asked, timidly. “He
is noble, refined, well educated—all that a man
should be in this exaeting age of the world.”

“In short,” laughed Lisette, mockingly, “he is a
perfect gentleman. Why don’t you say say so, Er-
nestine, and done with it. I do believe you’re in
love with Henry March yourself,”

Ernestine’s face grew scarlet as her shawl,

“I respect and admire him. Lizette,” she said; “a
woman may do that with reference to any man.”

&o dolrespect and admire him,” laughed Li-
sette, mockingly.

..then why do you refuse him?”

_“Ernestine,” said Lisette, proudly, “do you think
i would marry a carpenter? Are you mad enough
to imagine for a single instant that I would become
the wife ofa common mechanic? No. indeed! When
J marry, it will be to elevate myself in the social
scale, not to sink down into the plebeian herd.”
“Lisette,” pleaded Ernestine, “I think you are
wrong. itis the man you marry, not his social po-
sition or rank.” :

“They can hardly be dissociated.”

“But, Lisette,” went on Ernestine, “I have not
given credence to the report upto this time,’ but
Reo le aay you are receiving the addresses of Mr,

t; Armand,

“Well. and supposing that Iam; what then?”

“Oh, Lisette, he is abold, bad man.”

“Nonsense, child; he’s no worse than other peo-
ole,” said Lisette. sharply.

“He drinks, and he gambles.
have brothers.” 3

*“Bvery one takes a social glass nowadays, and as
for gambling, why I’ve none of the stiff, starched
New England’s prejudices against an occasional
game of cards, He is a younger son of the St. Ar-
mands of Worcestershire in England—Sir Grey St.
Armand’s younger son, and if his elder brother,
Leon St. Armand should die, Hubert succeeds to
the property, and”—she added, with a conscious
smile,and a slight deepening of the carmine color
on her cheek—"TJ shall be Lady St. Armand, of Ar-
mand’s Hope.” ,

‘Lisette, has it gone so far as that?”

‘As what, you tiresome little lecturer ?”

ae you really engaged to that sinister-faced
man ?

_I really am,” answered Lisette, demurely.
‘Then it is of no use for me to argue further with

“Of no use inthe world. My mind is fully made
up on the subject. and no amount of arguing
will move me, Jhave some ambition in the world.”

Ernestine Grey went home, sad and thoughtful.
True, she had seen but little of Hubert St. Armand,
but that little she disliked with almost instinctive
antipathy, and the idea of her lovely, willful friend
easting in. her lot with his dark fate was repulsive
to her in the highest degree.

he was. sitting alone at her sewing when Harry
March was announced—the young carpenter whom
Lisette Norman regarded with such inveterate
scorn.

He was tall and handsome, with a face whose
frank, pleasant expression seemed in itself a letter
of introduction to the world around him.

Hrnestine’s welcoming smile and blush were an
earnest of her pleasure in seeing him. He sat
down beside her work-table, and began to play care-
lessly with the scissors,

“IT suppose you have been to see your friend, Miss
Norman, to-day ?” he said.

es. ” *

 

 

 

I know it, for I

“You have heard, of course, then, what a fool I’ve
made of myself,” he said, with slightly contracting

rows.

, [have heard that she refused your offer of mar-
riage. Harry,” she answered, with a gentle remon-
strance in her tone,

“I was a fool, Ernestine,” he said, gravely. “I can
s6e it now. myself, as I look back over the course of
events. Lisette is lovely and fascinating, but she
would have madé no fitting wife for me. I think I
must have beeen under a spell for the last few
weeks, and the glamour has at last passed away.
it was a severe lesson, but I am thankful for it,
nevertheless, and I shall profit by it, Ernestine, if
you will allow me.”

“Ui J will allow you, Harry!”

“It is all in your power, Ernestine. Will you ac-
cept a second-hand lover? Lisette has rejected me
—will you do the same ?”

“But, Harry,” began Ernestine, pale and breath-
less, “do you_really love me ?”

“I was fascinated with Lisette Norman, but I love
you, Ernestine. Can you return the feeling, even
in the slightest degree ?”

And then Ernestine Grey burst into tears, and
confessed to Harry March how long and how en-
tirely her heart had been his own.

80 they were married very quietly, and the cozy
little cottage which Harry March himself had built,
received for its mistress a blue-eyed girl, shrinking
and shy as Lisette was self-confident and haughty.

Miss Norman arched her pretty eyebrows when
she heard of this marriage between her former
ioyer and her friend.

___i dare say they'll be happy. however,” she said.

‘Ernestein Grey hasn’t a particle of ambition about
her; but Ishould not think even she would have
stooped to marry a common carpenter.”

Must be dused low!” said Mr. St. Armand, who
was smoking a eigarette, with his heels on Lisette’s
work-table. “It won’t do for us to visit em, when
we're married, Lisette.”

._, Oh, no, of course not!” said Lisette, poutingly.

-But now, Herbert, tell me more about Armand’s
Slope,and its delicious old towers and splendid
turrets, and the lonely ghost in the unused wing of
the house. It’s exactly like a story.”

“Well may it be,” inwardly reflected Mr. Herbert
St. Elmo St. Armand, “considering how much of
the element of fiction it contains.”

_But he was particularly careful to keep this sen-
timent to himself, and went on with a flowery de-
scription of some old chateau he had read of in
some novel, greatly to Lisétte’s delight.

The courtship progressed most favorably, and
one day, about three months subsequently, Mr. St.
Armand came in, looking flushed and excited,

‘News, Lisette!” he cried; “great news!”

“What ?” .

“My brother Leon has kicked the buck—I mean,
he has departed this life, and I must start for Eng-
land at once.”

“At oneel”

“Yes; but don’t look so grieved,my pet! We
must be married immediately, or the gov—I would

 

say Sir Grey, will be sure to have some high-flying
match or other picked out for me on the other side
of the Atlantic.’ ne

Lisette’s face brightened. Here were disinterest-
ed love and devoted affection.

“And can I gowith you?” |

“Of course—that’s the main idea! Do you sup-

ose I would go back to the ancestral halls of the
Bt Armands without my wife ?”

“Dearest Herbert! I might have known the gen-
erous impulses of your heart!” cried Lisette, smi-
ling and blushing, as she thought how soon_she
should_probably become Lady St. Armand. What
would Ernestine Marsh, the carpenter’s wife, say!
What would be the curious verdict of all her little
world! And Lisette’s heart leaped triumphantly
within her atthe mereidea. ‘

“Yes,” said Mr, St, Armand, “but the fact is—you
see, Lisette, I’ve had no remittances of late, and in
his distress and confusion at Leon’s death, Sir Grey
has forgotten to send me his usual drafts on the
banker. It’s very embarrassing, but——”

“Oh, Hubert\” cried Lisette, generous by nature,
like all women, ‘don’t let that annoy you fora
single moment. I have money of my own that Aunt
Patience lent me—a thousand dollars. It is all at
your disposal. You can easily pay it at any time
after we are married.” :

Mr. St. Armand pocketed Lisette Norman’s
thousand dollars, and a brilliant wedding followed,
to which, by special favor, Mr. and Mrs, Harry
March were honored with cards. .

The St. Armands took passage for Europe in the
next steamer, and Ernestine said softly to her hus-

and: :

“Well, I suppose we shall never see Lisette again,
But, Harry, it may all be an unfounded prejudice,
but I had almost rather have seen. Lisette dead than
known she was married to that man.” —

“You see, my love,” said Mr. March, “you are not
ambitious.”

Mrs. March was mistaken, however, in hersup-

osition that she had seen the last of the future

dy St. Armand. A;

It was adull, rainy night in early April, some two
years subsequent tothese events, when a low knock\
came tothe door, Ernestine, who was sitting be-
side the cradle of her sleeping babe, ran to open the
door, imagining that it was her husband,

But it was notthe young mechanic, who was now
onthe high road to wealth. It was a bent, bowed
figure, in a shabby shaw] and worn silk dress,

‘Ernestine, will you let me in?”

“Lisette!”

“Yes, itis I. Lam homeless now, Ernestine!”

She spoke with a bitter laugh, more sad by far
than the wildest burst of tears would have been.

Ernestine March led her in, exchanged her wet
draperies for dry, comfortable garments, adminis-
tered food and drink, and established her in the
easy chair beforethe cheerful fire, ere she asked
any more questions, and then Lisette told her mel-
ancholy story. : :

She had been the victim of imposture all through,
falling into the glittering trap that was vailed by a
villain’s specious representations. The heir of the
St. Armands had proved to bea bankrupt liquor-
seller from one of the small seaport towns, and
after squandering poor Lisette’s money he had
heartlessly abandoned her to her fate, and she had
continued to work her way back at last, wearied,
poverty-stricken, and worse than widowed. _

“If you will only let me stay with you a little
while, Ernestine,” she said, piteously, “I could
help you to sew and take care of the baby, and—and
I must starve else.” | :

“Dear Lisette,” said Ernestine, whose eyes were
sparkling with sympathetic tears, “you are welcome
to a home with us.”

So said Harry March also, when he returned to
his fireside and found his old love wan, faded, and
weary, sitting at his wife’s hearthstone. The warm-
est welcome and kindest consideration proved to
poor Lisette that she had still friends left in the
world, and it was not until she was wrapped in
slumber in the pretty little “‘spare chamber” of the
cottage that Harry said to his wife, with a curious
arch of his brows: ; :

“I wonder what Lisette thinks now about the
grand mistake you committed, Ernestine, in mar-
rying a carpenter!”

—_——-->-6<+___—_—

WE want all our readers who are parents to read
to their little folks “SnNowrep In anp SNowED Out,”
by Mrs. Mary Kyte Dauwas.

———____>+e~<___—
Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
SPRAY. Pe
The most suckcessful spiritualists that ws hay

 

frauds.

Thare iz Jots ov pholks who are likethe red piss-
mires, run ‘all day, backwards, apa. forwards, ful}
ov bizzliess, tunething, and don't gli io feet from
whare they waz in the morning.

What a burlesque it iz, that the grate struggle,
and ambishun oy life iz simply for bread.

Whiskey iz allways a fighting, and never won a
victory yet. » :

I must thank the Lord earnestly for this, that mi
likes hay allwuss been too strong for mi dislikes,
and yet i kind oy like a good honest hater.

The most popular philosopher ov the day iz the
one who kan teach people how to make the most
mouny, and git the biggest rate ov interest for it.
We must not look for perfekshun, thare never
waz but one paradise in this world, and that prob-
ably didn’t last for more than 30 days, it waz too
brittle to last long. :

I do luv a bizzy man, a bizzy man iz allwuss suck-
cessful, and generally honest. _ 2

Amerikans are the most phoolish ov all drinkers,
they drink simply for the sake ov gitting drunk.
Cunning allways ends in knavery, and defeat.
Contentment iz not happiness, but it iz within 20
per cent. ov it, as near as mortals ever git.

The true test ov virtew iz the amount ov tempta-
shun that a man haz gone thru to git it, and the
amount he kan stand to keep it.

Churches are just az necessary az skools. Two-
thirds ov mankind learn how to be Christians just
as they learn how to read, rite, and cypher.

It iz but just one step from cunning to knavery,
and cunning men are allwuss watching for a sate
chance to take it. . 7

It dont require but little wisdum to git safely thru
this world, if a man haz plenty oy humility with it.
Fish are the least cunning of all animate things—
if they kan hide their heds they think they are safe,
tho all the rest ov their boddys are exposed. Thus
Us with men—they hide one place by exposing an-
other.

Excessive fastidiousness iz more often the result
ov too little refinement than ov too mutch.

Thare wouldn’t be more than haff the phools in
ore ee that we see, if mankind would only akt
natral.

Noboddy ever found fame yet, and kept it very
long, who waz allwuss hunting after it. Fame iz
a flirt, and the only way to ketch a flirt and to hang
onto her, izeither to stand still or run the other
way.

Thare aint a single one ov the pashuns, however
bad it may be, but what iz usephull to usif only
handied right.

When i hear a man bragging about what he dun
last year, and what he iz a going to do next year, i
kno pretty near what he iz to work at this year.

To vanity, az weak az it iz, yu kan traceall the
virteus that some men possess, j *
Men often hay two karaktors, publik ard pri-
vate, and in this country their private karakter
is often the purest. , :

We giv gifts that we may receive them in return,
and we giv praizeinthesame way, ;
The man whom yu kan’t flatter, iz either a saint
or a devil; I don’t kno which.

A mule is the only kritter amung the domestik
animiles that don’t kno the difference between
prase, and abuse, :
Abuse iz allwuss safer than flattery; abuse will
often make a man git up. and git, while flattery all-
wuss makes him set down and set.

It don’t frighten me to be refused, most people
yield oftener from purswashun, than principle.
The weakest, az wellazthe most dangerous flat-
tery iz that which we bestow upon ourselfs,
Fortune never made a hero yet, it haz often!
brought hero’s to light, sometimes dragging them
into notiss bi the very hair ov their heds,

There is no relashun in life so diffikult to fill az
to be a mother-in-law. and yet, i often see wimmin
who fillit klear up to the brim, besides slopping
over a little,

Intimacys are allwuss dangerous, the wus wran-
gles we ever see, spring from them.

Seckond wifes are allmost allways boss ov the
situashun,—and i am glad o7 it. a ;

To change one’s name, politiks, or religion, iza
questionable spekulashun, : ;

It seems to me that selfishness iz the ruling pash-
un oy an old bachelor, and jelousy oy an old maid.

I often hear it sed that sutch and sutch spiritual-
ists “are honest in their convickshuns,”’ and i guess
they am, but for my part i think i had rather be
or upon az a fraud in the bizziness than a
phool.

I think the lowest depth ov human degredashun
haz been reached at last in the person oy the mod-
ern “Tramp,” abjeckt vagransy, and walking lazy-
ness, haz been redused to a science.

While vanity iz the gratest weakness ova wize
man, it iz often the gratest strength ov a phool.

s It iz better to be abused than to be overlooked en-
irely.

Man iz the lazyest ov all kreated things. Thare iz
no animal but man so lazy az to beg for a living.

If thare kant but one in the family hav good com-
mon sense, i say let it be the wife. :

a I pity the knavyes in spiritualism, and dispize the
Jupes,

Amung Christians men begin bi being zealous

bigots, then cums superstition, and lastly infidelity.

had thus far hay turned out at last to he the biggest *

pleases

After all sedand done. the artyfishall
more people than the natral duz,

hate ceremonys az mutch az enny boddy duz,
and yet i find the uncerimonious to be the biggest
bores in the world.

We kant eskape the abuso ov the world, tharefore
what iz the use ov paying enny attenshun to it.

Experience may be a good teacher, but she iza
dredphull slo one; when we bay learnt her lessons,
we are reddy to die. .

Fear izthe wust friend that enny man kan hav.

; He whom yu kan flatteryu kan cheat at yure
eizure.

Men’s failings often prokure them az mutch luv
az their virtews do respekt.

I hay seen folks who had too mutch wisdum to be
very happy i a certain amount ov ignorance makes
things slip eazy.

Thare never haz lived but one man on the face
ovthis earth who didn’t hay more yanity than he
had honesty, and i hav forgot what this man’s name

waz.
I kan point out lots ov people who are virtewous
simply bekause they don’t happen to be wieked.

i

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

7

 

{The Fall Catalogue of Patterns now ready, price 6 cents,
Send tothe Nsw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. }

OUR BABY PICTURE-GALLERY,

i ied

 

SS

JOSEPHINE KUAN, daughter of Mary and Augus-

tus Kuhn, of Atchison, Kan., aged eleyen months
and one day oid, and weighs 31 pounds.
‘Little Lulu'’s Sister Jennie.”’—Indeed, dear, you must be a
great help to your mother if you do all the sewing for your little
Sister. Yes, we can and will help you at any time you write and
ask ouradvice. To make up the spring suit of cashmere’ for
Lulu, aged four years, get pattern No. 4,740, price 30 cents. This
is a girl's princes? dress, buttoned at the back, and trimmed
across the front diagonally to simulate a closing. A dainty
apron pattern is No. 4,715, price 15 cents, which is quite new, and
may be made ofeither silk, worsted, or washable goods. One of
our modéls is Wade of white cambric, and consists ot one piece,
shaped in a pretty bib with bretelle extensions over the shoul-
ders, and fitted.«moothly to the figure by a dart over each hip.
The sides are sloped off toward the bottom, and the lower cor-
ners are cut off diagonally, while the bottom is rounded slightly.
A coquettish fiitle pocket adorns each side of the apron. It is
trimmed all around, and on pockets, with Hamburg edging.
When both apron and trimmings are white, the tying strings
may be of ribyon, also the bows. Linen, cambric, fine muslin,
dimity, naffisoakyand thin pique are the most appropriate white
goods for aprons; and Italian lace, ruffies, or Hamburg edging
and tatting arcsuitable decorations. Prints and percales make
pretty aprons, if the figure in the material is a fast color, that
will not tade befgre tlie garment shows signs of wear. Alpaca
and plain delaine {'Y may be used and trimmed with bands of
the material or braptied. White Swiss madeup by the model,
and ornamented With Italian lace or plaitings o:
and pink, blue, ontardinal red ribbons would make a pretty
fancy apron. Andther pattern, buttoned at the side, which can
be made ot the sampe materials, is No. 4,626, price 15 cents. These
patterns are for is som three to nine years of age.

“Rose A@ young girls should cultivate a love of flowers.
pconstant ¢are, but they are so beautiful and

Set you a book on window gardening. for $1.50.
iustrated, snd contains much valuable infor-

&
Bhi cre ia now style of kilting for trimming
siraige} fund of silk about six inches. deep
uslin; is then cut in soollops a fouyth of
paching sp half the depth of the &
into. twelve ee Pree ae =
F) © PISti = ig n he With
P ac sband of broce
py av Plaiting, tne edge of which
8, and Sometimgs scolloped on a n
beaw

   
   
   
  
  
 
   
   
  
  

 
 

     
     
  
  
  
    
     
 
 

   

 
 

>

 
     
 
 

‘hewest vails are @ plain square—a aqmare of

Wn, or dark-green, or ivory-white gretiading,

at thread net, 6r dot lace; the latter a

[ty ia for elderly Jadies, Mask vails have disappeared,

fortunately, but pot before they had done serious mischief, tor

nothing coliid be Parented better calculated to destroy the eyes

than the minute edges of the mesh which kept up a constant
irritation of the hid and fall of the eyes.

“Miss Thomas.)—A beautiful boniet is of black velvet with
narrow puffed br#m, soit crown, and narrow curtain. Under the
brim is a puffing\of pale-blue satin and lace; over the curtain,
which is covered] With white lace, is a cluster of long-stemmed,
drooping, Engiish\rosebuds,

“Mrs. R, M~-A'stylish hat is of French felt, and has a droop-
ing brim, depressed at the sides, and cut almost entirely away at
the back. The crewn ae and rounding, and about it is wrap-
ped a soft loose s¢arf of silk, whose ends are hidden beneath a
Ctuster of loops, te latter being coquettishly arranged so as to
permit the adaitifa of a curly tipand a cluster of roses. The tip
rests lightly over $e back of the crown, being caught under the
many loops, while the roses are tucked under the loops at the
left side and hayg.no foliage. <A silver-gray hat, with cardinal
roses and. tips, @ould iidke a pretty contrast in either felt, vel-
vet, or silk; aid tf a still lighter effect were wished, a scarf vail

 
 
   
 
 
 

 
    
 
   
 
    
 

blossoms of York, A hat of black straw, with high crown and de
pressed brim, trimmed with black satin and velvet, would be
stylish; add a cluster of roses to the bow in the back. If your hat
is of dark brown straw, you can trim with ribbon or velvet a
shade or two lighter than the straw. Red or straw-colored flow-
ers will contrast weil with the brown, Feathers of ali kinds are
Still fashionable, and ostrich plumes continue as usual, stylish

and very expensive, if in one piece. .

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing
toward making this column an attractive feature of the New
YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for publica-
tion anything which may be deemed of sufficient 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. |

 

Simmons’ New Leaf,

Last New Year’s Day Simmons made some wise
and good resolutions. He even took the trouble to
write them down in his note-book, so as to be sure
and not forget them. Some of Simmons’ resolu-
tions ran thusly:

1.—Work hard—be saving.

2.—Won’t grumble when Mary asks for cash.

3.—Won’t tear around when dinner ain’t ready,

4,—Won’t talk politics with Jones.

5.—Won’t cuss any,

6.—Be kind to children; bring them up in the way
they should go.

Simmons wrote all these down and several more,
and went to bed on the evening of the 3ist of De-
cember fully determined to abide by them, He was
going to turn over a new leaf. He would get up at
five in the morning,

Morning came. It was cold out of bed, so he let
Mrs. Simmons get up and make the fire. She didn’t
mind cold. Simmons lay in bed until breakfast,
thinking how he would attack that wood-pile—how
hard he was going to work.

After breakfast he went out, and took a look at
the wood-pile—then took up the ax—then put it

own,

“It’s too dused cold to cut wood to-day. I'll get
negro Jack to doit. Won’tcostbutadollar. A fel-
low oughtn’t to work on New Ygar’s Day, anyhow,”
thought he, and he went back into the house.

John,” said Mrs. 8., “I wish you would give me

} a dollar for the washerwoman.,

“Heavens and earth! seems like you women can’t
think of anything but washing money, I am ever-
lastingly tired of this way-——

Just then he thought of his new leaf, and gave
her the money.

Simmons went_to town that morning. Meeting
with his friend Jones, they got to discussing the
election. Then they got rather warm, then heated,
then hot. At last Simmons called Jones a pusil-
lanimous liar—Jones called Simmons’ another—
then 8. glared at J.,and J. glared back, and there
would have been a nice little row if a mutual friend
paon.s interfered. Another’ noble resolution bro-

cen.
. When Simmons went home to dinner, he wasn’t
te asweettemper. Dinner wasn’t ready. Simmons
stormed, :

“Confound it,” he roared, “a man never can have
his meals atthe propertime. Don’t talk about fret-
ting children to me, Mrs.Simmons. Why don’t you
spank ’em,and make’em behave. Stop that, sir!”
he exclaimed, as little Johnnie set upayell. “I'll
have order and peace on this place, if [have to fight
for it. Do you hear ?”

One by one they went—those new leaves, which
Simmons was turning over so rapidly.

After dinner, Simmons wanted to nail on some
missing boards to his horse lot.

 

 

“Where's that hammer ?” he asked.

This was @ conumdrum which always struck a
chill into the heart of Mrs. 8. That hammer never
could be found when wanted.

“Didn’t you leave it in the wood-house, dear,”
she asked, “when you——” _

“Hemp and blazes! Nu, I didn’t. Am I in the habit
of leaving things round loose? I hayea place for
my things, Mrs.8.,and I keep them there. I put
that hammer in that box—it ain’t there.” Nor it
wasn’t anywhere, apparently.

They looked into drawers, boxes, under beds, on
mantel-boards—everywhere, but found no hammer.
At last Simmons went out into the back-yard and
wandered around until he came to the wood-shed.
There was the hammer, plain enough, lying where
he had left it a few days before.

“Where did you find it?” asked Mrs, 8.

“Hail Columbia!” exclaimed_§., “ask a thousand
questions about it, will zz ? Found it in the yard,
= COREBS: where everything on this place might be

ound,”

But Mrs, Simmons knew where _be found that
hammer. Simmons has concluded never again to
turn over a new leaf,and has used up his resolu-
ti¢ns to light his pipe with. IDI.

Caring a Prima-Donna,
"bere isa curious story told of the manner in
Which Freflerie the Great could deal, where other
men had tailed, with a prima-donna of the period
who was inclined to set too little store by the pub-
lic. This great artist seemed to catch a cold, which
had the effect of rendering her hoarse, and conse-
uently unable to sing, whenever anybody or any-
thing had displeased her. One day a certain opera
was to be performed at Berlin beforethe king him-
self, At the appointed hour the manager came for-
ward and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we grieve to
inform you that our prima-donna has a soar throat,
and that the representation _announced cannot
tnereforetake place.” The stolid Teutonic audience
seemed no whit surprised, and was moving out
tranquilly, when the king roseand commanded the
musicians to keep their places. The audience sat
down again, and waited patiently on events. In

 

 

of white tulle,drawn across the face, crossed at the back, and
tied beneath the chin, would result as desired, and be especially
suitabie for dress occasions. Dark-blue, green, or brown trim-
mings on hats of corresponding colors are considered very sty-
lish, and are, und btedly, in good taste, and with them may be
used roses of any tint considered preterable. For your daughter
get a new-style sailor hat, which differs from those before worn
in the shaping of the brim. Instead of being flat and straight
around, it curves.apward almost as much as aturban, bending a
trifle more gttle sides than at the fromt and back. It is formed
of fine felt, anda border of silk 1s sewed in near the edge of the
brim. The crojwn is low and square, and is encircled by a ribbon
band, which if knotted into loopsatthe back, where it falls in
long streamers; A gay wing is caught among the loops and
jauntily inclines toward the front. No hat seems so well suited
to youthful faces as one of this style, which is the principal rea-
son why sailor bats are every season offered for school, street,
and general ordinary use.

In response io our New Year's invitation to young people we

have aiready raceived quite a number of letters, to which we will

reply in due time. First come first served, you know; and

‘Meta’? wants to know what she shall give her mother fora

birthday preseit. She has 50 cents to buy it, and she would like

to get something she could put some work on herself, as she can

embroider nicely, For 50 cents you can buy areal fine hem-

stitched handkéfchief, have your mother’s initials marked in a

corner, and embroider them yourseli—and we knowshe wil! ap-

preciate such a gift from her dear littte daughter.

“Peerless Cathleen,’’ ‘‘Mrs, Tuttle,” and others who wish to
know about fashionable hair-dressing. For full-dress the hair is
arranged very high, and a trifle on one side; the left aide is
dressed higherthan the right side, and each is differently ar-
ranged. Thus, there is a bow of hair placed high on the left
side near the top, while the right side has a succession of three
or four loops—-npt mere finger-puffs—that stand upward against
the crewn. To arrange this the back hair is all turned upward
from the nape of the neck, tied mear the top, and its ends form
the loops. bow is usually made already of false hair, and
Serves £@. support any handsome ornament, such as a diamond
aigrette, or a pink-silk rose witi: foliage formed of diamond
sparks, or, perhaps, a branch of Neapolitan coral. The front of
the hair is parted and waved, or else the ends are combed for-
ward, and perhaps curved in crescent shape on the forehead,
and glued there with bandoline in what are called Montague
curls. If the hair has been thinned by frizzing, a false scalpette
is used to makeit look more luxuriant, and this also makes high
foreheads look lower—an end sought by many. The short hair
of this sealpette is formed into little flat rings or curis, instead of
being fluffily crimped or waved as: formerly. To drape the back
of the head, where the hair is turned upward, two very thick
short amd natural-looking curls are used. Full wreaths of flowers,
very thick and high, passing entirely around the head, are used
on small heads, while for large heads clusters of rosebuds are
preferred; they are placed on one side far enough toshow in
front. Naturalflowers are much used. For dark hair, tea-rose
bude, carnations, and Lady Washington geraniums with their
fragrant leaves, are very becoming, while biondes can wear vines
of smilax, pale pink roses,and myosotis. The tringe of hair
hung over the forehead is out of fashion, curls falling from the
top of the head and over the shoulders are still worn,

‘Daisy Erne.”—Make the short clothes just long enough to
reach the tops of the little shoes. Some babies are taller than
others, so tie mothers must regulate the length of the clothes
themselves, and be careiul and have them short enough to keep
out of the way of the little feet when the eflort is made to walk.
When you wish to purchase anarticle through the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, you should write direct to our purchasing agency.
Give your name and address in full, ask any questions in regard
to price, &c., that you desire, and your letter will be promptly
answered by mail. The Work-Box can give you the information
with pleasure at any time, but we cannot be so prompt and
speedy when we answer letters through the various departments
of the paper, as we can by mail.

“Mrs. Albert Chapman.’’—Your baby is sweet enough to putin
the Work-Box, but it must wait its turn. We don’t wonder
mothers get out of patience; but we can’t help it. Some will
have to wait four years, for there are only 52 weeks in the year,
and we have about three hundred pictures on hand.

“Fannie."—A Puritan dress for an Eastern State is of black
velvet, long, and perfectly plain, very high, with a white ruff
fluted close around the neck, and long, plain sleeves, over which
white cuffs are worn reaching almost to the elbow. Hair combed
back plain, and close muslin “coif’ cap. White linen apron
edged with linen lace, made large and straicht. A Quakeress
dresses in a. soft, perfectly piain, gray wool dress; white tippet,
and gray silk poke bonnet. This is a most attractive costume
for a bright, pretty girl. Geneva Sister wears a plain black stuff
dress, walking length, high body, long sleeves, white linen collar
and cuffs, white nurse’s cap, red cross on the arm.

“Marie H.’—We can only suggest outdoor exercise and morn-
ing baths, not in cold water, but with the chilltaken off. Usea
rough towel for drying yourself, and the friction will create cir-
culation; this, we think, will remedy the difficulty in ‘time.

“Bertie Blanche.’’—Tihe birth-mark must remain where it is;
we can suggest nothing to remove it without injury to you. The
thickness of your complexion may come from physical causes, if
80, consult a physician, and he will give you medicine to remedy
the annoyance. No outward application will do you any food.
Among the new’hats for the season we notice one with as r-
loaf crown and a wide brim, lowered over the brows, and rolling
up in the back, in a manner which the method of trimming ren-
dernreversible, transforming the hat at, the will of the owner,
into a bonnet. It was in pearl-gray felt, with the edge bordered
by chenille cord, and with three rows of the same put one above
another about the front and sides of the crown, the ends pass-
ing under a cluster of velvet and satin loops in darker shades of
gray, anda aring in long links amidst them, A lining of black

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

Thoze who beleaye too mutch generally end by
beleaving nothing.

velvet fa the under side of the brim, and across the rolled
were massed snowy Lancashire roses, with the crimson

less than a quarter of an hour the manager reap-

ee

tm ae

 

A Few Incidents from Montana,
Nearly at the summit of a high mountainin M
tana, an Irishman had a ditah with Which &
caught snow-water, to work his placer claim abou
six weeks in the year, during the melting of th
snow in the spring, His friend Murphy paid hip
a visit late in the season, when the ditch was dry
and they went te look atit. When they returned t
camp they went into a saloon to drink. Murph
wished to say something favorabie for the propert
ond, palsies his ae meank. ie re to th

é E mes O’ Nail, who has ighest
driest ditch inthe Territory.” ae a

At Bannack, Montana, in a mining-ditch gui
Judge —, attorney for the plaintiff, was pl
witness with questions astothe greatest nu ¢
inches of water the ditch had been known to ¢arn
when Lawyer W—, a noted wag, handed him’
slip of paper, and he asked, “What is the gr
flow of water that ever flew through that diteh ,

IN answer to the inquiry why h

vie Su waldo ay
316, 79. 1., FAp.ied, 8 has

and J have Giboned to sep her n lyaiaponed te

WHILE a certain b AMtiful lad ‘
drawing, a large fi wzed by. Y the see |
thoughtfully remark @.

“T wish I could draw that fly,” :

A bystander, who overheard the remark, ga
lantly said: i é sod

xcuse me, madam; flies are alwa Wn tk
sweets. You can easily draw that Ona om "aL
Scalped by Nature.

Little Willie had never seen his grandfather wii
his wig off. Happening to look into his study tl
other day, when the old gentleman was askeep wit
his wik removed, he started off to his mother, az
eried:

“Ob, mamma! is there any Indians around here’

No, of course not—there are no Indians her
Why do you ask?” 4 x

hy, grandpa is bying in his sttidy"36
The Ax in the Woodshed.

Several years ago while my husband waa for
man on a section of the Vermont Central sal roa
he had among his workmen an Irishman named.
called “Old Jimmy.” Jimmy was often sent to ti

ouse on errands. One day my husband told hi
to go gettheaxin the woodshed, and he start
upon arun. Iheard a noise in the woodshed, ai
opening the door Isaw Jimmy with the ax in bh
hand running about, and seeming to be looking f
something.

-, Jimmy, what are you looking for?”  _ ”

Oh, begorra, the boss sint me for the ax and t]
woodshed; I have found the ax, but can’t find ¢)
woodshed.”

I said:

ee are the ax; Chat will do."

7 .i suppose it’s all right, if ye say a
but the boss will be Very angry, indeed ue wit
and off he went. L . R. C. Horpen,

 

 

:

 

Torpedoes.

“How like its father it is,” said the nurse, t,
christening of a baby whose fathér we eR
seventy. ‘
“Very like,” said a satirical lady; “
tooth in its head.” i

“Exousr me, madam}; but I should like to a:
why you look at me go savagely,” said a gentiem:
toa lady at a party.
ur {beg pardon, sir; I took you for my hu

 

“HUSBAND, I don’t know where that boy got k
badtemper. I am sure not from me.”
set my dear; for I don’t find that you have Ic

SHE was a forlorn and mild-spoken woman, b

 

 

 

 

 

peared and spoke as follows: “Ladies and gentle-
men, I have the most unfeigned pleasure of inform-
ing you that our pr ima- is completely cured
of her sore throat, and will have the honor to sing
before vou to-night.” Surely enough the famous
singer soon appeared, and never had she sung bet-
ter. Her triumph was complete. The king’s pre-
scription had been avery simple one. The prima-
donna, having dismissed the unhappy manager,
was sitting comfortably before the fire in her own
room, rather pleased at the idea of having spoiled
the pleasure of several hundreds of persons, when
the door was violently thrown open, and there en-
tered an officer, followed by four dragoons.

Mademoiselle,” quoth the officer, “the king, my
master, has sent me to ask after your health.”

"i Ths, BANE is very good; I have. a bad sore
roat.

“His majesty knows it,and has charged me to

take you at once to the military hospital, where

you will be cured in a few days.” :

Mademoiselle turned pale.

“You are jesting,” she simpered; but Prussian
officers, she was informed, never jested.

The lieutenant gave the order to his men, who
seized mademoiselle and carried her out of the
theater. A coach was in attendance; the lady was
deposited therein; the officer took his place beside

side. In a few seconds: 2
“Stay,” said the lady; “I think I feel better.”
“The king is anxious, mademoiselle, that you
should feel quite restored, and even that you should
sing to-night.”
“I will try,” murmured the prisoner.
“Back to the theater!” cried the officer to the
coachman. ; ;
Arrived there, mademoiselle began to think she
had yielded too easily.
“Twillsing, since his majesty commands me,” she
said, “but Heaven knows how.”
“You will sing,” returned the officer, “like the
great artist you are.” ,
“I will sing like an artist with a bad cold.”
“T think not.”

her, and off they went, the dragoons riding along-+

firm, and as the lady of the house placed a he
loaf of bread and some cold meat in her basket,s]
calmly said: “No, ma’am! I couldn’t think of ta
ing it. You’ve give me cold veal once afore th
week, and my family hasn’t been raised to repe
their meat more’n once in two weeks.”

“REMEMBER who you are talking to, sir,” said :
aGaenge parent to a facetitous ey. “Lam yo!

R:

“Well, who’s to blame for that?” said the you:

impertinence, ‘“tain’t me.”

The Thunderbolt.

oe

The new sensation—Naxp Buntume’a\great soci

 

 

ty story, Po

“BEGUILED |

and
TRAPPED,

WILL APPEAR IN No. 19 or THE

New York Weekly,
READY WEEK AFTER NEXT,

It is a strange story of real life, with nearly evar
character now living, or dead through its fearful

Tragie Events.

A young and lovely girl foraakes a poor youn
lover fora rich oldone. The young man, drive
to despair, tries to

Murder his Rival,

but fails; then, aided by an adventurous Kentuo}
ian, he plots to break up the marriage
Even at the Holy Altar,

but fails, and in a prison makes vows and plana)
future vengeance,

He and his confederate follow the wedded pair:
Europe, and there ensues a wild and intense
thrilling variety of strange adventures, in which

Secretary Spy
becomes mixed. Thereisa
TRIPARTITE DUEL. .
A FIGHT WITH BRIGAND!
A FRUSTRATED ABDUCTION, _
& TERRIBLE DOUBLE DEAT!

and a successful frustration of all plots abroad, «
At heme again, the old man and his young bric

 

 

“And why ?” ;
“Because a couple of dragoons will be in atten-
dance, and a‘ the least manifestation of illness they
have orders to carry you off again to the military
hospital.”
The hoarseness was now completely gone.
No Confidence in Him.

Squire Salmon had a negro boy named Wes, who
delighted in riding the horses to water. When he
couldn’t get a horse he would take a mule, or, in
fact, any animal, from a goat to a horse, that was
left within his reach. Thinking it necessary to give
it water or exercise, Wes would accordingly mount
and by a vigorous use of the whip force the animal
to_his destination. One day an old fellow came
riding up on a very wicked-looking little mule,
which he hitched at the racks, and then entered the
house. Wes, who was fooling about the yard, spied
the mule, and immediately his old desire took pos-
séssion of him; he must ride that mule. Going up
to the mule’s side, he said, ““Woe dar, Bess!” and
vaulted into the saddle. No sooner did the mis-
chievous animal become satisfied that some one
was on his back than it changed ends quicker than
you could wink, greatly to the discomfiture of Wes,
who was hurled sprawling into the mud. Wes got
up, brushed his clothing, looked long and earnest-
ly at the mule, heaved adeep sigh, and said: “Well,
I nebber had much confidence in datar mule at fust.
T allus believed he’d hurt some pusson.” LEEROY,

A Strong Drink.

An Indianian went.into a Chicago saloon and
asked for ‘“‘a gin cocktail with some stength into it.”
The barkeeper made a mixture of alcohol, pepper
sauce, absinthe, limes, and pain-killer. The Indi-
anian drank it, and about a quart of tears came to
his eyes, his mouth contracted to about the size of
a safe-key hole, and when he had sufficiently mas-
tered his emotion to speak, he said:

“How much’s that?”

“Fifteen cents,” responded the barkeeper.

The customer put down a quarter, and srid:

“Keep the change—have something yourself;”
then wringing the barkeeper’s hand, he added:
“That’s the first good gin I’ve tasted since I left
home—something like liquor; it’s sort of quick in
taking hold, and slow in letting go. Come and _see

 

 

 

 

me, and Pll give you some corn whisky that’s bet-
ter still.”

 

 

are happy; but
Vengeance will not Sleep.

A siren and a villain-plotter make a@ volcano in
woman’s bosom—

The Fire of Jealousy.

A divorce follows, and then comes the eculminatir
tragedy, ending in

The Plotter’s Death.
The closing scene, intensely dramatic, is indeed
Glorious Triumph

in the art of the veteran author, for he brings bac
ina deeply touching picture,

The Repentant Wife,

received once more into thé loving arms of & tru!
noble and
Forgiving: Husband.

Take it all in all, we do not think the author eve
wrote a story so full of varied, touching interest:
this, or one which will so reach the popular hear
All New York, especially, will run wild to read«
incidents already known, too sadly and too’ wel

in this
Tragedy in Real Life

 

ae Nowsmen, prepare your orders for the heayi

 

 

est call of the season,

ely

coe te 9

 

“AS oe

 

ain glint ate) il ty